Jan. 5th, 2004

[identity profile] flaming-muse.livejournal.com
Continued from here.

"No, I didn't. Trusted you to know what you were doing, but you shouldn't've trusted me to follow instructions." He could smell the fresh blood still spilling from the wound, and he leaned forward to renew his grip on Wesley's arm. Using both hands to apply more pressure, Spike could feel Wesley's body heat, the movements of muscles and tendons beneath his skin, and the stickiness of his blood. He started to grin like an idiot.
[identity profile] wesleysgirl.livejournal.com
Continued from here.

Getting one's arm stitched up, Wesley decided, was considerably less unpleasant than major abdominal surgery, not that that should have come as any surprise. By the time he'd been sewn up, rebandaged, and forced to sign a collection of insurance forms, he was more than ready to leave the hospital.

He went back out to the waiting room.
[identity profile] flaming-muse.livejournal.com
Continued from here.

Spike wandered into the kitchen and placed the blood in the microwave to heat. The room was very neat, and Spike realized why when he opened Wesley's refrigerator. There were only a few containers of take-away food, which smelled to Spike's nose like their contents were past their prime, a container of fuzzy tomato sauce, a jar of expensive mustard, and the bottles of water that Wesley had mentioned. He obviously didn't cook much.

Spike snagged two waters from the bottom shelf and started opening Wesley's cabinets. He didn't have many dishes, but Spike picked the most faded and banged up of the mugs to pour his blood into.

He carried their drinks into the living room, set the water on the table next to Wesley, and headed for the liquor cabinet.

"Better ring for dinner before neither of us is able to walk," he said.
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