No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains m/m sexual scenes and violence.
Title: When Wesley Met Methos
Series: Angel/Sharpe
Author/pseudonym: Hellblazer
E-mail address: havisham06@yahoo.com
Rating: MA
Pairing: A/W S/M
Date: 08/08/00
Disclaimers: Don't own these characters. No copyright infringement is intended or inferred.
Warnings: Silly x-over
Summary: See title
Notes: Start of a fic I know I’ll prolly never finish.
Wesley turned the corner, intent on the pages he was browsing and slammed bodily into the person at the next shelf of books
"God, I’m so sorry," he apologised, picking himself and his books up, then he saw the brown eyes regarding him with some amusement.
"My God, Adam?"
"Wesley." Methos extended his hand down to Wesley, helping him up. "It’s been a while."
"Hasn’t it." Wesley dusted himself down, making some vague attempt to smarten himself up. "What are you doing here." By here he meant the bookshop, LA, California, the States in general.
"Just passing through. Rambling about. I’m out, you know."
"Really? So am I."
"I heard. Angelus, huh?"
"IT was a little more complicated than that, but yes, I’ve been struck from the Watcher’s Council." Wesley looked him up and down. "I ‘d heard you were dead."
Methos shrugged. "Greatly exaggerated rumours."
"I’m glad," Wesley smiled. "I missed you."
They shared a smile for a second before a voice cut across them impatiently.
"For fuck’s sake, how long does it take to find one bloody book."
Methos turned and grinned at the voice.
"Richard, this is my friend…"
Sharpe stared over Methos’ shoulder. "Rossendale," he hissed.
The blade was out and thrust up against Wesley’s before Methos could hold Sharpe’s arm, pushing the blade down.
"For fuck’s sake, Richard, he’s mortal." He pushed the blade down further and this time there was some resistance. "This is my friend, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Who the hell is this Rossendale?"
Wesley, propped against the bookcase and just learning to breathe again, managed an answer. "my great great grandfather."
"The bastard who stole my money and made me a cuckold," snorted the accusation.
"Oh," Wesley adjusted his glasses.
"You must be Sharpe."