Better Than TellyAuthor:
(quite a bit of bad language)Crossover:
Spike, WolverineWord Count:
The characters and stories of X-Men and Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to their respective creators and ownersSummary:
Spike is going out of his bloody mindWarnings:
pretty heavy-duty swearingAuthor's notes:
Umm… I got nothing.
Spike took another swig from his bottle of Jack. He was in one of the seedier bars on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t a strictly human bar, but pretty much everybody could pass. He came here because no one really knew him –he wasn’t really in with the demon community these days – and the Slayer’s patrol didn’t even come close by.
He lit up another smoke and tilted his head back against the wooden wall behind his booth. He needed to get the fuck out of Sunnydale. He had no idea why he was still here. Sure, while the Initiative was still in town, it made sense to stay, to see if there was a way to get this goddamned cursed chip out of his head, but the soldier boys were gone, pulled out and cut their losses.
Now what was he? A fucking joke, is what. Helping the Slayer and her kiddie friends in exchange for a couple of bags of pigs blood a week? Pathetic. He chugged a good amount of the rest of the bottle before his attention was drawn to the bar.
Since before he’d gotten here, there’d been a man sitting at the bar nursing a beer. He’d minded his own business the whole time, didn’t talk to anybody who wasn’t the bartender, didn’t even look away from the spot he was staring at behind the bar, seemed absolutely uninterested in causing any trouble.
Unfortunately, a couple other customers didn’t seem to care. That was the other reason he liked to come to this bar. There was at least one fight every night, and most of the people in the bar had enough demon blood for him to join in.
One enormous demon –a half-blood Try’hirye that he’d fought before – and a smaller one he didn’t recognize were harassing the guy at the bar, who continued to ignore them, though Spike didn’t see how he could do it for much longer. Sure enough, the Try’hirye grew tired of being ignored and shoved the other man off his stool. Or he tried to, anyway. All he succeeded in doing was finally getting the other man’s attention.
“You got a problem, bub?” he asked, his voice low and gruff. The demon spouted off some nonsense that Spike paid no attention to; he was very intrigued by the man from the bar. Finally, the demon seemed to realize that the other man was never going to throw the first punch and so did it for him.
It never landed.
Instead, the other man caught the fist in his hand and began to squeeze. Spike was shocked to hear the demon gasp in pain. Try’hiye were bloody tough bastards. Whatever this man was, it wasn’t human.
The other patrons of the bar decided that they had watched long enough, and joined the assault on the mystery man. Spike watched for a few minutes, increasingly impressed as the man took on anyone who came at him.
Spike crushed out his cigarette and downed the last of the Jack. He’d chosen his side. The two of them against twenty? It might even almost be a fair fight.
He waded in, losing himself in the bloody glory of fighting. He let his instincts take over, spinning and kicking and striking out at anything that got too close. By the time he had reached the man at the bar, they were the only two left standing.
He lit a smoke and offered one to his new friend.
“Nah,” came the reply. “But I’ll take a light,” he said, pulling a fat cigar from his shirt pocket. Spike obliged.
“You’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in here in ages, mate. You got a name?”
The other man just looked at him for a second, puffing on his cigar before grunting “Wolverine.”
Spike grinned. “Those are them small little buggers, yeah?” Which earned him cigar smoke in his face.
“Name’s Spike. If you’re interested, I know where there’s even more fun to be had.”
Wolverine looked around, seeming to take in the piles of groaning and unconscious bodies. Then he smirked and flicked the ash from his cigar onto the floor. “Got nothin’ better to do,” was his reply.
“Right then, Wolverine, let’s go. Your buddy Spike will take care of everything.” And so they left for a night of drinking, fighting, and fucking –not necessarily in that order. They were going to paint the town bloody red.