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who: Spike and John Wick
what: Bitchy fighting between whatever the hell they are
when: Before the building fire
where: John's home
warnings: Language. Violence. Feeding/Blood. Possibly sex? Will update if needed.

After he and John had left the hospital, he'd called him up before his date with Buffy. Spike had been so uncertain about it, he hadn't heard the distance starting in John's tone, hadn't really picked at the words that were already building a wall between them. It was a full week after before he realized that he hadn't heard from or seen the man who had been something akin to a shadow in his life since he'd gotten here. Quiet, often unseen, but always there.

So he'd tried calling. It had gone to voicemail. He'd called again. He'd texted. He'd felt like a bloody idiot, going back through their interactions to see what he'd done to have pissed him off. Whatever John and he were, he'd thought they were at least friends. There was something that kept them circling around each other, and it rubbed him in all the wrong ways to know that he was being intentionally ignored.

So come nightfall, Spike found himself working up a good head of mad, downing a bottle of whiskey on the way to John's from his crypt. It took awhile, what with him being outside the fence and John's home being in it, but he just worked up his mad all the way there, talking aloud to himself as he stalked towards his target, drinking from the bottle until by the time he was stomping up the steps, there was an inch or two of dark liquid left in the bottom. Spike stepped up to the door and booted it open, walking in and taking in a deep breath, picking up the scent of John and his dog. "Honey! I'm bloody well home!"

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Spike won't see John as he enters John's home. The lights are off, and neither man, or dog, are in sight. What Spike will see is the glint of moonlight off the barrel of a gun, held out from around a corner, and pointed down the hallway at Spike's head.

The gun lowers, and the lights switch on at the sound of Spike's voice. John steps out from the behind the living room wall, dog at his heels, in the white t-shirt and track pants he wears as PJs. Casual, somehow, in spite of the gun in his hand. The steel in his eyes softens some upon meeting Spike's eyes. Some. Not by a hell of a lot.

"I have a doorbell." John doesn't sound angry, but he rarely does. Spike's seen him lose his temper all of once. That night at the hospital, the last time they'd seen each other face to face.

"Yeah? It work about as well as your phone does? Because I've been calling, you know." He took another swig from the bottle, slamming it down on the nearest table he came to. Spike was in a mood, having worked himself up to a good mad on his walk over, and he was, frankly, spoiling for a fight. "At least this way, you have to talk to me. So come on, Wicked Man, come have a chat with me about why you've been avoiding me, eh?"

He looked at the dog, almost daring it to do something so he could take out that simmering rage on someone. "Or are you too much of a chicken?"

"I know." John knows that look, too, and is closely acquainted with the anger and violence lurking none too far behind it.

He whistles from the side of his mouth, jerking his head towards the back door leading onto the patio. The dog leaves, reluctantly, casting a singular look back over its shoulder at John with a low whine.

John doesn't set his gun aside. Not yet. It doesn't take a vampire's heightened sense of smell to detect the alcohol on Spike's breath. If the better half of that bottle hadn't gone down Spike's throat on the walk over, John would eat his own gun.

"Take a seat, and we'll have a chat." He wouldn't threaten Spike. That would only antagonise him, and against John's better judgement, he doesn't actually want to shoot Spike. Even worse, if shooting was what it came down to, John's not sure he could pull the trigger.

"Why, so you can walk out of here and leave me with less answers than before? I don't want a cozy cuddle, you poncing sack of ass. I want some bloody answers." The dog left and that was better. That left him with the scent of alcohol, gun oil, John, and that delicious temptation he could pick up under his skin. "You left me. Why? Because I'm what I'm supposed to be now? Because I'm not some bleeding half-vampire left with no way to fend for myself? You only talk to lost causes, eh?"

"Take a seat." With his full voice. This time, John isn't asking.

John turns away from Spike, walking back into the living room. He sets his gun down to open the liquor cabinet. Whiskey will solve more problems than a gun can fix. He fills one glass with two fingers of an old reserve. On a night like tonight, nothing younger than John is will do.

He doesn't pour a glass for Spike. He's had more than enough to drink.

John picks up two pillows from the couch and tosses them somewhere behind him. He takes a heavy seat, settling back against the cushions, and takes a slow sip. If John's at all concerned by the prospect of an angry vampire on a dark night, he doesn't show it.

He looks up at Spike with dark eyes, waiting.

It feels close to being ignored, and Spike comes storming in after him, all pent up energy and aggression and uncertainty masked by bravado. "You take a seat, you pompous ass."

But even as he's complaining, he moves to find a chair and fling himself into it, slouching down low, like he's doing this all on his own and no one's bothered to tell him anything. Alcohol simmers in his blood, making him lick his lips as he looks over at what he knows is John's special stock, the fact that he hadn't been offered any making him want to go take it. That's what he could do now, after all. Take what he wanted. "Come on, then. Tell me all about why you're being a prick."

John takes another sip before answering. He doesn't need to get aggressive to remind Spike he's in his house, on his terms. The door, John will forgive, that much he's had coming to him, but any more violence to his house, his dog, or to his person, and it'll be more than words they're exchanging.

"It's got nothing to do with you being a vampire, or getting your bite back. I'm happy for you. That much hasn't changed." John's being sincere. He doesn't lie, even when it might serve him. It's a matter of principle, and he's bad at it. Spike would sniff him out a mile away.

Which is why he's been avoiding this conversation. Hoping Spike would simply move on, and leave him in peace. John can manage solitude. It's loss he struggles with.

That said, the hurt in Spike's eyes isn't especially easy to deal with either.

"Why are you here, Spike? Because I didn't answer your texts? I didn't think you were the type to chase people down." Another sip of his whiskey. Something tells him the bottle isn't going to last the night.

"Then you don't know me very well at all. Bloody right I chase what's mine down." A little bit let loose that he hadn't intended to, slouching further down as he moved to put his boots up on the table. Partly because it would be more comfortable and partly because he knew it would likely bother the man sitting across from him trying oh so hard not to be bothered. He didn't want cold and distant. He wanted...

Hell. He didn't know what he wanted. "You come to check on me when my chip blows, get all fussed over it, then sod right off like nothing ever happened. Like I'm just going to let you throw me away like trash."

Mine. The word hits John like a fist to the gut, followed by trash, which turns that fist into a knife, and gives it a twist, right up under John's ribs and into his heart. Whatever's left of it.

"That's not what I did. Not what I meant to do." John rubs a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through dark of his beard. A hair or two more silver than last he'd seen Spike. The first sign that John's not doing as well on his own as he'd like Spike to believe.

"I was trying to make things easier, for the both of us. You had a lot on your plate. The chip, the Slayer, and you, what happened back home. I didn't want to complicate matters. That's all. Thought you'd do well with some space. Help you figure things out." What John doesn't say is he didn't expect Spike would be coming after him, or why he might. That lies unspoken, somewhere beneath everything else. He takes another drink.

"Bollocks. You wanted to make things easier for you. Got your knickers all twisted when I wound up in the hospice, then used the Slayer as an out. A convenient distraction to get me out of your way because you don't have the balls to say it yourself." That it was over. That whatever had brought them together, whatever John had seen in Spike that made him someone worth being around, it was gone. Faded. Maybe John had moved on. Hell, he'd seen enough people giving the man looks while they'd been out. It wouldn't take long for him to reel someone in with those fancy clothes and expensive tastes. Not like Spike. Seemed he'd always be beneath everyone else.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, grimacing. This heart to heart is going about as well as he'd thought it would. Maybe because they've both got gaping, bloody holes in their chests where there hearts should be.

"Say what, that I've got a problem with you being what you are? You're a vampire. I knew that from the get-go, and I don't take issue with it, now, or then. I've killed plenty of people for less dignified reasons than putting food on the table." He sets his glass on the coffee table, ignoring Spike's boots, for all that they irritate him, so he can lean forward and make proper eye contact.

"I like you Spike, even when you're a jackass. You should know that by now. We had a good thing. It was the first time in a long time I didn't feel alone, and I want to thank you for that. Truly." He takes a deep breath. John is a man of many skills, but self-expression isn't one them.

"But you and the Slayer, that's... If she's telling the truth, and what you have together is real, that's not something you should let pass you by. Not on my account." John's fingers clench into the knees of his pants.

"I was doing you a favour."

Edited 2017-08-30 04:13 (UTC)

"Interesting you'd use 'had'. You already put a stake in it before even talking to me. Oh, I'm fun for a bit of the rough and tumble, when you want to get down and dirty and lower your standards. But clearly I'm not nearly good enough for you posh types, mm? Make up whatever bloody excuse you want to, you wanker. At least I know it's a lie. If you've convinced yourself it's the truth, you're worse off than I am."

He moved to get up, glowering down at John and pointing a finger at him. "I make my decisions, Wick. I'm tired of having everyone else make them for me. You don't get to do that. She doesn't either. It's my bloody life."

"You're right. Maybe it is an excuse, but I don't give a damn. I'm sick of losing people. I lost everything, before coming here. My wife, my home, my friends, all of which were precious to me. Irreplaceable." John rises too, fingers clenching into fists.

"Seeing you in that hospital bed made me realize I can't lose you, too. It was easier to give you up, so I didn't have to. So I could at least tell myself it was my choice, this time." John's throat is tight, it feels like he's grating out every word. His heart beats hard, and fast. Like a machine gone against his ribs. Blood and adrenaline spiking hot through his veins.

"My other friend here, James Flint, he's gone. I don't know where. If they took him, or he left-" John braces a hand against his head, and sits back down. It all feels like too much. John's strong, but the demons at his back and biting at his heels, waiting for him to fall so they can consume him, are so much stronger than he is.

Edited 2017-08-30 04:50 (UTC)

"You don't want to lose me, so you throw me away? What kind of ass backwards logic is that?" He's not blind, even if he is drunk as all hell. He sees that something's hit John, something's hurting him, and he takes a step forward, frowning as he looks down at someone that he knew was the strongest person he met. Maybe not physically, but he had Spike beat when it came to balls. "You don't get to make my choices for me. You don't get to decide to come into my life and then blaze out of it because it's suddenly gotten to be too real for you. Is that what it is? It was supposed to be just a good shag and thrill and now it's not?"

"No." John shakes his head, face in his hands.

He doesn't know what else to say. What else he can do. John doesn't know what he wants, but it isn't this. If Spike knew what was good for him, he would leave John alone. Before John could drag him down to his own special hell, like he has everyone else he's given a damn about.

Spike could be happy with Buffy. She seems like a nice girl, beneath the leather and stakes, and John wants him to find that happiness. Everyone deserves to be in love, and despite his protests, Spike deserves it more than most. For all that John grieves Helen's loss, he wouldn't trade the years they'd spent together for the world.

But he can't grieve anymore. Can't lose anymore. Having friends, or lovers, it feels like he's setting himself up to fall, just when he's getting back on his feet.

Helen would say a life without love isn't worth living, Marcus would tell him you can't love without loss, but neither of them are here.

"I'm sorry."

Edited 2017-08-30 05:20 (UTC)

"I don't want you to be sorry. I want--," he bit off the rest of it, still glaring at John before he kicked at the table between them, sending it flying to the side of the room. "I don't know what I bloody well want. Are you happy? But I don't want you to just slither out of my life because you've had a bout of feeling sorry for yourself. You've done it, you know. You've gotten up under my skin and you're as much a part of me as she is. You can't just prick me and leave."

He took a step forward, gripping the front of John's shirt as he pulled him in, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I won't bloody well let you, you hear me?"

"Let go of me." John raises his hands to break Spike's hold and push him away, but instead he finds himself gripping Spike's wrist with white-knuckled fingers.

"I ain't going nowhere." A bit of that old rough creeps back into John's voice, already thick with emotion and drink. The low-talk he'd left at the doorstep of The Continental, along with his sneakers, after walking away from his life as a grunt, and becoming a professional.

"Make up your bloody mind," he hisses, drawing John in closer, lips pulled back in a snarl. "This wishy washy back and forth bollocks is part of the problem. Either be you, or be whatever it is that hides alone in the dark. You don't get to play in both worlds, Wick."

He lets go of him after that, but there's still a grip around his wrist that he looks at, then back up at John as if to prove his point.

"It's that easy, is it? Glad you've got it all figured out, cause I sure as hell don't." John doesn't let go of Spike. Even knowing Spike could snap him like a twig, he's not afraid of him. Spike, on the insider, is softer than he is. Spike, without his soul, has more soul than so many self-proclaimed humans John's met.

"I don't know what world I'm in, anymore. You met the me who had a place, and knew who and what he was, but I'm not that man, anymore. I'm still figuring it out." His eyes burn into Spike's eyes. If there's a monster in front of him, he's not seeing it. John only sees a man, one capable of as much hurt as he is.

"If you think you can handle that, I s'pose I could, too."

"We're both in the same shit, Wick. Same messed up place that takes people that don't belong. There is no world here. This is just a holding pattern until they figure out what to do with you. That what you doing to do, then? Just sit here and wait until someone else tells you where to go? I don't know much, mate, but I know that's not you." He wanted to shove John, push him away even as he wanted to keep him right there. Spike didn't handle emotions well. It messed with the demon that he shared his body with.

And John was doing a very good job of pissing off both the man and the monster.

"I don't mean here." John's fingers tighten around Spike's arm, and he walks forward, pushing him back- if Spike allows it. Until Spike's back meets the wall.

"This place ain't the half of it. I was retired. I had given all that up, all of it, for her. Then I lost her, and that life, and now I don't have anywhere. I can't go back to the man I was, and I..." John's eyes cast down, teeth gritting.

Edited 2017-09-03 03:55 (UTC)

Spike lets him, because some reaction is better than no reaction. He feels his back at the wall, looking to see John spitting words in his face and he spits more back. "Oh, boo-bloody-hoo. Are you actually going to stand here and cry to me about you having to continue to get on with your life? It might feel like you should shrivel up and die when you lose someone, but you don't. And if you don't, maybe you're lucky enough to find something to fill that hole for a while."

He shoved a finger at John's chest. "You don't get to decide to half live through life, you twit. You do it or you die. Is that what you want? You want to die?"

"Maybe." John pushes his knee between Spike's thighs, forcing his arm up over his head. Pushing Spike, and his luck, because looking death in the eyes is what John does best.

"You still gonna do it?" Equal parts dare and proposition, in a voice so raw Spike can practically taste the blood on John's breath beneath the whiskey. John doesn't know what he wants from Spike, but he knows he doesn't want him to leave.

He's cursed, there's no doubt of that, but maybe he's lucky, too, and John's always liked playing the odds. It's the only way he plays at all.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? That's why you do the daft shit you wind up doing. To push yourself to the edge. To tip over and go 'Well, it wasn't my fault. Someone else did it for me'. I'm not going to ruddy well kill you, you sod. I might turn you. Prove to you once and for all that for all your bitching and whining, you do have a soul, because you'll feel it when it's gone."

He felt the knee between his legs, felt John trying to gain the upper hand, and he decided to turn the tables on him. In that quick too-fast motion vampires had, he moved, slipping out of John's hold and pressing the man's face to the wall, covering John's back with his chest as he pinned him there, not letting him move. "This what you want, Wick? You want someone else to do the living and dying for you?"

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