Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I am merely borrowing them, with no hopes of personal gain. I'm just an unemployed housewife with no money, and I don't expect to profit from writing this or any other fan fiction.
Distribution: Only with my explicit permission, but if you ask, I will almost certainly give it.
Notes: Written for the third Fic challenge (Hurt/Comfort Challenge) at Peaches Won't Be Happy.
This time it was on the way back from the Chinese restaurant that was four blocks from Wesley's apartment. It was late, certainly. They should have been more aware of their surroundings -- no arguing that. Instead they'd been paying a bit too much attention to each other. Spike's hand had been in Wesley's back pocket.
"I told you that fresh pineapple is better," Wesley said, and then the vampires came out of nowhere. Under the circumstances they were fortunate that there were only two, and that Spike was similarly equipped to fight -- otherwise, things might have gone more badly than they did.
Wesley staggered as a heavy body collided with his own, and looked around frantically for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. He heard a grunt off to the side that didn't sound like Spike, but he couldn't spare a glance in that direction because he was too busy rolling in the other as he tried to avoid the fist aimed at his face. The blow glanced off the side of his head instead, but Wesley continued the roll and snatched up a scrap of broken crate from just inside the alleyway between the two buildings that were on either side of them.
Before he could get his feet under him enough so that he could put the makeshift stake to use, Wesley's eyes caught a glint of light off of metal.
He was too slow, and the blade sliced downward through air and then flesh, the cut a bright hot flare of agony across his upper arm that slowed him down further. He was aware that he was in trouble for only a brief instant, as an arm wrapped around him and there was the sharp kiss of fangs in his throat, and then there was the familiar vacuum-implosion of a vampire being dusted.
Wesley started to collapse, but Spike was right there, grabbing onto him with hands that were hard and gentle at the same time.
"Christ, Wes," Spike was saying as he shifted his grip, holding Wesley up. Careful fingers were at Wesley's throat, assessing the damage there. All Wesley could feel was that his neck was slick with blood. "You okay?"
"Not a word I would have chosen," Wesley said. His voice sounded rather faint to his own ears. The cuff of his shirt was getting wet. Why?
Spike shifted his grip again, muttering something under his breath, and his fingers brushed across Wesley's arm, reminding Wes instantly of why his sleeve was clinging damply to his skin. He must have made a noise, because Spike stopped. Wesley felt his shirt being torn impatiently, and then Spike swore and removed it the rest of the way, tying it around Wes' upper arm with a pressure that made the edges of the world brighten. "Need to get you to a hospital," Spike said.
That perked Wesley up a bit. "No," he said tensely. "No hospitals. I've plenty of first aid supplies back at the flat. It's not that bad."
"You think that because you haven't seen it," Spike said.
"I've been injured countless times, Spike. On many occasions more seriously than this. I assure you that I'd know if I needed professional care." Wesley hoped his tone of voice sounded more convincing aloud than it did in his head.
Spike looked skeptical, but didn't seem inclined to argue. He moved to Wesley's good side and slipped an arm around his waist. "Well come on then, let's get you back to the flat before you bleed out."
"I'm fine," Wesley said, although he was grateful for the supporting arm as they started to walk.
It seemed no time at all before they were back at his flat. Spike dug into Wesley's pocket for the keys without any comments about groping, which told Wesley more clearly than anything else might have just how worried the vampire was.
Spike helped him inside and lowered him to the couch. "Stay there. First aid stuff's in the bathroom?"
"Yes." Wesley leaned back and closed his eyes, aware that he should try not to bleed on the sofa but not sure he had the energy to see that he wasn't.
Cool fingers on his face. "Wes?"
"I'm all right," he said, opening his eyes.
Spike was perched on the edge of the coffee table. "You will be if you stop bleeding everywhere." He was untying the torn sleeve from Wesley's arm and replacing it with a wad of gauze pads, pressing them tightly to the wound. "Hold these."
Wesley obeyed automatically, his opposite hand coming up to hold the pads in place as Spike rummaged in the first aid kit for other supplies.
"Needle and thread?" Spike asked.
"Should be in the bottom," Wesley said, closing his eyes again. "Is it necessary?"
"What do you think?" Spike sounded angry. "Someone qualified should be doing this, Wes, not me."
Wesley opened his eyes and met Spike's blue ones. "You'll do fine," he said soothingly. "I'd much prefer you do it, here, than go in to Emergency."
He watched as Spike took a deep calming breath, then nodded. "Okay. Right. You want something first?"
"A drink might not be a bad idea," Wesley agreed. He was starting to feel more lightheaded, and he wouldn't have denied that being unconscious for the actual stitching would be preferable, but enough liquor to do that wouldn't be a good idea physically.
Spike had already gotten up and grabbed the whisky bottle. He sloshed some into a glass and frowned at Wesley. "Here, I'll do this..." He took over holding the gauze pads so that Wesley could hold the glass. "Yeah, it's not slowing down," he muttered. "Needs stitches for sure."
Wesley gulped the liquor as quickly as he could, not interested in savoring or even really tasting it, and then handed the glass back wordlessly.
"Lie down," Spike told him, guiding him gently into a reclining position. A towel was padded underneath Wesley's arm. "Think I should give it a splash of this?" he asked, gesturing with the bottle of alcohol.
"Couldn't hurt," Wesley said, meaning the exact opposite.
"Could and will," Spike said, and without further warning removed the gauze pads and poured a healthy dollop of whisky over the open wound.
It was like a brush fire burning out of control -- pain roared through Wesley, and the sound of it filled his ears and eyes as he choked back a scream and then subsided into blissful nothingness.
Spike was grateful when Wes passed out. Bad enough to have to sew him up at all, without having to do it with him all tense and in pain. More pain. Christ.
He set to quickly -- sterilized the needle and thread, and started to use it to draw the meaty flesh of Wes' upper arm back together. It wasn't the first time he'd sewn someone up, but he wasn't experienced enough that it was simple. Spike concentrated on keeping the stitches shallow enough that they'd be easy to remove later, and tried to work as speedily as he could.
Just as he was drawing the needle through for the last time, Wes twitched and made a little sound.
"S'okay," Spike said gently. "I'm almost done, just take it easy. Try not to move."
Wesley's eyes were duller than usual, his lips set in a narrow line. "Almost done?" he repeated.
"Yeah, you missed all the fun." Spike tied the final knot and cut the thread with the small surgical scissors. "There we go. Don't try to get up, I'm gonna put some salve and a bandage over it just for now."
"Oh, trust me," Wesley said, "I don't have plans to get up any time soon."
"Good." Spike swabbed away the worst of the blood and smeared a liberal amount of antibiotic cream over the stitched area, then taped a bandage over it. "There. Now let's take a look at this other..."
Wesley turned his head away helpfully, baring his throat to Spike in a move that went right to his groin. Did it every time, in fact.
He'd known by the time they got back to the flat that the throat wound wasn't anything to worry about. Couple of punctures, already starting to scab up at that point. Now the blood there was mostly dried -- there was just the faintest glisten in one tiny spot. Spike sighed and reached for a fresh gauze pad, but Wesley's voice stopped him.
"You don't want me to clean it off?"
"Not with that."
Spike looked at Wes uncertainly. "You want me to...?"
"Go ahead," Wesley said, and then, when Spike continued to hesitate, "I trust you."
That was more than Spike had ever expected to hear. He *knew* Wes trusted him -- of course he knew that -- but he hadn't thought he'd ever hear Wesley actually come right out and say it. Still, "Are you sure?"
Carefully, Spike leaned in, resting one hand flat on Wesley's chest, feeling the man breathing in and out. He brought his mouth to the wound. Inhaled the scent of the blood -- both dried, on the surface, and fresh, just underneath, cells still living and moving with a life of their own.
Spike settled his lips over the punctures and let his tongue stroke over the fractured skin, tasting Wesley in that moment more purely than he ever had before. Wes groaned softly, the sound vibrating under Spike's palm, but it didn't seem pained.
As his tongue worked at the dried blood, a fresh flow started again, tiny amounts of it mixing with his saliva and filling his mouth. Spike felt his face shift almost against his will and tensed, but then Wesley's hand was touching his own where it rested on Wes' chest, their fingers entwining as Spike drank.
He didn't draw from the wound at all -- he just let the natural flow of the blood move into his mouth. It wasn't about feeding, not really, although he was just as hard as if it had been.
"Spike," Wesley said. It didn't quite sound like his name, the way Wes said it. He slid their joined hands further down his body until Spike's palm was resting over Wes' hardening erection, and Wes shifted his hips restlessly.
Moving away from Wes' throat, Spike leaned in to kiss him, wondering if Wesley could taste his own blood in Spike's mouth. "Not a good idea," he said reluctantly.
"What?" Wesley asked. "Licking my throat? Or touching my cock?" He shifted his hips again and then moaned slightly against Spike's lips.
"Both," Spike told him, even though he couldn't resist squeezing Wes through the denim fabric of his jeans. "You should be resting." He kissed Wes again, lingeringly.
"You're probably right," Wesley said. "We could go to bed?"
"Smart man." Spike stood up and pulled Wes to his feet, then grabbed onto him tighter as the other man swayed. "Easy there."
"I'm all right," Wesley said.
"Sure you are."
Once he had Wes undressed and settled into bed -- and once he'd gotten a towel from the bathroom to put under Wes, who insisted that he didn't want to bleed on the sheets -- Spike went back to the kitchen for a glass of water.
"Here you go. Gotta replace all those fluids." He handed it over and Wesley hitched himself painfully up onto one elbow and drank.
Spike shed his own clothes and slipped between the sheets, then took the empty glass from Wes and put it on the bedside table. He lay on his back, and after a couple of seconds Wesley moved closer and draped his injured arm carefully over Spike, resting his cheek on Spike's shoulder. "Thank you. For patching me up."
"Welcome. My fault it happened in the first place."
"What?" Wes lifted his head briefly to look at Spike.
"Well, if we hadn't gone out you wouldn't have been there, would you? Plus I should have been quicker."
Wes' finger traced a little circle around Spike's nipple idly. "Firstly, I often go out in the evenings when you're not here. And secondly, you were there when I needed you. That's all that matters."
The pad of his index finger rubbed over Spike's nipple once, then again, and Spike felt his earlier erection returning with a vengeance. "Wes," he groaned softly, as that finger moved slowly down underneath the sheet and started to draw an intricate pattern along the length of his cock. "Not the right time."
"It's always the right time," Wesley corrected him, as his fingertip collected the drop of pre-come welling from Spike and spread it around the head of his cock. Spike could feel Wes' hard-on pressing into his hip insistently.
"Don't want to hurt you," Spike said.
"You won't." Wes kissed him gently, and then said, "I need this. Please?"
Spike feigned a gasp. "I think I'm hearing things. Did the great Wesley Wyndam-Pryce just say 'please?'"
Wesley kissed him again, harder this time, continuing to fondle Spike's cock as he did so. "I'm sure I'll be saying it again before we're through."
"Oh, you will," Spike said. He slid down Wes' body, pushing Wes over onto his back, and then taking Wes' cock into his mouth and grinning around it as Wesley gasped and clenched his fist in the sheets. The taste of Wes' blood still filled his senses, and he let himself get lost in that, let instinct take over. He moved further down, his tongue circling Wesley's balls and then behind, leaving everything damp and slick, leaving Wesley writhing and breathless.
"Please," Wes gasped finally, and Spike was so distracted that he almost missed it. "Spike... fuck me..."
He didn't need a second invitation -- one of the beauties of being a vampire -- and he carefully slid home, making sure that he didn't jar Wes' injured arm against the towel. "Okay?" he asked, needing to hear it.
Wesley sucked in a breath and nodded. "Yes." His hips tilted slightly in repeat invitation, the one that Spike hadn't thought he'd need. "Yes. Please."
Usually it was rougher, faster. Not that there wasn't affection between them -- there was -- but because it was about the fucking. It was about what felt good and what got them both off.
This here, this was about something else too. Wes brought out feelings in Spike that he wasn't sure Wes would like to hear about -- Spike wanted to protect him, take care of him. Do right by him.
Christ. M aybe these were things *he* shouldn't be thinking about.
So instead, Spike let himself get lost again. Lost in the heat, lost in the way the friction drove him just about out of his mind. Wes was moaning softly beneath him, but lying unusually still, and the sheer difference of it just made it all the hotter. Spike shifted his weight, changing the angle of his careful thrusts slightly, and Wes made a strangled sound.
"There," Wes said. "Right... oh God..."
It was the tone of his voice, the taut Britishness of it, that pushed Spike over the edge. He shouted from deep in his chest as it rushed out of him, pumping his hips more quickly as he came. He reached for Wes' cock and gave it a couple of rough jerks, and then Wesley tightened up -- underneath him, around him -- and came too, the warm wetness spurting over his fingers.
They both shuddered, gasping, and then Spike leaned down and kissed Wes, careful not to bump his arm. He pressed a second kiss to the wound on Wes' throat and then withdrew and lay down next to him, cradling him close. "You okay?"
"Fine." Wesley sounded relaxed.
"You need some more water or anything? Painkillers?"
Wesley shook his head slightly, rolling it against Spike's shoulder. "No, I've everything I need right here."
Spike closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.