Title: Game Over

Authors: Meg

Pairing: Spike/Wesley

Rating: NC17

Summary: Spike and Wes share a quiet *ahem* evening, and probably more than they'd like to about themselves.

Feedback: Much desired. Slavered over even.

Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the casting decisions made for AtS: Season 5. Otherwise, it's all pretty much wishful thinking.

Disclaimer: They aren't mine, but after this I sure as hell wish they were.

Dedication: For Robin. Hope there's enough rutting to make you squee.

Game Over

By Meg

*****

Having a soul really isn't all it's cracked up to be if you ask me.

Hell, ask Angel. He'd say the same. It slows your reflexes. Makes you question things you shouldn't. Sometimes, it ties you up in big bloody knots until you're not sure whether you want to cry or scream or shove your fist through a poor defenseless inanimate object. Maybe if you're

really lucky, a demon with bad intentions happens by at just the right moment. As a rule, I'm not. Lucky.

It makes things hurt in interesting ways I'm still not used to.

We had a row earlier. One of those old ones that stretches back across a century's time. All about family, dominance, and the blissful ignorance of new demonhood I scarcely remember. Angel does, I think. Even the soul can't put down the need he's always had to control me, to dictate what I do where and when, what is and is not proper. Then again, I may be giving him too much credit. It could be his subconscious or the blood ties whispering to him. Telling him that it's his duty, his privilege to make certain the insolent beast he made falls in line.

That's why I'm here, right? As everyone well knows, I've never been the kind to think before acting or take responsibility for those actions after the fact. Buffy did that for me. Told me where to direct my fury and then turned back to beat down her own demons. She's gone though, not in the sense you're thinking, but it doesn't make her any less absent.

Yes, I need direction. But I didn't ask for some great sodding fairy godmother with a passing addiction to hair gel. One who makes a point of randomly dredging up every bad choice I've made in my long life to examine the minutiae. He, of course, excludes the bit where I follow him into a dank, cobbled alley. How startlingly predictable of him. Not that I'd rather be worm food, mind. It's the principle of the thing. Angel doesn't get it. Never really has. Doesn't understand that wallowing in the past helps exactly no one. And even if he did, he'd probably go right on doing it. He's stubborn that way.

It's why I'm here. Not here in the L.A. sense I meant before, but here in Wesley's no-posher-than-usual flat. He doesn't trust the lawyerfolk either. Can't say I blame him. He's touched it a bit closer than anyone else and has no delusions about what they're capable of doing.who they'll be able to corrupt.

He understands that having a soul is at times more burden than blessing. And in small, quiet moments I feel him wishing he didn't have to bear it.

He knows.

That this will all end badly. That even the most well-built walls crumble under the right kind of stress. That wanting to do right isn't always enough. That betrayal is the rule, not the exception.

He's also not in a position to say these things, his tentative welcome back to the fold still fresh and sparkling. Even having me here sullies it a bit, one of the last acceptable acts of defiance against lord and master Angelus.

I hear him, tottering about in the kitchenette, shuffling like he carries the weight of years he doesn't own. It should be infuriating, but it's not. This isn't the first time I've weathered my self-appointed warden's wrath in Wesley's harbor, and he likes to talk when you pour enough single-malt down his throat. The scar pulses when he drinks, a puckered, pinkish flag that proclaims loyalty and shows, absent of typical shame, his commitment to doing what he truly believes is right.

It reminds me of her.

"Tea? Or would you care for something with a bit more bite?" His head pokes around the corner and he smiles. There's unexpected kindness in his voice and a genuine concern there for what I want, what I need. Never mind the innuendo, because I don't know that he really hears himself doing it. More bite. If I were something other than exactly what I am, a truly undemonic demon with a big mouth and a bigger wanker of a Sire, I'd take what was on offer. Still might.

"Best give over the stuff with nasty gnashing teeth, mate. Never been one for tea when I'm feeling like a horse's arse. Never been one for tea at all, come to think."

He snickers, a snuffled off sound that edges on authentic, but trained ears can hear the desperation still lurking just beneath the surface. When he reappears, he's juggling a bottle of something appropriately gut-burning, two tumblers, and a large bowl with a spoon poking over the

lip.

"It's mother's fault, I think," he says, transferring the items from his arms into a lazy sprawl on the coffee table, "that I indulge in ice cream when I'm feeling particularly out of sorts."

"Sometimes mum really does know best." He smiles again, but it doesn't light his eyes the way I hoped it might. Wes has parental issues of his own. Sometimes I forget.

"Yes well, it doesn't make me feel less of a woman to know that."

"And oh dear, what it's done to your girlish figure." I smirk. Only an echo of its former glory, admittedly.but I have to at least try. And the small spark of life in his eyes twists a seldom-touched part of me that longs to see just that thing. Still.though I haven't known him for

long, I know the type. He's not bred of the stock to go on wild confectionary binges, so of course I feel compelled to ask.

"I had you pegged for a scotch man like good ole Rupes, or maybe whiskey like that git who fancies himself the boss of me and mine. What's with the food?"

"Not sure, honestly. Just that the guilt was eating at me and alcohol would only dull my senses when I needed them sharp. Don't forget I welcomed a cobra into my bed, Spike. And with Lilah.well, you just couldn't tell when or if she might rear back and strike. I had to find comfort somewhere."

He never says exactly what he means to, but I have a knack for hearing the real deal behind the pretty white falsities he feeds everyone else. Wes enjoys the dance. Likes to hold something dark and dangerous close. Bend it to his will. Master it. Something of a twisted crossword puzzle. I think it's why we get on as well as we do.

'Course if he has plans in the works to puzzle me out, he's in for a surprise.

Wouldn't be the only one. I don't know what he'd find if he got me figured. There's too much noise in my head these days to even start searching for me.

His brow furrows and he studies my hands with an intensity that makes me think he's waxing poetic about the things they've done, the things they could do. Now, I'm not easily rattled, but when people stare at me like that.when they seek out the insides instead of being distracted by the

hair and attitude, it sets off a particularly uncomfortable wriggling in my stomach. Because for all the posturing, for every time I've gone on about how no one truly sees me, I'm scared shitless. Especially now.

But maybe it isn't poetry written behind those downcast eyes. Maybe he's just missing that darkness between the sheets and wants to have a go of it.

Only one sure way to tell.

"That's the thing about snakes. Have to be an experienced handler to keep them under control."

If that doesn't get a rise.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing storybook romance about the lot of it. If there was, I think we'd both be picking up pieces of ourselves for years to come. Wes pushes buttons of an entirely carnal variety, but that doesn't make the want go away.

He shifts beside me on the couch, leather cushions creaking against each other, and the spicy scent of arousal meets my nostrils, making them flare. Got a rise after all then.

"I'm rather," he clears his throat pointedly, like he thinks I might miss the words if he didn't, "adept at handling things, you'll find. Snakes included."

Cheeky bastard.

Oh, I like him. Safe to say at this point, when there's no use worrying about a ruined reputation on either part. Inside these walls, it's just me, him, over two-hundred years of accrued angst (complete with requisite interest), a bottle of Jack I suspect he keeps on hand just for my visits, and a serving bowl full of softening mocha ice cream.

Only right that my legendary smirk be resurrected for the occasion.

The rub of it is the contest of wills. Can't let him break me. Not now, not ever. If I do, I'd live every day with his crowing. Only the non-verbal type, of course. But it'd be there, in his eyes, when we faced a demon, when we cleared a nest, bright jangling laughter and the knowledge he'd mastered me. That he knows where I live and he'd come in to set up shop, pretty as you please, thank you sir and may I have

another.

Subtle it is then.

I lean forward slowly, setting my sights on the bottle, but swerve at the last minute to take the spoon in hand, scooping a generous sloppy amount up with a flourish. His eyes flicker between the bowl and bottle speculatively, as if he hasn't quite figured out what game I'm running yet, then he sighs softly and spills a couple fingers of cheap whiskey into both glasses.

Probably thinking he's been rebuffed.

Easier than I thought.

His hand closes around one glass and he lifts it, swirling the swill with a look that's second cousin to distaste, not far enough removed that I mistake it for anything else. But he's primed, distracted,

feeling more off-kilter than before perhaps, so I strike.

It's a finite balancing act to keep the mushy, brownish goop on its spoon until it gets to where I want it, but I manage and the ice cream plops square on my chest before slithering down my stomach in thin, coffee-scented rivulets. Never thought I'd use those fancy enhanced motor skills quite this way, but I roll with punches. It's who I am.

"Bloody hell." The curse comes off with the tiniest bit of smile, and I scowl. More so for giving a bit away than for the cold, sticky mess currently making a home on one of my staple black tees. It'll wash. They always do. The grimace, however, is what sells it, and I stand, cupping a hand beneath the mess to keep it off the rug with cautious, studied motions. The kind I'd wager a polite invited guest might use. As I peel the shirt off over my head, ever so carefully, a fresh wave of musk hits my nose and I let a genuine smile grace my lips behind the black fabric before tugging it off and setting it gingerly aside.

"Hope you don't mind," I hear myself say, but I'm not paying much attention to the words anymore. Wes' pupils are dilated, his gaze fixed on the ripple of muscle at my waist, eyes tracing the hollows beneath my hipbones hungrily.

Hook, line, sinker.

Seduction really is a lost art. 'Course there's no one still about as practiced as I am in the finer things. True maestros only give enough to tantalize. Oh, I know. Still fully aware of what the dusty old men say about me in their dusty old books. I never come off quite right, but then again, they've never been the focus of my.prowess.

It's about not knowing. Yearning. Burning. Whatever name you slap on it, if the object of your fancy doesn't realize until they're already immersed.almost as good as fear.

Wes has a solid yearn built up now, and the air hangs heavy with pheromones. The good kind. And while I go through the motions on the outside, leaning forward again, letting him see the equally taut muscles of my back, inside I'm near giddy with glee. It's been a long time since I played this way.

When I look at him again, there's a saccharine predatory smile stretched on his mouth, one that might make me quail if I were a lesser man. I'm not, of course, but I know what it means.

"I think you underestimate me, Spike," he says, his lips popping around the "p" in my name. He leans his elbow against the back of the couch with infuriating ease and takes another leisurely sip from his glass.

It means I haven't won.yet.

"Don't know what you're talking about, pet." His smile widens, and I return it, the picture of innocence. Or what I think might pass for it. Harder to play when they know the game, but I like a challenge.

My fingers fumble at the spoon for a moment, and then I shovel another glob of the ice cream free. I've got it halfway to my mouth when Wes curses softly and sets his glass down on the table. It's reflex really, to look at him, see what caused the cursing, but my poker face slips noticeably when I do.

The tosser stole my act. Whiskey shimmers on his lower lip, making it look swollen, moist, entirely too edible for anyone's good and there's a shining little river of liquid slipping down over his chin. More liquor gathers in the hollow at his throat, and he tugs open the first three buttons on his shirt as it soaks through.

Ice cream spills aren't always planned. This one definitely isn't, but plans have never been my strong suit and it has the desired effect, so who am I to split hairs?

Wes eyes the splatter on my chest and licks his lips, cleaning them of the whiskey, then smiles.

"How incredibly clumsy of you. Wouldn't do to make a mess of the leather, now would it?"

And that's all the warning he gives before dropping to his knees in front of me, pink tongue flickering out against my skin, cleaning it with practiced swipes. My hands scrabble against the couch, and I bite my lip, trying very hard not to give anything else away. To let him know

I want nothing more in this moment than to rip open my fly and shove my poor aching cock past that wicked tongue and into his mouth.

Warm wetness slides around my navel one last time, and he smiles up at me with a quirked eyebrow.

"Must we?" he asks, rubbing a stubbled chin against tight denim. My own eyebrow quirks in response.

"Must we what, Wes?"

"Play, Spike. Games are all well and good, but we'll dance around each other all night at this rate. And I," he mouths the hardness in my jeans and toys at the top button with his teeth, "can't wait."

Now I'm not known for my restraint at the best of times, and this is hardly the best of times. Wes works his lips against me again, his nose brushing, nudging against bare skin right above my waistband and any pretense I might have put on pounds a hasty retreat.

"Have it your way pet." His eyes glitter dangerously and he scrapes his teeth against the denim, with just the right amount of pressure...

No games, my lily white undead arse.

"Suck me."

Wes blinks, thrown off balance for a moment by the command before his nimble fingers skitter up the insides of my thighs to grasp the buttons, popping them free in quick succession. His tongue flutters lightly up the underside of my cock, the tip tracing over the vein with a maddening lack of friction. My eyes close, rolling back in my head to points unknown as he slurps and nips at my foreskin, never quite drawing it back over the head. Warm fingers close gently around my now throbbing length, caressing more than stroking and my hands reach for his head reflexively, willing him to take me in.

"No games," he whispers, a soft puff of moist heat falling against my skin. And to my horror, I whimper as his fist uncurls to wrap around one of my wrists. He presses my questing hands back against the cushions firmly and smiles, his tongue slipping out again to collect a shining stream of precum.

"Wes." I growl, my last shreds of patience buckling under his tender onslaught.

"Don't think." Another sweet, hot, long, god-so-fucking-good lap from stem to stern. "Just feel."

And I'm lost.

A hundred years of conditioning fall away with an expert swirl of his tongue, sending a wholly alien shudder through my limbs. Angelus dominated with pure passion and pain. Dru, well.she was, as would be expected, a great deal like her dear Daddy. She craved the blood and

heavy-handed blows, spurning nearly any attempt I made at tender. I suppose that's what you get when you fall in love with a demon. Buffy was just looking for a convenient cliff to throw herself off or against until she shattered. It was never about me.

Wonder if Wes knows that. Wonder if that's why.

His head dips lower, lips tightening just underneath the head of my cock as he sucks, still gentle, still teasing. Once he's satisfied I'm not going the force the issue, his hands drift again, feather light touches dancing down the crease where hip becomes thigh. Another inch disappears into the warm, wet haven of his mouth, a finger slipping surreptitiously in, for a purpose I can guess, but not know.

It's a bit of heaven, letting him tend to me this way. Giving myself over to sensation. Never tell him that, of course.

Teeth scrape lightly against me and I struggle against the urge to thrust up into his mouth.

Never, ever tell him.

A saliva-slicked finger slides down across my balls, pressing skillfully against the perineum for scant seconds before nudging rather insistently against the puckered opening beneath. Gameface shivers out from under the human mask unbidden, the act so intimate, so submissive.I have to fight not to throw him across the room.

I think he feels my thighs tense, my body mindlessly preparing to do exactly that.

"No games, Spike," he mumbles, half moan, half something husky and indescribable as he slides his finger home to the first knuckle. No easy feat for either of us, that. "Trust me."

I'm about to tell him exactly how unlikely a concept that is (something about Queen Elizabeth and Prince having a love child. Not the prince. Prince. Barmy git.), when he takes me to the root. Hot, tight, wet, fucking hell it's been too long and I can't remember my name, much less the witty retort I'd just worked out. Lips drawn taut around hard pale flesh, he swallows and I snarl. My hips pitch and roll of their own accord, out of control, Wes' finger slipping further in, seeking, questing, and when he finds the sweet little nub he's looking for it's a wonder he doesn't end up with a broken jaw.

He brushes it once, twice. On the third time he swallows around me again, tongue painting small, serpentine patterns of saliva over my cock, and I'm gone, invisible restraints forgotten, fingers tangled in hair, hips bucking wildly as I spill down his throat.

My head's still spinning when he rears back to sit on his haunches, studying me in that Watcherly way he still hasn't unlearned. "Now then, wasn't that better than mincing around like a couple of incredibly tired British biddies all night?"

"Gyuhuh." I'm not at my most coherent whilst basking in the afterglow, so sue me.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says, and settles himself back on his end of the couch. Once my limbs start responding to commands from my brain again, I swing my head around to look at him. He isn't watching me anymore, his eyes focused at some non-descript spot on the wall, his fingers once more wrapped tightly around a glass of whiskey.

This is the part where estrogen usually gets in the way. If I were cut from more vulnerable cloth and hadn't already suffered every indignity imaginable, I might worry that Wes hated every moment of what just happened. But I'm not and he didn't. His scent still hangs on the air, his soft chinos still bulge at the crotch, and there's still tension stretched between us like a thick strand of silk, waiting to be unleashed.

So I do what any red-blooded demon in his right mind would, I shimmy out of my jeans the rest of the way and crawl slowly across the space between us. When my fingers fall on his chest, he tenses and I sigh.

"What do you want, Wes?"

He breathes impossibly deep, letting it out in a rush and moan when I fasten my lips to his neck. A shiver runs the length of his body as I suckle and nip, never breaking skin of course, just teasing him enough to bring things to a rolling boil.

"Wes." The word comes out with a hiss tacked on the end because he's fighting me, fighting this, sod it.he's being bloody stubborn.

"Yes, Spike?" I have to admit he's either covering the breathlessness pretty damn well or is completely unaffected by my unique brand of persuasion. I'll go with the former. And since when do I give two shits about reciprocation. If he'd nonced about like this a year ago, he'd have been kissing my coattails as they swirled out the door. But then I'm not the same man I was. Sometimes a year is all it takes. Or a crusty demon guy with glowy eyes, a little too much alcohol and an incredibly impulsive decision on my part. Suppose that's not the whole truth anyway, but I don't think on it much. Especially not when I'm naked and trying to suss out what suddenly crawled up Wes' arse and died.

Time to give it another go. I draw the flat of my tongue down his neck, over the collarbone, tasting skin, sweat, and whiskey. All sticky bittersweet old pain and misery with just a hint of self-loathing. Something I know all too well.

"You'll feel better if you just come out with it, you know. Letting it fester accomplishes nothing. Makes you hollow. Take it from one who knows."

A non-commital grunt, then he chuckles and nudges my chin up to catch my eyes. "Only you, Spike."

"What the hell did I do now? Least I'm asking first. I didn't just."

"Do shut up." His voice has a brittle edge to it, one he might send flying my way if I don't keep my great gob from flappin'. Honestly, I'd rather come in contact with some softer, rounder bits of him than I would barbed words.

"Mkay."

He's the one to sigh this time, long fingers tracing my jawline with something that borders on affection, his eyes a soppy wet blue mess, and fuck me if he lets the tears fall. I didn't bargain on this.

There's a bit of a tremor to the words when he speaks again. "Only you saw past the pretense. Realized how.horrid things are." He gulps a breath. "How broken I still am. How broken I've always been."

I'm off the couch and away before he can blink, parts swinging, fists clenched, furious. Those aren't just the most stupid words I've ever heard him utter, they're also the worst ones he could say to a souled vamp who spent the better part of last year talking to ghoulies on the Hellmouth. Wanker.

"Look, I'm only going to say this once." Wes raises his hand, trying to placate me, but I'm having none of it. "And keep your yap shut 'til I've said it." He nods, resigned. "You're one of the strongest people I know. Broken on the inside, broken on the outside. Its rot and you know it.

You've kept shit together around here better than anyone could've. Even Angel. So, yeah. You've been dicked around by the Caped Crusader and his merry band. What did you do? You just kept on truckin'. Carved a life for yourself out of the crap they tossed you in." The anger bleeds ever

so slowly into the respect I have for him, and I hear my voice soften. "Got more guts than me. I hid. For months. Couldn't face them. Not to mention the fact I came over nuttier than a fruitcake." He chuckles softly, and I press onward. "So, here's the thing. I'm going to ask again and pretend the last fifteen minutes never happened. Deal?"

"I suppose." Still that uncertainty.

"No supposing, no hemming, no hawing. Yes or no. Or I swear to God I'm out that door so fast."

"Yes." Lacks the stalwart commitment in delivery I was looking for, but it'll do.

"Right then." My chest heaves, driven by a deep, cleansing breath.

"What do you want, Wes?"

"You."

Seconds later I'm astride him, grinding myself into his lap, pulling buttons from his shirt as we both fumble to remove the offending fabric. We grapple and fight with his pants until he's blessedly naked and arching up into my thrusts, his arms wound around my back, short nails scraping away skin. I crush my lips firmly against his, mussing his hair with my fingers, tugging, grasping at it to keep from drowning.

"Fuck.Spike," he pants, his head lolling back, making the veins in his neck stand out in a wholly delicious, completely distracting way.

"Yeah, like that do you?" I shift my weight again, rubbing our erections together, and moan.

"Do you." Another throaty gasp. "Do you have anything?"

I stop for a second and look down at him with a puzzled expression. And he's the smart one? "Vampires don't carry diseases, pet. Thought they'd teach you that at Watchers 'R' Us."

His back arches again, leaving a slippery trail of precum across my stomach. "Berk. That's not what I meant." Hands slide down over my back until he cups my ass in his palms, a knuckle nudging against my hole suggestively. Alright, so I'm the ignorant wanker. No need to rub it in.

"'Course I do." I lean over to rifle through my duster pockets, triumphant when I find the half-empty tube of lube that skinny slip of a girl gave me a couple days ago. "Thanks to Twiggy."

"Twiggy?" he asks as I yank the cap off with my teeth. Grinning, I squeeze a bit of the stuff into his now outstretched palm and save the rest for me.

"Yeah, Twiggy." Wes' eyelids flutter as I slather the stuff on him and his cock twitches in expectation. Two fingers press into me from behind and scissor apart, leaving me speechless, unable to explain. God what he could do to me. But then they stop.

"Hey.."

"Who's Twiggy, Spike?" He starts up a lazy thrusting, and I try to keep my wits about me long enough to answer.

"Frrrrfuuuuck." Not doing so hot with that at the moment.

Wes smiles and slows, almost stopping. "I don't recall meeting anyone by that name recently."

"The brain." He moves his fingers again, eyes twinkling with pure sadistic delight. "That little bit of a girl." A third digit slides into join the others and I growl around the words. "The one that works with Angel. Fred."

All motion stops and this time I know I whimper. Don't even have the presence of mind to feel bad about it.

"Fred? You got this from Fred?" Wes goes a bit green around the gills and I know I'm about to lose him if I don't act fast.

"Does it really matter?" I pump my hand over his cock roughly, slicking it right nice and shift my weight forward onto my knees. Lining him up, I smile rakishly and sink down with a delightful shudder. "'Sides," I clench my muscles around him, making his eyes roll back in his head. "I think we're making more use of it than she would."

Then I set the rhythm, hard and slow, leaning into him, my elbows braced against his shoulders as I ride. Fucking hell it HAS been too long. His tongue curls around my earlobe, sucking it in, one hand loosing his grip to slide around. Fingers still bathed in lube wrapping around my cock, pulling in time with my rocking. Teeth dig softly into my neck and I snarl, pushing into the bite, speeding the pace of my hips. Wes gasps in gulping breaths of air and reclaims his hold, biting in deeper, deeper. When his teeth break skin, I'm lost, frenzied pumping and I'm vaguely aware that he's sped his rhythm to match mine, growling out choked off curses. Then warmth bathes my insides, Wes stills and then jerks spasmodically, my name on his lips, and that's enough. I explode with an unearthly howl, strong spurts of semen colliding with his chest and hand. My hips slow and I slump over, laying my head on his shoulder, panting.

Once Wes catches his breath, he laughs loud and long.

"What?" I mumble against his neck and I can't resist tasting the sweat there. It's sweeter than before, like in the act he's escaped just the smallest bit of his despair.

"If Fred only knew."

END