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Still My Beating Heart

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still my beating heart


Bones had returned to this same dive on Risa three nights in a row. Here he could meld into the background, drink himself stupid, no questions asked.

He’d done some asking around and the trail had led him here. This is where he’d find him--someone who could help him, cure him maybe. McCoy knew he’d have to make it look like it was the vampire’s decision or it wouldn’t work. He was dealing with a hunter and the best way to attract a killer is to look like a victim, wriggle your ass at them or, in this case, bare your neck. It could be dangerous, but one thing Jim had taught him was that there was no such thing as a no-win scenario. Even if things didn’t pan out quite how he envisaged, he would never have to suffer another day like this.

He sat himself down at the bar, downed two beers in a row, real quick, and then picked up his first glass of whiskey.

“Here’s to you, Jim,” he managed to say under his breath, and knocked back his drink in one gulp. It felt like lava in his throat as it slipped past the lump there, smoothing the rough edges of his sadness already. It wasn’t Kentucky whiskey but it would do. Like so many other things in his life the last couple of years, nothing quite lived up to the mark. He felt the wooden stake in his inside pocket and settled down for another wait.


Had Spike’s heart bothered to beat anymore, it would have skipped. It was the same dark, floppy hair as Angelus. The guy sitting with his back to him at the bar was tall and had a cloud of doom and gloom hanging over him, just like his sire, and he was engaged in good old Irish therapy - knocking back shots like he was trying to forget something.

Once Spike had picked him out from the crowd and worked his vamp mojo, the guy sensed something and turned to scan the half-full bar, face all crumpled, like he was trying to remember but couldn’t.

Now Spike got a good look at him: of course it bloody wasn’t Angelus. He should have known. There was no way that miserable bastard would ever have left Earth and abandoned his do-gooder to-do-list, even if it meant he’d be able to go out in daylight. Plus, he thought, his sire wouldn’t have been seen dead (if you’ll pardon the expression) in that skanky jacket.

The guy looked pretty miserable, which wasn’t an unusual sight on Risa. The place was, after all, full of fuck-ups trying to forget - himself included.

“Leave the bottle.” Spike picked up the guy’s low drawl from clear across the bar, through the chatter and music and clink of glass, his vamp hearing cranked up to full.

Shit. That was deep South – an accent which always shot straight to Spike’s groin. Of course, he wouldn’t have known if it was Louisiana, Georgia or whatever, but it was Anne Rice enough to get an old traditionalist like him going. Bloody hell, he was sick of all this technology and space travel. He often dreamed of the days when a vampire’s life was simpler: full of ruffled shirts, heaving bosoms, torn throats and not a bleep or PADD anywhere.

He saw the guy searching around in his inside pocket for something. He took off his coat and as he did, the movement bared his neck until he straightened out the fabric, tossed his coat on the floor by his feet and eased back onto the stool. Spike felt a twitch at his groin and licked his lips. Maybe he should take a closer look. He could break up the night’s monotony by teasing this southern gent, find out what his story was.

He sauntered towards the bar and wedged in between his (hopefully) soon to be new toy and some bloke with blue skin who earned a flash of vamp teeth - a not so subtle invitation to retreat out of Spike’s personal bubble. He still couldn’t get over the sights on offer these last couple of hundred years. Blue fucking skin, for God’s sake - it made his own ethereal white look a little less alluring. And as for those Frisian bastards with their two moons and whole genetic mutation thing and the weird effect it had on their pallor – well, if a vampire could get representation, there surely was a case against an entire species for stealing another’s look.

And that was just it-- nowadays vampires simply weren’t anything to give half a thought to. They’d been flushed out or deported from Earth. Research had revealed that they weren’t ‘demons’ as such but some product of alien spawn. So he, William the Bloody, was an alien. How the mighty have fallen. No matter which way you looked at it, being an alien wasn’t as sexy as a blood-sucking vamp, was it? And, since he’d got a replicator for his blood, it felt like he’d had his teeth pulled. Bye-bye, Big Bad.

He ran his tongue over his incisors then succumbed to the desire to glance to his right where the southern gent scowled at him.

“You lookin’ at me, kid?” he drawled, even though he’d patently started it. Clint Eastwood meets Clark Gable, Spike thought with approval. And the way the guy bared his teeth, it made his cock lurch a little – this fascination with enamel was a vampire thing.

“I’m not a kid. I’m four hundred years old,” Spike said, all matter of fact, aware how his English accent jarred, like the sound of a candle-stick falling in church.

Clark Gable’s eyebrows shot up like a trapeze act and disappeared into his bangs. “That a fact? So what class of ‘alien’ are you?” Long fingers clasped the glass of whiskey. He didn’t really look or sound like he gave a shit but the disinterest had the hunter in Spike hooked already.

“The vampire class; the one with a whole body of literature behind it.” Spike turned to the barkeep, “Gin. No ice,” he said, “and whatever he’s having.” He gestured towards Clark Gable.

“Gin?” His new friend sneered.

“Reminds me of home,” Spike said, vaguely amused at the attitude.

“Which is where?” Clark Gable asked, even though his face was all disinterest and stubble.

Spike liked the way he said wher-yah and half-turned to look the sarcastic bastard up and down while he waited for their drinks. This had got off on the wrong footing; he was the one supposed to take the lead and doing the chatting up.

When his eyes reached Gable’s lips, Spike felt his demon, (sorry – alien spawn), rising up in him. Bloody hell. Red, plump, a little pouty and sad and scored by the faintest of marks where he’d probably been chewing them all night. This bloke was seriously tense. Still, Spike could smell the build of cortisol in the guy without even looking at the body language.

Damn pretty, too.

Spike rolled his eyes. Sometimes he thought he’d learned absolutely nothing about himself in all these years. This cowboy, was so his ‘type’ from the hang-dog expression to the long, elegant fingers; from the darkest chocolate hair to the fullness of his mouth; from his tall, broad shouldered, slightly apologetic slouch to his Labrador eyes. And he had perfect teeth. That was clue enough he was American even before he heard the voice. He should leave now, before things went too far. He didn’t move.

“London,” Spike said, clearing his throat. “But this is home now.”

“This shithole.” It wasn’t a question. “Get a bottle. I’ve got a helluva thirst.” Clark Gable slid off the bar stool and headed to a nearby booth. Spike watched his arse as he walked away suddenly feeling very hungry.

“This shithole,” he said to himself, two steps behind.


“How the hell did you get all the way out here?” McCoy wasn’t really interested, but he had begun to bore himself with his maudlin thoughts; conversation would crowd out the agony some. Besides, he’d never met a vampire before and frankly, he was fascinated by the physiology. He probably should have been a little afraid but he knew they weren’t a threat these days, at least not on Earth since the cull of the mid 21st century and the last few stragglers had been thrown out. There were reports some of the older ones had escaped detection but, until his recent research, he hadn’t thought about them in years. Still, a little disconcerting-- the cold skin, the pale blue veins in Spike’s neck and, even though he hated to admit it even to himself, it did give him a small adrenaline rush when he noticed the lack of reflection in the mirrors behind the bar.

“I hitched a ride,” the vampire said.

McCoy snorted. “Stood on a space dock and stuck your thumb out?” The waitress arrived with their drinks; she wore a costume-hire zombie outfit that McCoy hoped was cleaner than it looked if she was going to be serving food all night. “I can picture that. Did you haveta promise not to bite?”

“Not exactly,“ Spike said, slumping down on the bench. “It may have involved threats of violence.” He shrugged.

“I’m Leonard McCoy,” he said, “You can call me Leonard, or McCoy. Any perversion of my name in any shape or form and I’ll hypo you.”

“Got it.” Spike grinned. “Spike.” He held out a hand and they shook.

McCoy glanced at Spike’s cold hand when they touched. He’d encountered all sorts since he enlisted with Starfleet almost ten years ago, yet it was unsettling talking to a living creature that wasn’t technically alive at all. The vamp was obviously working some hypnotic thing on him because McCoy noticed his breathing had become more shallow since he’d been joined at the bar and, God help him, he was half hard. Despite this, he wasn’t sure yet if he found Spike attractive or not; the part of his mind that thought about that sort of thing had shrivelled up and been shat out two years ago. He didn’t even know if he had a type. Shit, Jim was his type. Jim. His chest ached.

“Damn fool name,” he heard himself say, and he didn’t need to ask its origins, of course, because he’d done his research. The fake blond hair didn’t look so daft in real life; there were no holovids of Spike. Even these days they couldn’t quite figure out how to capture vampires’ images, but he’d seen artists’ depictions of him and a couple on the numerous holosites dedicated to him, waxing lyrical about his ethereal beauty and charisma. There was no doubt that ‘something’ was drawing him to Spike. The scientist in him knew this was how vampires pulled their potential victims to them, kept them quiet, pliant. This might be why, even though Spike wasn’t the kind whom he normally felt attracted to, he felt his cock jolt at the unwavering blue eyes that surveyed him as he spoke.

Past midnight, and officially Halloween, the bar filled up with revellers, mostly people from Earth, the only ones who gave a damn about this morbid celebration of death in the whole galaxy. McCoy had long since given up on the viral effect of humans in space. Hang the prime directive but first they seemed to have Coca Cola everywhere and now, Halloween. More popular than Christmas – he blamed the obsession on dressing-up.

They both watched a group that had found a space just by their booth, a Bela Lugosi style vamp, a spaceman, a cowboy and a very tall woman, a cutie in a red dress that had McCoy exchanging an appreciative look with Spike.

Spike leaned over to make himself heard. “It’s a guy,” he said.

“No fuckin’ way. I’m a doctor, I know this stuff.” He gazed at her glorious cleavage, the Spanish style ruffles on the sleeves, the smooth, hairless skin…sure he’d seen it all, but still. A woman. Surely not?

Spike tapped his nose, “Believe me, this never lies!” They both laughed. “So, is ‘she’ your type, mate?”

Ah, there he was, checking him out, working out which way the saloon door swung. Might as well tease the bastard a little. “Well, looks like a woman, fucks like a man. That must be everyone’s type, right?” He fiddled with the rings on his finger a couple of times, then stopped himself.

Spike grinned. “I’m not going there. I’ve been thru’ the whole women’s lib thing enough times, mate. I’ve been with women who would snap your neck if you so much put a step out of line.”

“Ah, yes. I was married to one of those,” McCoy said fondly. “My favorite kinda lady.” They chinked glasses in agreement.


“They ever tried to start your heart?” McCoy leaned towards Spike, tapped him on the chest. He stayed close raising one long finger towards the vamp’s nose then passed it to and fro under Spike’s nostrils like smelling salts. Spike jerked his head back.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

McCoy pushed his bangs back with the other hand. “No breath. Hot damn…”

Spike ran his hand across his mouth, a little peeved at how McCoy seemed to have the ability to unsettle him. “You must know this stuff already, mate. You’re a doctor –“

“I am.” McCoy nodded and his eyes half-closed. “Want to know a secret? Doctors…we don’t know fuck. We can save lives but not when it counts. We can fix people but not when it fuckin’ matters.” His voice was low down lazy now, angry, adding something of a growl in it, like consonants were too much trouble for that mouth. Spike licked his lips.

“So, you talking in general terms or about specific folk?” He glanced at McCoy’s hand. He had two gold bands, one behind the other on his ring finger. Poor sod was twiddling them again.

“You ask a lotta questions.” McCoy had begun to slur.

“Passes the time –“

“It’s gonna get your ass whooped.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. McCoy didn’t look like a fighter. “I’ve had my arse kicked many times, mate.”

“Glad to hear it.“ McCoy slumped back on his side of the bench. He wore a raggedy denim shirt that looked like it had seen better days and it kept slipping off centre each time the bastard shifted about Nice flashes of shoulder blades, a couple of interesting looking moles and smooth skin. Spike could smell testosterone, heavy in the air, and it wasn’t all from the girl in the red dress. Shit, he wished he hadn’t worn such tight jeans, as he watched McCoy’s Adam’s apple taunt him.

There was a long silence as they surveyed the strange clientele in the bar which hummed with voices and giggles. Spike’s internal clock told him there were still a couple of hours till dawn – it was an old habit, worrying about sunrise. On Risa, or anywhere, really, besides Earth, the sun wasn’t a problem; still, he had to remind himself that he was safe. Once the novelty of seeing blue skies again, walking in the sunshine had worn off, he found he still preferred the night hours: it was all about the people and hanging with the detritus of society.

Yet he hated Halloween, its vulgarity and lampooning of who he was. Here on Risa there was no escaping it; they never missed an opportunity to fleece the tourists. This planet had become like Spain in the late 20th century – so many tourists you couldn’t find any authentic culture for love nor money. At home, he stayed in around Halloween unless he was feeling particularly sadistic and wanted to suck on some poor bastard in a cape and sporting a widow’s peak. Here it took more than irritation to keep him home any night of the week. He was too alone to do that.

“Halloween is never going to go out of fashion, is it?” he sighed mostly to himself.

McCoy scowled by way of reply. He’d stretched his legs out under the table and as he had more and more to drink, Spike noticed his feet slid another inch or so forward so that eventually he’d pitched one leg up on the bench effectively blocking Spike off from the rest of the bar.

“Nice boots,” Spike said.

McCoy’s face changed and Spike smelled something like the rise of moist air off earth after a light shower. The other man’s ever present frown lines deepened and he looked like a kite collapsed on the ground. They were classic biker boots, buckle at the ankle, another at the top and scuffed as shit.

“You don’t look like the kinda bloke who rides a bike,” Spike tried again, dragging McCoy’s quarter full bottle of bourbon towards him.

“I’m not,” McCoy said dropping his foot to the floor. He looked at Spike through his bangs. His eyes were dark, moist. The guy could do with a shave. “They’re not mine.”

So he’d stolen the boots; a talent for petty crime was something he appreciated. Spike couldn’t remember the last time he paid for an item of clothing. Everything he wore tonight was begged, borrowed or stolen. Or a trophy.

Spike gestured for the waitress.

“You got any buffalo wings?” he said looking at McCoy, his chin bobbed above his chest, his fingers tearing at the beer mat. “Oi!” he said, “You awake?”

“Yeah, yeah – I’m awake.”

“You want buffalo wings?”

“They’ll taste like shit. Sure, dammit, they’ll go a treat with the whisky.” He shredded the beer mat into smaller pieces still.

“Tell me about the boots,” Spike said.

McCoy seemed to find some strength somewhere to lift his head. He didn’t look at Spike and talked to his glass. His voice was ragged and he gulped more than was necessary to swallow his drink.

“They belonged to… a friend of mine.”

Bingo. A friend. A lover. It was written all over the poor bastard in the way his voice hitched when he said ‘friend’ to the way he gulped down the end of the simple statement to the way he slumped his elbows onto the table. “We had the shame shize feet.” And his head dropped onto his arms, “Two years ago today…” and he was asleep, the whiskey glass rolled away from his hand, and Spike did the vampire thing and caught it deftly in mid-air.


Over the years, Spike had perfected the art of sitting and staring, much as a cat would. He rarely got bored these days, having learned to zone out, lose himself in his memories or in the detail of what was before him. He watched McCoy sleep, listened to him breathe, his preternatural hearing revealed sounds that no human could hear. He could taste the sweat on McCoy’s brow and neck through the tiny droplets in the air between them; he could see the pores and freckles on McCoy’s face in high resolution. He could even make out some white hairs thinly scattered among his temples and a few at the crown of his head. He looked again at the two gold bands around his ring finger. One must have belonged to that boots guy. Hell, McCoy didn’t look like a romantic, but Spike knew more than most about the tough guy thing-- the sarcasm was like a barbed wire fence around a guy’s heart.

Smell was the sense which brought Spike closer to an animal than a human; he couldn’t switch it on or off like the rest of his senses. After all, he could always look away or cover his ears but, the tang of arousal, fear or ecstasy cut through everything else and made their way to his cock immediately. It was a kind of telepathy, so arousing knowing what someone was feeling without words.

He saw someone walk in dressed up like a Vulcan in a Starfleet uniform. Wanker, he thought. Real Vulcans, not this tit in pop-on ears and runny green make up, were the biggest challenge to his make-shift telepathy since Victorian Englishmen. Anyone who thought Vulcans didn’t feel didn’t have his bloodhound nose.

He’d never sampled pure Vulcan blood. Frankly the whole nerve-pinch thing frightened the fuck out of him but he’d had a dalliance with a Romulan woman whose idea of fun in bed made even him blush. Romulans shared a common ancestry with Vulcans, so he’d heard, without the telepathic ability. When he sank his teeth into her tough, dolphin-like skin, she tasted heady, rich, like rendered meat, like gravy; you almost needed to chew on the blood. Real nice. If you snacked on a Vulcan they’d probably mind-fuck you and he didn’t fancy that. It was unpleasant enough each time he’d drained someone and headed into the tunnel with them, experiencing every good and bad moment of their lives with them. So fucking hard letting go, turning your back on the white light and leaving them to die.

He didn’t kill the Romulan chick. She liked it, the pervert. In fact, he thought, gazing at McCoy, it had been too damn long since he’d killed anything. Surely there must be some vamps or other assholes bugging the tourists. He’d have to give the local constabulary a call, see if they needed any help. He needed to work off some tension. Talking of which…

McCoy stirred, lifted his face off his arms and Spike watched as the thinnest tendril of drool trailed from his lips to his wrist until it disappeared when McCoy groaned. His face was lit from the lights on the dance floor, flashing pale blue and yellow alternately.


“Holy fuck.” He said, blinking, then rolling his eyes at Spike. “Did you say you were a vampire?” He cleared his throat, wiped his mouth across the back of his hand. McCoy was aware how Spike watched, his tongue between his teeth as he unfurled and stood up behind the table. He swayed, ran his hand through his hair.

“I fucking hate Halloween,” he said, flicking the paper Jack-o-lantern he’d nudged with his head.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you. Come on, mate, let’s get some air,” Spike said.
Unbelievable, he’d fallen for his bait. Not long now.

McCoy allowed himself one last eyeroll at the bar full of revellers. Spike took him by the elbow and tugged him through the crowd. Everyone stepped aside as if he’d sent dogs on ahead to clear the way. This vampire hypnotism thing should prove useful when trying to get a cab later.


If this had been Earth, Spike thought longingly, people would have the good sense to be asleep. Risa was like a really annoying kid on Christmas morning, awake and bouncy. How was a vamp going to get some neck action if there was a fucking audience 24/7? He paused to light a cigarette and gazed longingly at the alley behind the bar. Wished he could drag McCoy in there, shove him up against a wall and fuck some charm into the bad-tempered git. He loved a good, dirty, piss strewn alley-way. It reminded him of those first kills in Whitechapel – good times. Something told him McCoy would be bitching about the germs anyway.

It was warm out, not long till dawn; if it hadn’t been for the two moons and the slightly oppressive gravity, it might have been a typical autumn night in LA – hell, there were enough freaks around for it to be.

McCoy loomed over him.

“What are we doing here?” McCoy growled.

Even after two centuries with Americans, Spike still couldn’t get used to their direct questions and obsession with feelings.

“Taking in the sights, mate,” Spike said, “and shut up about smoking before you even start.” He dug into his jacket pocket, looking for his flask. It was wedged under his paperback which he slipped under his armpit, flipped the stopper on the flask and took a long drink. He handed it to McCoy, not taking his eyes off him for a moment.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,“ McCoy drawled, his hands in his coat pockets, “Obvious point, but it’s hardly going to kill you, is it?” He leaned easily against a dumpster, squinting at him. “What’s the book?” He held out his hand and Spike fixated for a moment on how long and elegant his fingers were.

“Just some trashy novel.” He handed it over.

“The Deathless Amazon? This is a couple of hundred years old.” McCoy turned the book over in his hands and read the blurb. “It is trashy, you’re right.” Then he pointed at Spike’s face. “An’ put your tongue away.”

Well that was going to be difficult if he kept talking like that, dropping consonants like a whore’s knickers.

“Guy who wrote that,” Spike said, ignoring his half-hard cock, “fucking genius. He had more pseudonyms than I’ve had in my lifetime.” He stubbed out his cigarette, pushed his hands into his jeans pockets.

McCoy returned the book, spun on his heel and loped away from Spike. The vampire hesitated a moment, just to take in the sight of him.

He’d always had a kink for cowboys, since the early days in the States, liked their swagger and the kick of their boots against his calves and their sweet, bristly necks once he’d pulled aside their neckerchiefs and pinned them against a fence to bleed them dry. He felt a prickle of heat in his groin when he saw McCoy glance over his shoulder to see if he was following. Of course he was. This bastard was too self-assured and pretty to resist. Sure, he was a long way from being a cowboy. He was obviously an educated gentleman type – thing was, Spike had spent a bit too much time surrounded by those uptight bastards before he’d been turned so he was going to focus on the voice, the long-legged walk and indulge himself in a little stable fantasy. It was Halloween, after all; people could be whoever they want.

He didn’t know where they were going but he didn’t care. His nose told him that McCoy was as turned on as he was and whether or not they liked each other didn’t come into it. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that lovely arse.


On the short cab ride, McCoy sat as far as he could from Spike on the back seat. He wasn’t accomplished at flirting or teasing but he understood chemistry. He knew that the more nonchalant he was, the more the vamp would want him. He allowed his hands to come up to his neck a few time, it was like cleavage to vampires, held his gaze while he asked him all manner of questions.

“Well, you’ve sobered up!” Spike had said.

“Well, are you or not? Answer the damn question!”

“No. I don’t plan to go back to Earth anytime soon. I’ve been away too long. Bloody thought police are after the likes of me. ‘sides, anyone I’d have called a friend is dead.”

“You could make new friends.” McCoy’s voice was thick with sarcasm. One of the reasons he’d picked Spike was because of his passing resemblance to his sire, Angelus.

“Really can’t be arsed, if you want to know the truth. After a few hundred years, everyone looks the same, and even if they didn’t, what would be the point? They all die in the end anyway. “

McCoy nodded. They do that alright. He took a deep breath.

“Here, driver, pull up.”

The cab stopped outside McCoy’s hotel.

“This must cost a few quid,” Spike whistled.

“There’s no fucking time to spend your hard-earned credits in space,” McCoy said by way of explanation. “Now, don’t eat anyone who works here, or I’ll stake you.” He strode up the steps two at a time. Spike raised an eyebrow when the doorman nodded and said, “Good morning, doctor.”

“No it isn’t, but thanks just the same,” McCoy drawled, pushing past, through the lobby and to the elevator. “Come on, asshole.”

In the lift, they leaned on opposite walls and surveyed each other. Ok, so he’d done the hard part, got the vampire interested in the first place, he knew that once he’d made contact it shouldn’t be too difficult to get him where he wanted him. Now, all he had to do was bare his neck.


Spike loved this bit, the tension, the knowing what was going to come next but just waiting for the right, the best moment. He’d done this so many times over the centuries and it never got old. He had a feeling though that for McCoy this was new.

“I don’t even like you,” McCoy said as the elevator pinged and the doors swished open.

Spike was used to that. He was re-born to be an irritating bastard it seemed. Fortunately he made up for this in raw sexuality – or so Xander had told him many a time. He felt a pang of sorrow and remembered how he’d watched him and all the others die. One thing Spike learned through the long, lonely years, the greatest horror of all wasn’t the hell mouth, it wasn’t death: it was grief; it was being left behind and alone.

He looked sideways at McCoy as he put his thumb to the door to let them in. His mouth was set into a permanent grimace. Grief was a feeling no one needed to name here – it made itself known through McCoy’s slouch and the way he used the tips of his thumbs to poke obsessively at the skin under his nails. It was present in his uneven breathing, as if staying behind, carrying on, was an effort. Spike could see it in the twitch in his left eye, the stink of bourbon and how, now Spike had him pressed to the wall just past his room door, in the faint tremble of his lips when Spike leaned close, his dark eyes a little wet and a little hot at the same time.

“I haven’t touched anyone like this in two years,” he choked out, his eyes scanning the vampire’s face. Spike didn’t know what to say so he wound his hand round the back of McCoy’s neck and pulled his mouth to his, pushing his tongue in hard, knowing he’d have to lead this because otherwise nothing was ever going to happen. McCoy groaned and sank against him, soft, full lips parting for him without a fight. God, that felt good, and Spike pressed the palm of his hand against McCoy’s jugular, the scent and sensation of the pulse there making him harder than hell. When he pulled away, McCoy’s eyes were closed.

“Sure you want to do this?” Spike whispered, mildly sickened by how his soul had made him a pussy again; time was he’d have had the guy’s pants round his ankles and flipped onto his belly and half way to damnation by now. Instead he was getting all touchy-fucking-feely; those hippies he ate at Woodstock must still be repeating on him.

“No. I’m not sure,” McCoy managed to say and began to pluck at Spike’s belt. It fell to the floor with a chink. McCoy worked Spike’s t-shirt up over his nipples and leaned down to lathe them. Spike gripped the soft, thick hair a little too tight and it earned him a sharp nip. McCoy stretched to his full height, forcing Spike to crane his neck to get at his mouth again. The way this guy kissed was phenomenal, all rolls and licks and tiny little sucks, exploring the contours of Spike’s mouth. He hitched when his tongue tickled the tips of his canines, “Shit!” he gasped; no one had done that in a while – they wouldn’t have fucking dared.

McCoy quirked an eyebrow. “Bit sensitive?”

“Just my…teeth.” It wasn’t quite a stammer but it certainly wasn’t seemly for a vampire to be this wobbly. Damn McCoy’s dark hair and sad eyes.

Spike realised he needed to redress the balance here, remind this doc who the killer was. He didn’t hold back and shoved hard with open hands at McCoy’s shoulders sending him flying and crash landing on the mattress ten feet away.

“The fuck?” McCoy huffed once the mattress had stopped bouncing. He raised himself up onto his elbows and scowled. His denim shirt had ridden up to expose a taught, tanned belly. Spike prowled towards him, popping the buttons on his fly.

“Take them off,” he growled, kicking at McCoy’s boot.

McCoy bent a long leg to get at the buckle of his boots and kicked one then the other off the end of the bed with a thud.


McCoy knew this was reckless. He watched Spike undress, first to go was his jacket which he dropped to the floor, then his black t-shirt. The guy was a hell of a physical specimen with pearlescent, hairless skin and a quality smirk the like of which he hadn’t seen in…well, a couple of years. McCoy unzipped his jeans and lifted his hips up off the bed to drag them towards his ankles all the while keeping his eyes on Spike who stood at the end of the bed watching, rubbing himself through the open fly of his jeans.

“Keep the shirt on,” Spike said.


Jesus, that mussed hair, the frayed, lived-in shirt, the long, lean body and the air of tragedy, the snapshot reminded him of the Death of Chatterton – beautiful. Spike put one knee on the bed and prowled over McCoy until he could straddle his legs and dip his head back to his lips. McCoy kissed him back hard and eager.

“You gonna kill me?” McCoy whispered into his ear.

“I was hoping the exact opposite.”

McCoy widened his eyes in response. They were nose to nose, cock to cock, Spike’s jeans round his ankles, McCoy’s hands cupping his arse. He could feel McCoy’s warm breath on his face, laced with whiskey, a note of buffalo wings in there, he could smell the faintest trace of cigarette smoke in his hair. He counted four almost imperceptible twitches in McCoy’s cheek.

“Close your eyes,” McCoy said. “I don’t like blue eyes.”

What, and stop drinking in the beautiful sights on offer? He must be joking.

McCoy slid one hand up Spike’s spine till he reached the nape of his neck so he could tug Spike’s mouth to his throat, which he’d arched like some kind of vamp’s cock-teaser. For a second Spike hesitated. He swore he could fucking hear the beat of McCoy’s heart as he grazed his teeth through the stubble from McCoy’s jaw to the crook of his shoulder. He lathed the hollow of his throat and ground his cock against his. Under him, McCoy moaned and twisted and swore, his shirt undone and splayed either side of his lean belly like angel’s wings.

Spike had a single use lube in the coin pocket of his jeans and bent down awkwardly to retrieve it and tear it open with his teeth.

“How d’you want to do this?” he managed to say. Spike was flexible about these things, it didn’t matter who fucked who, long as he felt that warmth. He sensed the last thing McCoy wanted was to make any decisions, so he knelt between McCoy’s legs, slid his right hand under his knee until it balanced over his shoulder. He slicked up and watched the way McCoy winced at the cool gel then relaxed, closed his eyes and waited.

“It’s been a while,” McCoy murmured, his face twisted, his hands on Spike’s wrists. One hand worked inside him and the other clung to his hip. Spike took his time, figured McCoy deserved that at least after whatever-the-fuck had happened to him. He pulled out and replaced fingers with the tip of his cock. The tug of McCoy’s leg on his shoulder was all the invitation he needed and he pressed eagerly into the heat, groaning with relief as he was enveloped and held by a living, breathing, receptive…

“Fuck!” McCoy gasped under him, his lips pursing and twisting in response to Spike’s advance. “You’re really, fuckin’…cold…”

God, he felt so fucking good. His eyes raked over McCoy, so beautiful in his abandon, hair sticking to his forehead, little red marks on his belly where Spike had scoured him with sharp nails, caramel coloured nipples on olive skin, and he ground slow, long strokes into him, hissing as the heat flickered from his thighs to his belly until he felt the demon roaring up in him. Shit, this was going to be tricky to explain.

“McCoy, I--“ Shit, too late. He felt the skin on his forehead tighten as a surge of power and a compulsion he could only describe as the need to kill lifted him up, driven by the almost overwhelming impulse to pound forwards and claim and take. He roared, loud and fucking scary.

McCoy’s body bucked off the bed and his eyes flew open, startled. Spike’s fangs had dropped and he could taste blood in his own mouth as he struggled to maintain control.

“Shit!” McCoy dropped his leg down and struggled to move back and away from Spike now sporting his full bumpy, yellow-eyed look.

“I won’t hurt you,” Spike snarled low and deep and took a hold of McCoy’s cock with one hand.


Felt good, terrifying but so good. This was the most alive McCoy had felt since-- His heart pounding in his ears, the feel of that ice cold cock inside him, the translucent fingers around him, pumping hard, he didn’t have enough breath, not enough strength to cope with this, so intense, so fucking…then Spike stilled above him. McCoy panted and watched mesmerized while Spike’s features rearranged themselves until he looked human again, the yellow eyes morphing into blue. Spike bit his lip and then lowered down so his chest was flush with McCoy’s and his mouth was at his throat.

“I won’t hurt you,” he had hissed, still struggling under some effort of will.


McCoy moved his hips forward, reminding Spike to get on with it, get this over and done with so he could stop thinking. Spike began the long, deep stroking rhythm again, his cold cock, somehow, miraculously erect even without blood flow, and managing to elicit fire in its path which had McCoy teetering on the edge of orgasm, panting, tugging at Spike’s marble white arms, unable to look into the fucker’s blue eyes because they reminded him. He started to shake and felt tears pricking.

“You can fuck me harder than that,” he growled. “Where’s that preternatural strength of yours? Or has the big, bad wolf turned into Peter Rabbit?” He wrapped his legs around Spike’s back and couldn’t help the sense of triumph when he dropped his mouth against McCoy’s jugular. Their eyes so close, he was almost out of focus but McCoy could see the yellow irises – the demon was back. “Do it.” He said, lifting his chin and pushing his hand down his belly towards his cock. “It’s what I want, it’s why I looked you up.”

The answering growl was reptilian and low as Spike’s teeth clamped onto McCoy’s neck, filling his body with searing pain just as his pulsing, spurting cock managed to send tendrils of ecstasy thundering down every nerve ending. He could hear his own voice, guttural and pleading as Spike drew more and more blood from him, as their bellies slithered through their combined come and his head flashed image after image of his life: Gram, peaches, new-born Joanna, his wedding holovid, his broken leg when he fell of his horse, the tone of Pa’s life-support, warp, space-sickness, Nero, and Jim, Jim, his broken body, Jim inside him, Jim’s voice,Fuck me, Bones. Love you, love you… and the pain – McCoy shook with tears, wanting it to stop wanting Spike to stop but –

“End it.” He managed to say, hoarse, as he felt Spike’s teeth pull out and his interminable orgasm stutter and finish. His vision was blurred due to the loss of blood, his mouth dry, his throat felt torn inside and out and then he felt a rush of endorphin as Spike lathed at the wound, healed it with vampire kisses. “No,” he moaned. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he didn’t want to go on without Jim, this was supposed to be over.

“I won’t leave you,” Spike whispered into his ear, pulling at the ear lobe with cool lips. “Life, it goes on.”