FIC: Catching Up - pt 2 (sorta)

[estepheia]

Happy Birthday, xanphibian. I wish you all the best!

In December I posted a Spike/Lorne friendship fic called Catching Up. Back then I said I probably wouldn't write more and set the story free for others to write a smutty continuation, if they wanted, but nobody did. Yesterday, the mood tickled me and I scribbled a few sentences into my notebook. Today I tinkered with them and here they are, just a smallish scene to tag on to the original story. I wouldn't rule out further slashy updates. I've given up trying to write the stories I feel I ought to write. When the muse shows up I don't reason why, I just go where she points.

This is frightfully short, sorry, but it's better than nothing. Right? xanphibian, eliade, this is for you.

Catching Up
post-NFA - R- angst - Spike &/ Lorne

Part 2

The term apartment is a gross overstatement. Lorne’s casa consists of a small bed with four walls around it, a smelly closet, a pitiful excuse of a kitchen, and a bathroom so tiny, Clark Kent would have a hard time turning into Superman without knocking the pre-war faucets, and that’s WWI, not two – out of the walls with his elbow. Bare light bulbs dangle from the ceilings. It’s even grottier than the place Doyle AKA Lindsey got for Spike.

Spike pokes around a bit, looking for clues that say ‘Pylean’, ‘empath’ or ‘music man’. There are none. There’s a single bottle of cheap Vodka in a kitchen cabinet, half empty. No juice in the empty fridge, just a thick sheet of ice. Lorne seems to have gone from fancy ‘breeze to stiff gale.

There’s not even a suitcase in the closet, only a handful of dark suits and a fluffy pink bathrobe with a closet-y smell, that must’ve hung there for years. Lorne walked in here with nothing but the clothes on his back. No music system, no radio, no TV, no books, no nothing. The place is so dull, it could bring tears of boredom to the eyes of a monk.

Maybe Lorne just moved here? Only Spike doesn’t think so. Already, the place has soaked up Lorne’s unique hot copper scent. It’s the place of a man without past or future, of a man who’s cut all ties and locked up all hope. It’s Spike’s kind of place.

He toes off his boots, then sits on the bed, thinking. With a shrug he strips naked. Might as well. A safe place to rest his weary bones and shut his eyes for a bit is a rare luxury these days. He crawls between the sheets, exhausted, but still kind of wired, high on too much adrenaline and not enough booze. He lets his hand drift to his cock and half-heartedly strokes himself to hardness, slowly, without urgency, thinking of no one in particular, in fact, not thinking at all. His eyelids drift shut. In the distance he can hear two cats in heat fighting and rutting. Lucky cats.

Spike falls asleep in mid-wank.

TBC?

Comments

[eliade.livejournal.com]

Ooh. Niceness. *glow*

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Thanks. Glad you found this. :-)

My brain is toying with a scene where Lorne comes home finding this very pretty very naked vampire in his bed, but since my family has taken up Irish Dancing my weekends are not my own any more and finding the time to write is harder than ever....

Have a nice weekend. :-)

[timeofchange.livejournal.com]

Mmmmmm.

Spike pokes around a bit, looking for clues that say ‘Pylean’, ‘empath’ or ‘music man’. There are none. There’s a single bottle of cheap Vodka in a kitchen cabinet, half empty. No juice in the empty fridge, just a thick sheet of ice. Lorne seems to have gone from fancy ‘breeze to stiff gale.

Nice.

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :-)

[pinkdormouse.livejournal.com]

Awww. Sniffle.

Gina

[estepheia.livejournal.com]

Heee. Thanks. *beams*

Glad you like my poor widdle depressed boys.