estepheia | FIC: I Spy - (Spike/Ethan - R)

I'm working full throttle on this. Part 2 should follow tomorrow.

TITLE: I Spy
PAIRING: Spike/Ethan
TIMELINE: post-NFA
GENRE: h/c, angst, character study, slash
RATING: R (might go up to NC-17) - slash
AN: Written for

moosesal who requested: Spike; meeting in a bar; a kiss; no mention of Buffy; no fluff. Part of the Ethan-Ficathon. Thank you,

trkkr47 for organizing this!
Many thanks to

sangpassionne for betaing this at such short notice.

Part 1

From the outside, it was a corner pub like any other, brightly lit and noisy. A wooden sign bearing the words “Black & White” creaked with every autumn gale. A magpie perched on the sign. So life-like is its representation, that it took Spike a second glance to make sure that the bird was carved from wood.

The inside had everything an average patron looked for in a pub: comfy furniture, old-fashioned dart board, snooker table, pinball game, noisy fruit machines, and, last not least, a good selection of beers and liquors. Even the prices were decent. It was the interior design that was unsettling. The walls were covered in framed black and white crime scene photographs, and poster sized newspaper clippings that screamed murder and bloodshed. They spelled out a long, violent history for the building and its neighborhood.

In spite of the pub’s gruesome décor – or maybe because of it – the place was packed, populated by a comfortable blend of locals, students, and teaching staff from the nearby college. No vampires or demons though, at least not in plain sight.

The mage, when Spike finally spotted him, barely resembled the mischievous young man in Giles’s photo album, and not just because he was older. For one thing, Rayne had a beard now, a combination of mustache and silver-streaked goatee that made him look like his own evil twin. Also, he was thinner. It took Spike a moment to pinpoint the greatest change: In each of Giles’s pictures Rayne had been smiling, but he wasn’t smiling now.

Spike studied him from across the room, contemplating the way Rayne lurked in his private booth: eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, motionless like a spider in her web, dark and dangerous.

When impatience got the better of him, Spike picked up his pint, crossed the room, and slipped into Rayne’s booth, opposite him. His swift approach startled the pub’s mascot, a live black-and-white magpie that sat on a parrot’s perch inside the booth. Wings half-raised, the bird scuttled sideways until it reached the end of its perch, from where it eyed Spike with distaste.

Impenetrable Ray Charles sunglasses focused on Spike. “I’m afraid this booth is already taken,” Rayne told him. “Would you mind grabbing another table?”

Spike made no move to get up. “Quaint little watering hole you got there,” he remarked. “A mite traditional though, don’t you think? For the talented Mr. Rayne.”

A frown appeared. “Do I know you?”

“We had ourselves a couple of almost-run ins,” Spike told him. “Halloween 1997, and November 1998.”

Rayne did the math. “Sunnydale.”

“A stuffed panda for the mage,” Spike cheered, raising his untouched pint in salute. He pretended to sip and set the glass down again. He hadn’t forgotten Giles’s stint as a rampant Fyarl. “Got to watch the fancy dress mayhem first hand. Missed the Band Candy lark by a few days. Must’ve been more laughs than a barrel of monkeys.”

Stroke a man’s ego and you’ll put a smile on his face. At least that was the theory. Yet nothing in Rayne’s face changed, not visibly. If anything, Spike picked up an aloofness that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

“Good times, indeed. And you’re here to—.”

“Pay my respects. Back then, I told myself that if I ever met you I’d buy you a drink.” Spike decided to sweeten his act with a bit of Andrew-style fawning. “Believe me, I’m your greatest fan.”

“Are you now? I’m touched. But unless you intend to express your esteem through an unsolicited blowjob, I’d like you to kindly bugger off.”

Blowjob? Right, apparently he’d overdone the Andrew bit. Oh well, he was a vampire, not a sodding actor. Spike slouched back on his seat, causing the fake leather upholstery to creak, every inch of his posture spelling out that he had no intention of doing either, leaving or going down on Rayne.

Rayne affected a sigh. “Why do I get the feeling, you’re not here to ask for my autograph?”

“Cause, I’m here to hire you?” Spike grinned.

“Ah. I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not for hire, Mr.—?”

Spike ignored the prompt. “Why not? You cooked up those magic choccies for Mayor Wilkes, didn’t you? Created a diversion while his hench-vamps went baby-napping?”

“You’re well informed, but evidently not well enough. Haven’t you heard? I’m enjoying my well-deserved retirement.”

“Here? Sailors buy run-down pubs when they retire, not mages,” Spike answered mechanically, suddenly struck by a hunch. His fist shot out, faster than humanly possible, and stopped less than an inch before Rayne’s face.

The man didn’t flinch – but the magpie did. It flapped its wings and erupted into chiding chatter, until the mage gingerly reached out his hand to smoothen its ruffled feathers. “Shh, my friend, it’s alright,” he cooed. There was a wistful quality to Rayne’s touch. His hand lingered on the bird’s small frame as though to savor the silken texture of its plumage and the warmth of its body.

Spike recognized need when he saw it; need for sex, for validation, for someone who listened. It was all the same to a vampire. It’s what caused prey to stray from the fold and follow strangers into dark alleys.

Rayne had it, Spike was sure of it. Somewhere, deep down, a hairline fracture ran through the man’s self, separating him from the real players. But need for what?

Spike let his arm drop. “How long have you been blind?” he asked.

“Blind?” the mage guffawed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah? Then what do I look like?” Spike put on his best cocky grin.

A wan smile appeared on Rayne’s face, the kind of shark’s smile that hinted at hidden teeth. “Blond, with too much hair gel, mid-twenties, strong nose, sharp cheekbones.” Rayne’s voice softened, assuming a syrupy stickiness. “Rather fetching, if I may say so. I love the cheekbones, but I think I like that wicked mouth even better.”

Spike’s grin faded. “Yeah? Most people go with the eyes.” Right, so the man was a randy old geezer, and apparently he wasn’t blind. Yet something didn’t add up, Spike could feel it in his gut. Maybe it was the magpie and the way it was eying him: with uncanny intensity: no abrupt jerking bird movements, just an unnatural stillness and an intent stare. Rayne’s hand still rested on the bird’s back. The man was a sorcerer or warlock, or whatever, and sorcerers and warlocks had familiars, right?

Spike lunged forward. His hand shot out and in one swift move he captured Rayne’s hand as well as the magpie’s neck. The bird didn’t flinch, but the mage did. He jerked back as though he’d been slapped. He tried to yank back his hand but Spike had it trapped.

As Spike tightened his grip around Rayne’s fingers, the pressure increased on the bird’s neck. Reflexively, Rayne’s free hand went to his own throat.

Spike chuckled. All he had to do is squeeze, and the bird’s bones would snap like dry twigs. He lightly brushed the bird’s vulnerable throat with his thumb, stroking and rubbing, feeling the bird’s tiny heart race under his touch. It’s body was deliciously warm, a few degrees hotter than human skin and flesh. “I wonder what would happen,” Spike said wistfully, never ceasing the teasing up-and-down stroke of his thumb. “if I were to wring your little birdie’s neck?”

Rayne’s breathing became labored. Spike could smell the man’s mounting fear. To his surprise, the scent was laced with more than a hint of arousal. So, Rayne got off on danger, did he? Not that Spike was in a position to throw stones. He’d never failed to grow hard when being manhandled by Angel or Buffy, or even Rupert, who, let’s face it, had a pretty mean edge to him once you got him riled up.

“What do you want?” Rayne choked out.

“That’s the spirit. Do as I say, and your new peepers are safe from me.” Grinning, Spike opened his hand, releasing both Rayne’s fingers and his feathered captive. The mage slowly pulled back his arm. Immediately, the bird began to chatter indignantly and it scuttled as far away from Spike as its perch allowed.

“I’m listening,” Rayne said, flexing his bruised fingers.

“A bloke like you picks up a lot of enemies, don’t he?” Spike pondered, watching Rayne very closely. “Do they know you’re a sitting duck?”

Rayne winced. There it was, definite fear. With good reason, as Spike remembered. That was the rub when you were evil: Your old mates were the first to kick sand in your face when you were down.

“What is it you want from me?” Rayne asked, sounding both resigned and impatient. “Tell me, before I die of old age.”

“Answers. Info. For starters.”

“Very well.” The mage sighed. He reached to his right, groped around till his fingers touched a small laminated reserved-sign. He moved it to the middle of the table, then stood up and slowly stepped out of the booth, his fingertips never losing touch with the table edge.

Spike watched him warily, half expecting the old sorcerer to hurtle a fireball at him.

“Upstairs,” Rayne added, gesturing towards the crowded pub, where a handful of students were getting into a heated and noisy argument over football. “Less public, and also less rambunctious.”

It made sense. Inwardly Spike rolled his eyes. Sodding Watcher! Giles had warned him so emphatically not to trust Rayne, to always expect the unexpected when dealing with the duplicitous chaos mage, that Spike was primed to jump at his own shadow. All for naught. When he wasn’t using the eyes of his familiar the man was blind, helpless.

After picking up a bottle of Scotch from the bar, Rayne led Spike through a door labeled ‘private’.

“So, how come you’re blind?” Spike asked, as he followed the other man up a dark and narrow flight of stairs.

“Accident.”

“Hit by a car, were you?”

“I suppose you could call it a slip of the scalpel.” Rayne touched his hand to his skull. He paused on a small landing in front of a sturdy door with four locks.

Spike digested this. “Who slipped?”

“A handful of young fresh-faced surgeons eager to play Moses. Only instead of chiseling their commandments into stone tablets, they decided to carve them directly into my brain.” Rayne pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and began to methodically go through them, one by one.

“The Initiative,” Spike said, feeling a chill.

“Ah, you heard of them.”

“Have I ever,” Spike muttered. “So you’re all neutered now?”

“Now that’s a very ugly word,” the mage protested.

“Gimme a better one,” Spike demanded.

Rayne took a long time answering. Instead he concentrated on the task of picking the right key for the third lock. “I prefer the term ‘diminished,’” he finally admitted, inserting and turning the key, before moving on to the fourth and last lock.

“Yeah, they’re really good at ’diminishing’ people,” Spike nodded. Although, from where he was standing now he had no regrets. The chip had been a blessing in disguise, had kept the monster reined in, while allowing the man to grow. Didn’t mean it hadn’t been a fucking humiliation at the time.

“So you see,” Rayne said, “I couldn’t ‘cook up’ any magic goodies, even if I wanted to. Whatever it is you want done, you’ll have to hire someone else.”

Hire? Oh right, his ruse. When Spike had walked into the pub an hour ago, he’d had no intention of hiring Rayne for anything. The plan had been to size him up, suss out what the old rogue was up to this time, and stop him from stirring up trouble in the Council’s backyard – either by leaning on him or, if necessary, by taking him out.

But suddenly Spike wasn’t so sure. Maybe there was an opportunity in here, somewhere. Rayne had to be a walking encyclopedia of evil and magics, pretty much like a watcher, just from a different perspective. He could be an asset for the Council. And besides, if Spike recruited him, it would royally piss Giles off.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, grinning as he turned the idea over in his head.

Rayne shrugged and pushed the door open. The room behind it lay in complete darkness.

The mage walked inside without hesitation, sure-footed from familiarity, until he reached an old-fashioned floor lamp. He pulled on a string and a moment later the haphazardly furnished room was awash with bright light. The most striking piece of furniture was a small altar with a small marble bust of Rayne’s twin-faced god.

“Come on in,” Rayne said, smiling.

A flash of apprehension made Spike’s hackles rise, but by the time it occurred to him that Rayne might have warded his digs, Spike’s feet had automatically moved forward and crossed the threshold.

A firework of piercingly bright mystical runes lit up all around him, on doorjamb and doorframe, creating a veil of white-hot fire. An electric charge lashed through his body, causing bone and flesh to morph into bony ridges and fangs, and blue irises to burst into feral yellow. He blinked almost sheepishly into the blinding brightness, until suddenly the pain hit. A blast of searing heat washed over him. For a second it felt like his skin and flesh were melting. Spike staggered. Then, abruptly, the heat was gone, replaced by a soothing coolness. His flesh was whole, unharmed and blister-free. The fire had been mystical rather than elemental.

Spike snarled. Three brisk paces, and he had the surprised mage by the throat, slamming him against the wall with enough force to knock off his shades. The man’s skull hit the plaster with a resounding crack. Head lolling, Rayne squirmed and struggled feebly against Spike’s grip, ineffectually trying to pry his hand loose, his dark, fathomless stare ever so slightly out of focus. He aimed a kick at Spike’s groin, but missed. Somewhere, in the back of his head, it bothered Spike that the man couldn’t see him.

“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck,” Spike hissed, pressing hard against the other man’s body until there was no more room to squirm.

TBC

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