Spike stared at him.
‘Really, I don’t know what came over me; it’s entirely unacceptable... I must have been insanely drunk. No matter how attractive you are there is just NO excuse.’ Giles had said.
Giles hadn’t known he was here when he woke up.
Giles had asked him why he was naked and chained to the bed.
Giles obviously had excellent taste in his fantasy life.
Oh, this was going to be FUN.
“You… You…“ Spike snarled and then let the snarl trail off into –fake- sobs as he put his head into the pillow.
Hiding a feral grin, Spike listened to Giles fidgeting next to the bed. He ‘sobbed’ into the pillow some more.
“Oh dear God… I really can’t believe I… I mean I wanted…” Giles ran out of the room. Spike could hear him throwing up in the distance.
“You wanted?” Spike snarled at him when Giles came back in. “Well you got what you wanted, I guess.” Spike figured he could play on the guy’s guilty fantasy life to get untied. Then it would be a toss-up whether to kill him, or leave him to wallow in misplaced guilt. He was leaning towards killing him, just slightly, when Giles said the last thing he expected.
“Oh God no, Spike. This was nothing like what I ever wanted. I wanted… I…“ Giles gulped. “I wanted something a lot more. I wanted to see if there was anything left of the poet inside that punk rock body.”
Giles smiled sadly down at him. “I bought an antique book of poetry ages ago… You can imagine my surprise when it turned out to have belonged to the infamous Spike. The combination of your… err… obvious charms, rebel image, and poetry? I thought I hid the attraction. I’m sure none of the kids noticed, but obviously it… got twisted somehow.”
Giles unlocked the cuffs.
Spike got away from the cuffs as fast as possible. Once he was standing on the opposite side of the bed from Giles he felt a bit at a loss. Of all the things he EVER expected to hear, that wasn’t it.
“YOU… have one of my poetry books?”
Giles held out a bundle wrapped in a blessedly familiar coat. “Could… could you put these back on. I’m having trouble thinking, right now.”
Spike could not believe it when Giles turned his back to let him get dressed. He didn’t know whether to be touched, or insulted.
He moved up fast behind Giles and took hold of both of his hands, pinning them down by his thighs. “So, what’s to stop me from just draining you dry?” He whispered into Giles’ ear.
Giles shuddered, and his hands clenched onto Spike’s. “Nothing. I deserve it.”
Spike stood there for a while contemplating his options. He ruled out turning him into another vampire almost immediately; that had never worked out well. There were some pleasant contemplations about leaving his lifeless body where certain people would find it; he entertained that for a while.
Then he realized with a shock that Giles had stopped shaking and was just leaning back into his chest, both of his hands relaxed at his side, wrapped around Spike’s hands, as if this was just two blokes who felt good with each other.
“Whatever fantasy image you have,” Spike said amusedly into Giles’ ear, “I don’t think it’s about the real me.”
“I know.” Giles sounded sad. “I wanted a punk rock prince with a poetic soul…”
Spike smiled and let his fangs brush across Giles’ jaw and down over to his throat, “...and I don’t have one.”
In one quick motion Spike let go of one of Giles’ hands and struck him hard across the back of the head. He collapsed, his hand sliding out of Spike’s other hand as he crumpled to the floor.
Spike carried the still body to the chair in the living room and put him down. It didn’t take long to find the poetry book: Giles’ had taken it out and put it on the table next to a cup of tea.
Spike wrote something in it, and left it to be found next to Giles.
He was halfway to Los Angeles when he started laughing. He was Spike the terrible, Spike the invincible, and Spike the death of slayers, but now he was going to have trouble not letting it slip that he was the punk rock prince with a poetic soul… even if he didn’t have one.
At first he wondered if anyone had found Giles before he woke up. He wondered what anyone else would think of the last poem in the book, written in the same hand, but in ballpoint pen. He didn’t think anyone but Giles could make sense of it. He hoped he was right, and that Giles would understand that he hadn’t done anything. He lost himself in violence and music for the next few days, from mosh pits to gangland fights. That was the beautiful thing about L.A. in the summer: no one noticed.