Spike's Story

A/N: At the insistence of [several] reviewers I’m adding that Spike was originally inspired from Spike from BtVS … way back in the fifth or sixth season, but only the name(& hair), he has much evolved since then, and I honestly forgot who he used to be …

also sorry this is confusing ... that's how i write ... )_);;

warnings: contains slash,(cause the world wouldn't be right without it) and, i have realised, underage-ness(sorta) ... *snicker

Chapter Two
Spike was disgusted at himself. It was a lovely Saturday afternoon and he could have been doing any number of illicit and perverted things with the very hot, half naked man who had been giving him the eye for over an hour now, his reputation preceded him obviously, but instead he was half hidden behind a large oak, watching a certain blond teen dance over the tennis courts. He really had improved. If he was honest with himself, something he tried his hardest not to be, he was a little afraid as well. Surly the after effects of his mother’s handiwork had totally vanished by now. He knew they hadn’t all disappeared that morning at breakfast, he’s felt guilty as hell when he’d looked at Corby, the confused and slightly hurt expression on his face shredding the heart he’d hoped he didn’t have.
He was only checking up on the boy, he was telling himself for maybe the twelfth time that afternoon, to make sure his mother hadn’t damaged him.
The teens on the courts called it quits, laughing and swinging their rackets at each other; they packed up and headed for the gates.
Spike had hoped to spend the rest of the morning in his room sulking, and then spend the afternoon attempting to find a way around the promise he’d made to his mother. Instead he’s found himself at the courts, eyes glued to a certain blonde. He blamed his mother, because it sure as hell wasn’t him, he would never be out here under normal circumstances. A horrid thought crossed his mind, what if, upon making the declaration, love is not repulsive, he had somehow allowed her to trap him.
Corby passed the oak and Spike slipped around the other side of the tree to avoid being seen, unfortunately that put him back in view of the hot, half naked man, who for some idiotic reason seemed to think Spike had been playing with him. Much to Spikes horror, he was disgusted as the man sauntered across the small distance, so much so he backed up and bumped into one of Corby’s tennis mates. The boy toppled over with an embarrassingly girlish squeak, causing his companions to turn back to him. Spike froze as Corby glanced from the pathetic boy on the ground to Spike with much confusion. And horror upon horror the half-naked man had covered the small distances and was standing in front of Spike with a lusty look on his face and a hand planted on his hip. He looked gay. There was no other way to describe his stance. The disgust had to have showed on Spike’s face, there was no way the emotion could be hidden, but still the loser continued to pout at him in what he obviously thought was a sexy manner, but had Spike trying desperately not to vomit on his would be seducers bare feet.
“Coach,” the naked man’s feet where saved as Spike turned gratefully to a short girl he vaguely recognized from the school.
“Katie,” Spike replied, with a courteous nod of his head. He noticed Corby was still staring at him.
“Cloe,” the girl corrected patiently, as she had every time he spoke her name over the past few months. Spike nodded absentmindedly, as he’d done every time she’d corrected him over the past few months.
“What are you doing here?” another girl asked, Spike didn’t have the foggiest idea as to her name. “We haven’t seen you at school in ages.”
“You should come back,” a tall, dark skinned boy said. “The new coach is a bitch!”
Spike was then surrounded by teenagers begging him to come back to teach them as they whined and bitched about the new coach. After ten minutes Spike found himself agreeing, yes, he would be at school at Monday and, yes, he would get rid of the ‘evil bitch’ and, yes, he would continue to be their coach.
“Because you are a great coach,” Cloe said enthusiastically, “Even Corby has improved, he can actually hit the ball now.”
“Hey!” Spike turned to look at Corby, who up until now hadn’t spoken a word, “I can do more than hit the ball, or have you forgotten how I just beat you 6-4!”
Spike found his eyes watching Corby closely as he argued playfully with Cloe. Something in his chest, he would have said it was his heart if he knew he didn’t own one, leapt with corners of Corby’s mouth as the boy grinned down at his opponent. Spike felt the balloon effect in his stomach and only just managed to resist grinning at the smaller blond.
“How ‘bout you show me how good you’ve gotten?” Spike found himself asking. Spike wasn’t sure who was more horrified, himself or the half-naked man who was still standing just off to the right. Spike felt that at least he kept his horror off his face.
“Excuse me?” half-naked man asked incredulously.
“You’re excused,” Spike replied, ushering the excited teens back towards the courts. Much to Spike’s relief they didn’t seem to notice half-naked man’s spluttering, nor seem to really be paying any attention to him. Except Corby, who was looking at the loser with a disgusted expression.
Spike gave a small start when Corby took hold of his jacket sleeve and tugged him away from the unwanted interloper. Spike’s attention immediately fixated on Corby and half-naked man was forgotten.

Corby did not like the look the half naked man was giving Coach Marsters in. He didn’t know why, but he DID NOT LIKE IT and it was going to STOP RIGHT NOW. So he took coach’s sleeve and pulled him away from temptation. Corby was sure as hell surprised at the force of his hatred for the half naked man and almost faltered in his tugging on coach’s sleeve. Then he realised he was tugging on coach’s sleeve and hastily dropped it. By this time they were back on the courts, Corby was horrified at how long it had taken his brain to realise he was holding onto that sleeve. Not because he was embarrassed, because it wasn’t as if he was almost holding coach’s hand, no, it was because he was sure his grubby hand would ruin the expensive jacket sleeve. Yes, that was it. Wait a minute, grubby hand? Corby looked down at his hand, it were no more disgraceful than usual. Corby convinced himself the sun was damaging his brain, venomously ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that told him maybe he should find some shade, because he really couldn’t afford the brain cells.
Cloe stood on the other side of the net grinning at him, he’d denied her request for a rematch earlier because he knew he’d only won on a fluke and he wasn’t giving up his victory. As he stood there now, squeezing the ball between his pale fingers, he wondered how he’d come to agree to this re-match.
“Come on!” Richard shouted from where he was leaning against the fence. Corby turned and glared at the dark skinned boy, but the scathing comment he was about to throw at him became a pathetic ‘meep’ when his eyes fell on coach Marsters leaning casually against the fence next to Richard. He looked bored and Corby thought he seemed to be staring off into the distance, not really paying attention to his surroundings.
He’s probably thinking about that guy from before Corby unconsciously tightened his grip on his racket. Corby decided right then and there that he would play his best impress the blond man. Not for one minute did Corby think it was strange that he wanted to impress the older man, not for one second did consider he was jealous of the gorgeous half naked man, not at all.
Corby put everything into his serve, he was going to win, he was going to make the coach pay attention and he was going to get the older blonds praise. He was sure of it.
Which only made it more embarrassing when he lost 6-2. Cloe laughed at him as he dived to the left when the ball was so obviously going to the right. Corby forced himself to laugh too, as he hid the graze on his elbow. He was hot and sweaty, and nothing good had come out of this match. He’d twisted his ankle sometime in the fourth game but was too proud to call it quits. Now as he accepted the offered towel it was throbbing and he wondered what he’d been thinking staying on the court.
He followed the others from the court, trying not to limp to noticeably, they noticed anyway.
“You’re limping,” a positively bright boy, Corby though his name was Fisher, pointed out. Corby was torn between beating the idiot to a pulp for pointing out his pain, and answering with a well deserved, ‘oh really I hadn’t noticed!’
He was swaying towards the former when, luckily for Fisher, Cloe appeared at his side.
“When did you do this?” she looked angry, “Why didn’t you stop the game?”
Corby was sure she noticed his eyes flick to the coach, who’d been on the phone since Corby’d taken his final dive. He forced a smile, “I only hurt it in the last game. It’s no big deal.”
Cloe’s eyes changed, softened and here Corby was sure she had seen him glance over at the blond. She hmphed softly and tried to convince him lean on her shoulder. Corby pushed her away with a laugh and told her firmly he was fine. Unfortunately for Corby his firm voice wasn’t very firm and Cloe just glared at him. Fortunately a car horn drew her attention and with a last angry look in his direction she hurried towards her ride.
Corby watched her go, feeling the fine gravely sand in his elbow, feeling the throb in his ankle and cursing her for not being more persuasive.
“Let’s have a look at that,” a voice hummed from behind him. Corby felt someone take he elbow and lay cold fingers over the graze. Corby felt a rippled of pleasure run from where the cool fingers lay, up through his arm, over his shoulder and down into the pit of his stomach. He shuddered slightly and turned to look over his shoulder, into the dark blue eyes of one William Marsters.
“It’s fine,” Corby heard himself saying as if from a distance. The fingers were withdrawn and if Corby hadn’t embarrassed himself enough for the day he would have punched himself. With the fingers gone the shallow wound burned like no one’s business and Corby took his elbow back in his hand.
“I’ll give you a lift home anyway,” Coach Marsters told him in the firm voice that Corby was so lacking. Corby thought about arguing with the older man but there was a tug in his navel and his mind and the next thing Corby knew he was buckling a seatbelt on black leather seats in a very nice car.
Corby knew absolutely nothing about cars, he couldn’t even tell you that petrol prices where so high most people chose to walk, because it was cheaper to get prosthetic feet when one wore through the pair they were born with. But he did know that this car was very nice and oh bliss, had air conditioning. Corby sighed happily, and relaxed back into the seat. The older blond chuckled and pulled out of the parking lot.
Corby didn’t wonder how the coach knew where his house was until much later. He spent the rest of the night with his ankle elevated, because apparently he’d done it some serious damage. Corby wasn’t so sure about this, it may have been a lovely purple shade and the size of a good-sized grapefruit, but there was almost no pain. But then again that could have been because Corby’s mother pumped him so full of pain killers Corby wouldn’t have felt a thing if she’d seen fit to remove the whole leg.
Corby also didn’t notice that the graze on his elbow was gone, but he did fall asleep to dreams of cold fingers and feathery touches.

As he watched Corby disappear through the front door, Spike had the feeling he had lost something, it wasn’t strong but it was defiantly annoying. His mother was going to get an earful.