__Relish__
By Dutchbuffy



Wesley watched Spike amble insouciantly at his side, arms swinging widely, trying to see everything there was to see and reacting to all of it. It was like walking a very young, very bouncy dog. Spike's nose went up for a passing woman wearing perfume; a fluttering skirt could turn his head, a bit of wind-tossed debris. He strode on the sidewalk as if he owned it, head thrown back to watch the clouds and the contours of the LA office buildings. What did Spike think of when he looked up like that? Heaven? Wesley wished he dared ask.

He wondered if Spike showered every day, because a distinct smell wafted from him. It wasn't unpleasant, not at all in fact, healthy young male sweat, mixed with the scent of clean cotton and fabric softener. He thought of the divine smell that reputedly surrounded Alexander, and fancied that it had perhaps been like Spike's odor, instead of the sweet acetone smell of diabetes, the idea of which had always repelled him.

Wesley followed Spike into the red vinyl booth of the retro diner. He ordered a small salad and a cup of tea, and watched Spike devour yet another gigantic and unknown American dish from the menu. He seemed determined to try something different every day. As long as Spike ate, Wesley could relax a bit and study him in peace. He'd read up on everything on William the Bloody, including a wonderful, and hitherto classified thesis by a Council member, a girl he vaguely remembered from the Academy. Spike's past exploits were truly horrific, and fairly well documented until he disappeared in the black hole of information that was the former Sunnydale. Angel was refusing to put out, Wesley hadn’t managed to collar Rupert Giles yet, and the lack of knowledge was driving him insane.

He knew Spike's taste in food and fucking, in booze and waking up, but not how he'd spent his last few years. In Sunnydale, somehow, without being staked by the fearsome Slayer, who he had a few bad memories of himself. What had happened to him that he reappeared in the White Room at Wolfram & Hart's one day, human, naked, and royally pissed-off? He knew that to ask Spike directly would be to lose him.

He refocused his eyes and realized with chagrin that his staring was discovered. The eyes smiling into his held him helplessly caught, hotlining right into his soul. He saw Spike bring one long-fingered hand into his mouth and languidly lick off the multi-colored traces of relish that adorned his fingers. As Wesley watched on, unable to look away, Spike slid his pink tongue lovingly around his middle finger, thoroughly cleaning it, and then sucked on the top with hollowed cheeks. His eyes, hooded but discernably blue, and the white-blond curls gave him the look of a corrupted angel, although God might have objected to the peroxide.

Wesley was shifting in his seat, trying to ease the growing tightness in his jeans and thanking the heavens for the protection of the tabletop, when he felt a warm naked foot slide up his calf. A moan escaped his opened lips and he closed his eyes in a hot wash of shame.

"Look at me, Watcher," Spike said softly, and Wesley obeyed. He saw Spike extend a hand to him and reached forward with his own across the table, supporting his weight with his elbow. With rising excitement, he saw Spike's mouth descend on his fingers.

The sensation of wet, warm mouth leapt straight from his fingertips to his dick. He closed his eyes again, both to concentrate on the sensations throughout his body and to hide himself from too intense scrutiny of his face. He couldn’t bear to think of what he must look like, getting his fingers sucked in a public place. He probably looked like a love-struck fool with a silly grin on his face. A disgusting old queer. A lover of all things formerly or currently evil.

He couldn’t help a quick flick of his eyes around the diner. His mind knew Lilah couldn’t leave Wolfram & Hart, but his guts weren't so sure. He didn’t want to think what she'd do to him or Spike when she discovered their little thing. Fling. He couldn’t be doing this with a man, could he?. And anyway, it should have been Angel, not Spike. It had always been Angel on whom his secret fantasies centered, before.

Spike's toe poked his upper thigh to gain his attention.

"Pay attention, love," Spike groused. "Not doing this so you can dream of Nearly Neckless Lilah or bloody Peaches, alright?"

Wesley bit on his lip, caught out. "Sorry," he whispered, bending closer to Spike. "You know I only want…"

Spike's blood warm hand rested on his lips and he looked at him sternly. "Who taught you these dreadful middle class manners, Price? Whispering in public places? You'll be talking about mirrors instead of looking-glasses next!"

The remark reminded Wesley that Spike had gone to the same public school he had, and made him think of nothing so much as the octogenarian alumni who visited the school every year, and made embarrassing remarks about his cricket skills and boys in general. It sounded incongruous coming from Spike.

Wesley nodded mutely and tried to maneuver one of Spike's fingers into his own mouth, but Spike evaded him and returned to sucking Wesley's fingers. Wesley wished they were already back at his apartment, so he could say the things to Spike he really wanted to, be roughly and hastily undressed by him and fucked hard. What was the point of stopping here for coffee if they could go straight there? He didn't need food, he could just live off consuming Spike.

"The point is," Spike said, his nonchalant dark brown vowels reverberating deliciously against Wesley's flesh, "that these innocent public pastimes get you all hot and bothered. Don't want to waste perfectly good buggering time by watching you read your mail or finish a translation."

His lips closed on Wesley's fingers once more.

Wesley shut his eyes again, in spite of the prohibition, and a thrill of carnal delight coursed through him. The word buggering, hated and feared since his schooldays, now conjured up a whole new meaning, heavy with lust and garnered with pain and love like a lace border. His tongue would be running over Spike's creamy buttocks, finding the dark flower within, being allowed to ride and briefly possess that gorgeous body, though where Spike's spirit went he did not know and could not follow.

Spike finally finished his gargantuan meal, which hadn't had any effect on his waistline so far, and raised his eyebrows at Wesley expectantly. Wesley, who hadn't been comfortable for the last twenty minutes, turned on his seat to get up. The painful erection in his trousers made that no simple action.

Well, he was the new improved Wesley, and equal to any challenge. Coolly he picked up his leather jacket, brought specially for the purpose, and draped it over his arm. The action brought a smile to Spike's eyes, and as he smiled back Wesley felt for the first time the spark of real connection, the real possibility of touching this person Spike where he lived, and it made all his cool dribble out of his ears and he could only stand there speechless and blown away. Spike, quickly assessing the situation, fished Wesley's wallet out of his pocket and paid. They left, and on the short walk to his apartment Wesley kept a tight hold on Spike's hand, as if he might still flee.

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