Mar. 27th, 2004

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

A low but insistent rumbling in his stomach pulled Spike back into consciousness. He had been dreaming of a park he had liked to frequent while still alive, where he used to sit for hours on a bench and compose terrible poetry about the glory that was Cecily. That he had been writing the poetry for a different object of his affections in his dream didn't make him feel much better about that aspect of himself.

Despite his dissatisfaction over the dream, Spike was warm and comfortable. His head was pillowed on Wesley's chest, and he had Wesley's steady, slow heartbeat loud in his ear. He kept his eyes shut and attempted to fall back to sleep, but his hunger only grew as he lay there. He felt much less sore than he had earlier, but he clearly needed to replace the energy that healing had spent.

He tried to pull away gently to go have some blood and then slip back into bed, but Wesley's arms tightened around him as Spike moved.

January 2011

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