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'Tis my day today. I have fic and icons, whoot! The icons will be posted later today. But for now, FIC!
TITLE: More Immortal Than the Stars
RATING: NC-17 (sexy bits)
WORD COUNT: 4107
SETTING: Buffy, season 7 between End of Days and Chosen
SUMMARY: Angel didn't just come to see Buffy. He had to check on his boy, too.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Buffy or Angel.
FEEDBACK/CONCRIT: Absolutely. I'd love to hear what you think of this.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'd like to give a huge shout out to my very awesome beta reader,![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
thatotherperv for working on this with me. She gave me AWESOME suggestions and took what was a decent if choppy story and sleeked it up and made it this. Thanks, love!
The bitter adhesive made Spike’s lips curl in disgust as he bit the tape off the roll, but the rip that echoed through the basement was satisfying. He tossed the rest of the roll over his shoulder, careless where it landed, lined the tape on the edge of his stunningly accurate depiction of Angel and slapped the paper onto the leather punching bag.
He should have known the great poof would make an appearance on the day the world stood still. He sniffed, swiped a hand at his eyes and under his nose, and entered a fighting stance. Spike could feel tendrils of rage curling inside him, and, if he were honest, they weren’t just about his jealousy of Buffy.
He knew what they’d had together was wrong and would never work for her, or him really, but they’d finally started building a real friendship. They were close now, legitimately so. He had proof, what with the way she’d come after him, protected him, searched for him that night the Watcher and Wood had tried to off him. Spike figured she had some feelings for him, and he could admit he was still in love with her. As clingy as he’d never admit he was, he’d take any bit of feeling she had and nurture it. Angel coming in, taking that newfound trust away with a look and a kiss had Spike seeing red.
Squinting his eyes, he glared at the slapdash drawing of Angel and felt his hands curl into fists. Before he knew it, he was punching the drawing, hearing the satisfying crackle as his knuckles hit the paper. Sounded almost like hitting bones. Almost.
But Spike was honest.
His fists relaxed, and he reached out and ran his fingers along the edges of the drawing. “Sire,” he whispered, not with longing but with resolution.
Since getting his soul, and what a bloody bit of business that was, he’d had an emptiness inside him that wasn’t filled by the violence that used to please him so much. An ache that wasn’t allayed with Buffy’s acceptance. It was blood-deep, this ache, and nothing he’d done since returning from Africa had eased it. Until this night.
Standing in the shadows of the temple watching them kiss, Spike realized what that ache was about.
For the first time in over a hundred years, William the Bloody could connect with Angel, and all he could do, in that moment of clarity, was watch Angel kiss Buffy. He lowered his head, eyes closed against the threat of tears, and the ink and paper drawing wrinkled and folded into his fist.
The thought It should have been me floated through his mind, but he shook it away.
Releasing the picture again, he stepped back from the bag and stepped back into fighting stance. Left foot slightly in front of the other, fists raised to protect his center, he started punching.
Chains rattled, leather creaked, and bare feet slapped on cold basement concrete. The noises were enough to distract him, and Spike lost himself in the imaginary fight.
He never heard the creak of the stairs, the whisper of fabric against itself, or the satisfied sigh.
“I thought I’d find you down here.” The quiet voice startled him, and Spike snapped his head around at the sound, eyes wide. Seeing who it was, he rolled his eyes, covering his surprise.
Angel chuckled.
“What the hell do you want, Angel?” Spike growled after recovering from the scare.
“Ran into Buffy earlier,” Angel said with a slow blink. Then his lip curled a little and he continued. “But you knew that, didn’t you?” His eyes landed on the punching bag, and Spike had the satisfaction of seeing a frown mar that perfect brow and had to grin when one of Angel’s hands twitched and rose to his hair.
“Yeah, so?” Spike asked, eyebrow cocked.
Angel stared at him for a moment, measuring, and Spike frowned at the deceptively casual inspection. Then Angel asked, “Why didn’t you come to me?”
At that, Spike boggled. “Sorry? I think my ears must have been bleeding. Did you just ask me why I didn’t come to you?”
Angel nodded.
“Come to you about what? The First? Being captured and tortured? What, exactly, was I supposed to come to you about, O Magnificent One?”
“Spike,” Angel’s tone softened, and he stared at Spike.
And suddenly, Spike knew exactly what he was talking about and that just pissed him off even more. “Sod off, Angel. As if I’d come to you about my soul.”
Angel shrugged again, and damn if his shoulders weren’t singularly expressive. Angel had a large repertoire of motions he could make, and in the last hundred years, he’d perfected his body language to such a degree that he didn’t need words most of the time. This shrug screamed out loud, and Spike heard every word.
“I don’t care that you’ve a unique perspective and are the only vamp what could help me, Angel. Wasn’t going where I wasn’t wanted, ‘specially not to you and that ragtag group of pets you keep.”
“And you were wanted here? In Sunnydale.”
Caught, Spike could only inhale sharply. “No. Not by this lot.”
“Yet here you are,” Angel said, folding his arms over his chest.
Spike growled. “‘S better ‘n rolling in filth, hiding in shadows, don’t ya think?”
Angel lifted a shoulder, dismissive. “You tell me.”
Spike rolled his eyes and hissed out a breath. He hated sharing a truth with Angel. “Was drawn here, wasn’t I?”
Angel frowned, confused. “By what?”
“Don’t know. The Hellmouth...this rank bit of real estate that houses demons and evil and everything else that mothers tell their children not to worry ‘bout, called me.”
Angel nodded. “I can understand that. As I recall, it’s a pretty powerful draw. But why go to Buffy?”
“Oh, please.” Spike rolled his eyes, and took a swing at the punching bag. “I didn’t come here. I loved her, yeah. So what. Realized the second after that demon snatched his hand from my chest that me and her could never work.”
He lifted his head, staring off past Angel. “Crawled out of that cave bruised, battered and remembering. Every burst of a vein in my mouth, and every smooth slide home into a warm body that was getting colder by the second.”
“You don’t have to...”
Spike turned a sharp eye on him and said, “And I knew I wasn’t good enough.”
“And we never will be,” Angel whispered.
Spike sniffed and moved to sit on the cot against the wall. “I holed up in the basement of the high school. Knew I needed to leave her alone.”
“Did it work? Hiding from everything?” Angel asked, and Spike glared up at him and his knowing smirk.
“Sod off,” he growled, lip curled in disgust. “Nothin’ was right. Kept seeing people, hearin’ em talking to me. Dead people; people I’d killed. Myself. I know now it wasn’t me, but it was me. Like I used to be.”
Angel nodded, blinking. “That’s the way it works. It tried to get me to kill myself,” he said. “But then,” he trailed off. Turning to Spike with a smile, Angel asked, “Who got you out of the basement, Spike?”
Spike chuckled, a hollow sound incongruous with the contortion of his face. Then his bright blue eyes were staring into Angel’s darker ones. “Who do you think?”
“Buffy.”
“She pulled me out, cleaned me up. And the entire time, the First was talkin’ to me, sayin’ all kinds of nasty bits ‘bout me, ‘bout her. But I put on the brave face, ya know?” He slid back on the mattress to lean against the wall and bent a knee to rest his arm on. “I mean, this soul wanted to be right. I wanted to be right. And that meant pretending the people talkin’ to me didn’t exist.”
“Did it work?”
Spike leaned his head against the cold cinderblock wall, eyes shut, lips turned down in a frown. “Hell no. Well, sort of. Ran into Anyanka, she sniffed out that I had a soul. Then I almost killed a bloke, and that was it. Crazy Spike was back, and Buffy was having to take care of me again.”
Angel ‘hmm’ed and sat next to Spike on the cot. “Still, you didn’t come to me.”
Rolling his head on his shoulders to glare at Angel, Spike said, “No. I didn’t. You hate me, Angel. Or have you forgotten how you left me and Dru? Know you didn’t forget that bloody torture session with Marcus.” Spike turned away again, staring at the pipes and floor joists on the basement ceiling. “No way in this life was I going to you, Angel. None. Not and be tossed out like last week’s blood bag.”
A long moment of silence and Angel didn’t move, didn’t blink, but stared at Spike. Spike could feel those dark eyes on him like fingers, glancing up and down his body, cataloging the changes, the scars from sacred blades, the bruises on his skin, the fresh bleach on his hair, and the bone weariness in the position of his body. Spike let him look his fill, though the silent stare unnerved him; he felt branded.
Angel saw too much when he took the time to really look.
Spike closed his eyes against the need to question Angel on what he saw, and on the backs of his eyelids, memories played. Fading sunlight filtered through draperies, the warm glow of candles lighting up the dust motes floating like glitter. The rasp of heavy cotton on his naked skin, the head of a tussled bed, and Angelus, naked and reclining in some great huge chair, charcoal in his fingers. The sounds of the pencil scritching on rough parchment, and himself, lying watching his master at work, wondering what Angelus was committing to paper and coal.
Angel always saw too much.
And Spike knew, right then, that Angel was remembering too. “Stop,” he whispered. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not...” Angel started to deny it, but Spike stared him down and scoffed.
“Right. You are, and I know it. But don’t.”
Angel sucked in a frustrated breath. “I’m remembering, Spike. That’s all.” He rose and stalked to the punching bag. “We aren’t what or who we once were. I get that, better than you, I’d bet. But I can remember. I used to love watching you. I loved watching you when you knew you being watched. Those weightless moments after..” Angel trailed off, considering.
“Shaggin’ ourselves stupid,” Spike interrupted. He could have kicked himself for saying it, but he had a feeling Angel was just going to gloss it over, like he always did, and for some inexplicable reason, this night Spike wanted that aspect of what they were acknowledged. He’d go back to denying tomorrow.
Angel nodded once, then continued. “And before going out.”
Spike shrugged. “You, sittin’ in those great poofy chairs, sketching and scratching that damn charcoal across the paper, but you’d never let me see. Got no idea how I looked to you, but I knew even then that you saw everything.”
At that, Angel chuckled. “I did. I saw it all and liked it, and that’s why I never let you see what I drew.”
Spike slanted his eyes up to Angel. “You still have those sketches?”
Angel nodded, “I do.”
“Will you ever let me see them?”
Angel shook his head. “No.” He frowned. “Maybe.” Shrugging, he turned away from Spike. “I don’t know.”
“What did you see just now, then?” Spike asked, curious.
Angel’s fingers traced down the leather, almost like a caress, and Spike’s skin rose in sympathetic goose bumps. A tentative swipe with a fist, and the bag was swinging. “I saw...” Angel started, swinging harder, frowning, confused. “I saw something, someone who had always been mine, no longer needing me.”
Spike growled, “Haven’t needed you in a long time, Angelus.”
“And yet, you still call me that. I think you did need me. Right up until a minute ago.” He punched the bag one last time, and the chains rattled as the bag swung up to bounce off the ceiling. “A minute ago, I saw a champion.” He caught the bag on the down swing and stilled it. “Buffy’s going to give you something tonight, Spike. I don’t trust it, I don’t know what it does or how it works, other than it’s supposed to be some sort of cleansing talisman or amulet. It’s a gaudy and god-awful ugly-”
“Aren’t they always?” Spike asked, then shrugged, “‘Cept the Gem of Amarra. That was a bit of tasteful goods there. Too bad some mook had to shatter it.”
“-thing.” Angel finished in a snarl. “But it needs a champion. Someone not human. Buffy thinks that may be you, and tonight, seeing you now, I agree with her.”
Spike swallowed, and looked up at Angel. “If she asks me, I’ll wear it. You know I will.”
“I do.” Angel nodded. “And I’m not going to stop you.”
“Good.” Spike stood and walked to the punching bag.
Angel grabbed Spike’s arms, fingers digging into the strong muscles, and said, “But you be damn careful, Spike. I don’t trust this thing.”
Spike glanced down at Angel’s fingers on his arms, and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Angel let him go.
“Right. So. Gaudy amulet, untold mystical properties, from a not even remotely reliable source, needs a champion to wield it.” Spike ticked the properties off on the fingers of one hand, then shrugged, and asked, “What’s not to trust?”
Angel glared at him. “I’m not laughing, Spike. This is serious. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry, big guy, I can handle it.”
Angel turned away from him whispering, “I don’t want to lose you like I’ve lost everyone else.”
“Angel, you and I both know I don’t belong to you now, if I ever did.” Spike grabbed him and turned him around again, frowning up at him, then caught a glimpse of a pleading look in Angel’s eye, before it was extinguished. He sighed. “You won’t lose me, not that you’re serious.”
“I am, and I’ll hold you to that.” Angel let him go and turned to sit on the cot again.
Spike laughed, nervous, and turned to face Angel. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”
Sitting together on the cot, a comfortable silence stretched between them. Spike thought about all that had been revealed, and had to shake his head. Finally, after decades of fighting and hatred, he and Angel could sit in a confined space, and not want to hurt each other - for now.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Where’s Buffy?”
Angel rolled his head on the wall to face him and shrugged. “D’know. I left her at that temple where she killed Caleb. Nice work she made of that guy too. Split him right up the middle.” Angel sighed. “I’d missed watching her action, you know?”
Spike chuckled. “Yeah, I know. She quip at him ‘fore she offed him?
“Nah. Saved it for after.”
“Good for her.” Another minute or two of silence, as they both thought about Buffy. Then, “How long she gonna be gettin’ back here?”
Again, Angel shrugged. “I figure she’ll let off some steam, patrol a bit. Why?”
Spike paced for a bit, then started to speak, only to shut his mouth again. Then he moved over to one of the boxes stacked in the corner of the basement. He pulled out a sketch pad and pencil. Without speaking, or looking Angel in the eyes, Spike tossed them on the cot next to Angel.
“You want me to draw you?”
Spike stood, looking down at Angel, his face solemn.
“Okay, yeah.” He picked up the pencil and rolled it between his fingers, getting the feel of it. “Sure, I think I can do that.” he picked up the pad, flipped it to a clean page, smiling at the scribbled lines on the pages. “Sit down,” he said.
Spike sighed and moved to sit on the cot again.
Watching him, Angel swallowed and dropped the pad and pencil. Before Spike could frown in disappointment, he was enveloped in Angel’s strong arms, pulled backwards and crushed against his body.
“Hey! What’re you...” Spike struggled against the hold, only to have Angel shake him still.
“Shhh,” cool lips pouted beneath his ear and the steady stream of breath from the command whispered against the sensitive skin of his jaw. Spike lifted his hands to grip around Angel’s forearms, holding them tight against his chest.
“Don’t,” he whispered, trying to hold Angel’s arms still, but the effort was futile. Angel curled his fingers into Spike’s t-shirt, and pulled it steadily up, baring Spike’s skin to the chilly air of the basement. “Angel,” Spike started, but his voice wavered under the strength of Angel’s purpose.
Angel turned his head and kissed Spike’s jaw, quick and biting. Then lifted Spike’s shirt up and over his chest. When Spike refused to lift his arms for the shirt to come all the way off, Angel whispered, “Come on,” and Spike stepped away and turned to face him.
“Why?”
Angel frowned, frustrated and desperate. “I don’t know, Spike. Because memories are hard to put away once they’re remembered? Because it’s easier than...” He stopped, ran a hand over his face and sighed.
“Easier than what? Letting me be?” Spike questioned, angry.
Angel wouldn’t look at him.
“Easier than what, Angelus?”
Angel looked up at him from beneath a heavy frown. “I can’t...” the words came slowly, dragged out of reluctant lips, and Angel closed his eyes to avoid Spike’s gaze. “It’s easier than letting you go. Because I don’t think I’m ready to do that just yet.”
Angel refused to look at him, so Spike stepped up to him again. He tilted Angel’s head to meet his eyes. “Always knew you wanted me.” Spike’s smile was only slightly mocking, and it made Angel chuckle.
“Always were arrogant.”
Spike slid a hand along the back of Angel’s neck and pulled him down, whispering, “So?” he taunted, “You still want me.”
Angel’s mouth quirked into a quick smile before settling on Spike’s.
Their mouths opened on each other, tongues sliding against one another in familiar exploration, but this kiss was different than anything they’d ever shared before. Finally on equal footing, neither of them fought for dominance in the kiss. It was a give and take of acknowledged affection, and when Angel bit down on Spike’s tongue, Spike countered by digging his fingers into the flesh of Angel’s hip.
Angel grunted, pushing harder into the kiss, and Spike moaned and welcomed the invasion.
Fingers slid under clothes, touching sensitive skin, pinching, even occasionally clawing. Both of them would hiss when the other’s nails dug in a little too deep, but it felt good, the pain falling into pleasure every time.
Angel again rucked Spike’s shirt up to remove it, and this time Spike let him, lifting his arms up and away. But he couldn’t release Angel’s mouth, so Angel pulled back, smiling at Spike’s moan of protest, and lifted the shirt off and tossed it aside. He bent down to Spike’s chest, and bit Spike’s nipple, sucking and flicking it with his tongue.
Spike fisted his fingers into Angel’s hair, laughing when the spiked strands poked at his fingers instead of bending.
Angel dropped to his knees, keeping his mouth on the cool smooth skin of Spike’s torso. His fingers lifted and curled into the leather of Spike’s belt, and Spike heard the jingle of metal as Angel unfastened it, then the rasp of denim as Angel made quick work of getting his jeans open.
Spike was aching, hard, throbbing, and when Angel pulled his jeans down past his hips, his cock sprang free, sliding against Angel’s smooth cheek. Angel turned his head and kissed the shaft that rubbed against him.
“Oh god, Angel,” Spike hissed, knees wobbling as Angel took him, whole, into his mouth. Angel’s hands kept him standing, strong fingers clutched his hips, steadying him. Then those hands started exploring, familiar fingers tracing the cleft of his ass, delving inside, seeking.
Spike shifted his feet wider apart, rocking into Angel’s mouth as his fingers found Spike’s entrance and circled it. He felt Angel’s thumb pressing against the strip of skin behind his balls, the pressure exquisite. When Angel pressed a finger into him, Spike jerked away. He reached down and pulled Angel up, latching onto his mouth. His hands burrowed underneath Angel’s shirt, fingernails digging into Angel’s skin. Then he bunched the soft silk of Angel’s shirt into his fist.
Angel had enough time to pull away and mutter, “Don’t tear the-” before the sound of silk being shredded filled the basement. “- shirt,” Angel finished, chuckling. “In a hurry?”
Spike growled and shoved Angel back onto the cot, then knelt at his feet and tugged his pants off. “Shut it,” he growled, then climbed on top of Angel. “Don’t have anything here, so..yeah, this is gonna hurt a little.” he said, settling himself over Angel.
“And I didn’t bring anything either,” Angel replied, then gripped Spike’s hips to pull him down onto his straining cock. “Never stopped us before, as I remember.”
Spike’s face twisted with pained pleasure as he sank down on Angel. He grinned, “Doesn’t look to be stopping us now.” He settled himself and uttered a pained hiss, feeling the intense burn as he was stretched out and filled up. After a moment he lifted up and said, “Believe me if I said I missed this?”
Angel arched his neck and thrust up, panting as he pushed further into Spike. “No. Not for a minute.”
“Good. Cuz I didn’t.” Spike countered, sinking down again.
“Oh, God,” Angel groaned, then, “Neither did I. Now shut up.”
Spike leaned down, settling a kiss on Angel’s lips, and grinned. “Make me.”
Angel did his level best to keep Spike quiet. As before, it didn’t work.
***
An hour later seemed like only minutes to Spike and Angel both, and Angel was climbing out of the cot and pulling on his clothes. He touched Spike on the shoulder, rousing him. “I’ve got to go. Buffy’ll be back soon.”
“Go on, then,” Spike’s muffled voice fought its way up from the cot, hindered by the fact that Spike had spoken into the mattress. Angel leaned down and kissed a bare shoulder, as Spike lay still sprawled face down in the mattress, covers pulled perfunctorily over his hips, and one bare leg hanging over the cot’s edge.
He took up the pad and pencil, and in minutes had the barest outline of Spike in repose etched out. A few more minutes, and the shadows were filled in, the lines of his back and exposed leg drawn. A few minutes more and he’d caught the edges of Spike’s face relaxed in sleep.
He looked over the drawing. There was strength in the hard lines of Spike’s back and shoulders, vulnerability in the smooth curves and shadows. And in his face, the combination of the two. Sharp bones and long lashes, gently curving lips under a strong nose. Spike had always been a dichotomy, and every time Angel sketched him, the divergent ends of the spectrum drew closer together. In this sketch, the strength and vulnerability were compatible, perfect foils for each other, and Spike looked whole.
Angel signed the sketch with, “I’ve always seen you this way,” and, knowing the reason Spike handed him the pencil and paper, let the drawing float down to lay beside Spike.
He cleared the basement window just as the front door slammed shut. Standing in the night, he listened as Buffy made her way down the basement stairs. There was a mumbled sound of appreciation underneath the fluttering of paper. Then he listened to the creak of the cot as she climbed in, and the way Spike mumbled “Angel” as he curled his arms around her. When she stayed curled in the bed with him, Angel smiled, knowing she’d heard the slip and just didn’t care.
******
The next evening, before the sun could think about setting fully, Angel woke up gasping, feeling as though he was burning up. He felt disconnected, like a cord severed, and he knew at last how the amulet worked.
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the day, only sat up in bed glaring at the sun setting beyond tempered glass, knowing the last real connection he had to the world sacrificed himself.
TITLE: More Immortal Than the Stars
RATING: NC-17 (sexy bits)
WORD COUNT: 4107
SETTING: Buffy, season 7 between End of Days and Chosen
SUMMARY: Angel didn't just come to see Buffy. He had to check on his boy, too.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Buffy or Angel.
FEEDBACK/CONCRIT: Absolutely. I'd love to hear what you think of this.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'd like to give a huge shout out to my very awesome beta reader,
thatotherperv for working on this with me. She gave me AWESOME suggestions and took what was a decent if choppy story and sleeked it up and made it this. Thanks, love! The bitter adhesive made Spike’s lips curl in disgust as he bit the tape off the roll, but the rip that echoed through the basement was satisfying. He tossed the rest of the roll over his shoulder, careless where it landed, lined the tape on the edge of his stunningly accurate depiction of Angel and slapped the paper onto the leather punching bag.
He should have known the great poof would make an appearance on the day the world stood still. He sniffed, swiped a hand at his eyes and under his nose, and entered a fighting stance. Spike could feel tendrils of rage curling inside him, and, if he were honest, they weren’t just about his jealousy of Buffy.
He knew what they’d had together was wrong and would never work for her, or him really, but they’d finally started building a real friendship. They were close now, legitimately so. He had proof, what with the way she’d come after him, protected him, searched for him that night the Watcher and Wood had tried to off him. Spike figured she had some feelings for him, and he could admit he was still in love with her. As clingy as he’d never admit he was, he’d take any bit of feeling she had and nurture it. Angel coming in, taking that newfound trust away with a look and a kiss had Spike seeing red.
Squinting his eyes, he glared at the slapdash drawing of Angel and felt his hands curl into fists. Before he knew it, he was punching the drawing, hearing the satisfying crackle as his knuckles hit the paper. Sounded almost like hitting bones. Almost.
But Spike was honest.
His fists relaxed, and he reached out and ran his fingers along the edges of the drawing. “Sire,” he whispered, not with longing but with resolution.
Since getting his soul, and what a bloody bit of business that was, he’d had an emptiness inside him that wasn’t filled by the violence that used to please him so much. An ache that wasn’t allayed with Buffy’s acceptance. It was blood-deep, this ache, and nothing he’d done since returning from Africa had eased it. Until this night.
Standing in the shadows of the temple watching them kiss, Spike realized what that ache was about.
For the first time in over a hundred years, William the Bloody could connect with Angel, and all he could do, in that moment of clarity, was watch Angel kiss Buffy. He lowered his head, eyes closed against the threat of tears, and the ink and paper drawing wrinkled and folded into his fist.
The thought It should have been me floated through his mind, but he shook it away.
Releasing the picture again, he stepped back from the bag and stepped back into fighting stance. Left foot slightly in front of the other, fists raised to protect his center, he started punching.
Chains rattled, leather creaked, and bare feet slapped on cold basement concrete. The noises were enough to distract him, and Spike lost himself in the imaginary fight.
He never heard the creak of the stairs, the whisper of fabric against itself, or the satisfied sigh.
“I thought I’d find you down here.” The quiet voice startled him, and Spike snapped his head around at the sound, eyes wide. Seeing who it was, he rolled his eyes, covering his surprise.
Angel chuckled.
“What the hell do you want, Angel?” Spike growled after recovering from the scare.
“Ran into Buffy earlier,” Angel said with a slow blink. Then his lip curled a little and he continued. “But you knew that, didn’t you?” His eyes landed on the punching bag, and Spike had the satisfaction of seeing a frown mar that perfect brow and had to grin when one of Angel’s hands twitched and rose to his hair.
“Yeah, so?” Spike asked, eyebrow cocked.
Angel stared at him for a moment, measuring, and Spike frowned at the deceptively casual inspection. Then Angel asked, “Why didn’t you come to me?”
At that, Spike boggled. “Sorry? I think my ears must have been bleeding. Did you just ask me why I didn’t come to you?”
Angel nodded.
“Come to you about what? The First? Being captured and tortured? What, exactly, was I supposed to come to you about, O Magnificent One?”
“Spike,” Angel’s tone softened, and he stared at Spike.
And suddenly, Spike knew exactly what he was talking about and that just pissed him off even more. “Sod off, Angel. As if I’d come to you about my soul.”
Angel shrugged again, and damn if his shoulders weren’t singularly expressive. Angel had a large repertoire of motions he could make, and in the last hundred years, he’d perfected his body language to such a degree that he didn’t need words most of the time. This shrug screamed out loud, and Spike heard every word.
“I don’t care that you’ve a unique perspective and are the only vamp what could help me, Angel. Wasn’t going where I wasn’t wanted, ‘specially not to you and that ragtag group of pets you keep.”
“And you were wanted here? In Sunnydale.”
Caught, Spike could only inhale sharply. “No. Not by this lot.”
“Yet here you are,” Angel said, folding his arms over his chest.
Spike growled. “‘S better ‘n rolling in filth, hiding in shadows, don’t ya think?”
Angel lifted a shoulder, dismissive. “You tell me.”
Spike rolled his eyes and hissed out a breath. He hated sharing a truth with Angel. “Was drawn here, wasn’t I?”
Angel frowned, confused. “By what?”
“Don’t know. The Hellmouth...this rank bit of real estate that houses demons and evil and everything else that mothers tell their children not to worry ‘bout, called me.”
Angel nodded. “I can understand that. As I recall, it’s a pretty powerful draw. But why go to Buffy?”
“Oh, please.” Spike rolled his eyes, and took a swing at the punching bag. “I didn’t come here. I loved her, yeah. So what. Realized the second after that demon snatched his hand from my chest that me and her could never work.”
He lifted his head, staring off past Angel. “Crawled out of that cave bruised, battered and remembering. Every burst of a vein in my mouth, and every smooth slide home into a warm body that was getting colder by the second.”
“You don’t have to...”
Spike turned a sharp eye on him and said, “And I knew I wasn’t good enough.”
“And we never will be,” Angel whispered.
Spike sniffed and moved to sit on the cot against the wall. “I holed up in the basement of the high school. Knew I needed to leave her alone.”
“Did it work? Hiding from everything?” Angel asked, and Spike glared up at him and his knowing smirk.
“Sod off,” he growled, lip curled in disgust. “Nothin’ was right. Kept seeing people, hearin’ em talking to me. Dead people; people I’d killed. Myself. I know now it wasn’t me, but it was me. Like I used to be.”
Angel nodded, blinking. “That’s the way it works. It tried to get me to kill myself,” he said. “But then,” he trailed off. Turning to Spike with a smile, Angel asked, “Who got you out of the basement, Spike?”
Spike chuckled, a hollow sound incongruous with the contortion of his face. Then his bright blue eyes were staring into Angel’s darker ones. “Who do you think?”
“Buffy.”
“She pulled me out, cleaned me up. And the entire time, the First was talkin’ to me, sayin’ all kinds of nasty bits ‘bout me, ‘bout her. But I put on the brave face, ya know?” He slid back on the mattress to lean against the wall and bent a knee to rest his arm on. “I mean, this soul wanted to be right. I wanted to be right. And that meant pretending the people talkin’ to me didn’t exist.”
“Did it work?”
Spike leaned his head against the cold cinderblock wall, eyes shut, lips turned down in a frown. “Hell no. Well, sort of. Ran into Anyanka, she sniffed out that I had a soul. Then I almost killed a bloke, and that was it. Crazy Spike was back, and Buffy was having to take care of me again.”
Angel ‘hmm’ed and sat next to Spike on the cot. “Still, you didn’t come to me.”
Rolling his head on his shoulders to glare at Angel, Spike said, “No. I didn’t. You hate me, Angel. Or have you forgotten how you left me and Dru? Know you didn’t forget that bloody torture session with Marcus.” Spike turned away again, staring at the pipes and floor joists on the basement ceiling. “No way in this life was I going to you, Angel. None. Not and be tossed out like last week’s blood bag.”
A long moment of silence and Angel didn’t move, didn’t blink, but stared at Spike. Spike could feel those dark eyes on him like fingers, glancing up and down his body, cataloging the changes, the scars from sacred blades, the bruises on his skin, the fresh bleach on his hair, and the bone weariness in the position of his body. Spike let him look his fill, though the silent stare unnerved him; he felt branded.
Angel saw too much when he took the time to really look.
Spike closed his eyes against the need to question Angel on what he saw, and on the backs of his eyelids, memories played. Fading sunlight filtered through draperies, the warm glow of candles lighting up the dust motes floating like glitter. The rasp of heavy cotton on his naked skin, the head of a tussled bed, and Angelus, naked and reclining in some great huge chair, charcoal in his fingers. The sounds of the pencil scritching on rough parchment, and himself, lying watching his master at work, wondering what Angelus was committing to paper and coal.
Angel always saw too much.
And Spike knew, right then, that Angel was remembering too. “Stop,” he whispered. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not...” Angel started to deny it, but Spike stared him down and scoffed.
“Right. You are, and I know it. But don’t.”
Angel sucked in a frustrated breath. “I’m remembering, Spike. That’s all.” He rose and stalked to the punching bag. “We aren’t what or who we once were. I get that, better than you, I’d bet. But I can remember. I used to love watching you. I loved watching you when you knew you being watched. Those weightless moments after..” Angel trailed off, considering.
“Shaggin’ ourselves stupid,” Spike interrupted. He could have kicked himself for saying it, but he had a feeling Angel was just going to gloss it over, like he always did, and for some inexplicable reason, this night Spike wanted that aspect of what they were acknowledged. He’d go back to denying tomorrow.
Angel nodded once, then continued. “And before going out.”
Spike shrugged. “You, sittin’ in those great poofy chairs, sketching and scratching that damn charcoal across the paper, but you’d never let me see. Got no idea how I looked to you, but I knew even then that you saw everything.”
At that, Angel chuckled. “I did. I saw it all and liked it, and that’s why I never let you see what I drew.”
Spike slanted his eyes up to Angel. “You still have those sketches?”
Angel nodded, “I do.”
“Will you ever let me see them?”
Angel shook his head. “No.” He frowned. “Maybe.” Shrugging, he turned away from Spike. “I don’t know.”
“What did you see just now, then?” Spike asked, curious.
Angel’s fingers traced down the leather, almost like a caress, and Spike’s skin rose in sympathetic goose bumps. A tentative swipe with a fist, and the bag was swinging. “I saw...” Angel started, swinging harder, frowning, confused. “I saw something, someone who had always been mine, no longer needing me.”
Spike growled, “Haven’t needed you in a long time, Angelus.”
“And yet, you still call me that. I think you did need me. Right up until a minute ago.” He punched the bag one last time, and the chains rattled as the bag swung up to bounce off the ceiling. “A minute ago, I saw a champion.” He caught the bag on the down swing and stilled it. “Buffy’s going to give you something tonight, Spike. I don’t trust it, I don’t know what it does or how it works, other than it’s supposed to be some sort of cleansing talisman or amulet. It’s a gaudy and god-awful ugly-”
“Aren’t they always?” Spike asked, then shrugged, “‘Cept the Gem of Amarra. That was a bit of tasteful goods there. Too bad some mook had to shatter it.”
“-thing.” Angel finished in a snarl. “But it needs a champion. Someone not human. Buffy thinks that may be you, and tonight, seeing you now, I agree with her.”
Spike swallowed, and looked up at Angel. “If she asks me, I’ll wear it. You know I will.”
“I do.” Angel nodded. “And I’m not going to stop you.”
“Good.” Spike stood and walked to the punching bag.
Angel grabbed Spike’s arms, fingers digging into the strong muscles, and said, “But you be damn careful, Spike. I don’t trust this thing.”
Spike glanced down at Angel’s fingers on his arms, and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Angel let him go.
“Right. So. Gaudy amulet, untold mystical properties, from a not even remotely reliable source, needs a champion to wield it.” Spike ticked the properties off on the fingers of one hand, then shrugged, and asked, “What’s not to trust?”
Angel glared at him. “I’m not laughing, Spike. This is serious. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry, big guy, I can handle it.”
Angel turned away from him whispering, “I don’t want to lose you like I’ve lost everyone else.”
“Angel, you and I both know I don’t belong to you now, if I ever did.” Spike grabbed him and turned him around again, frowning up at him, then caught a glimpse of a pleading look in Angel’s eye, before it was extinguished. He sighed. “You won’t lose me, not that you’re serious.”
“I am, and I’ll hold you to that.” Angel let him go and turned to sit on the cot again.
Spike laughed, nervous, and turned to face Angel. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”
Sitting together on the cot, a comfortable silence stretched between them. Spike thought about all that had been revealed, and had to shake his head. Finally, after decades of fighting and hatred, he and Angel could sit in a confined space, and not want to hurt each other - for now.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Where’s Buffy?”
Angel rolled his head on the wall to face him and shrugged. “D’know. I left her at that temple where she killed Caleb. Nice work she made of that guy too. Split him right up the middle.” Angel sighed. “I’d missed watching her action, you know?”
Spike chuckled. “Yeah, I know. She quip at him ‘fore she offed him?
“Nah. Saved it for after.”
“Good for her.” Another minute or two of silence, as they both thought about Buffy. Then, “How long she gonna be gettin’ back here?”
Again, Angel shrugged. “I figure she’ll let off some steam, patrol a bit. Why?”
Spike paced for a bit, then started to speak, only to shut his mouth again. Then he moved over to one of the boxes stacked in the corner of the basement. He pulled out a sketch pad and pencil. Without speaking, or looking Angel in the eyes, Spike tossed them on the cot next to Angel.
“You want me to draw you?”
Spike stood, looking down at Angel, his face solemn.
“Okay, yeah.” He picked up the pencil and rolled it between his fingers, getting the feel of it. “Sure, I think I can do that.” he picked up the pad, flipped it to a clean page, smiling at the scribbled lines on the pages. “Sit down,” he said.
Spike sighed and moved to sit on the cot again.
Watching him, Angel swallowed and dropped the pad and pencil. Before Spike could frown in disappointment, he was enveloped in Angel’s strong arms, pulled backwards and crushed against his body.
“Hey! What’re you...” Spike struggled against the hold, only to have Angel shake him still.
“Shhh,” cool lips pouted beneath his ear and the steady stream of breath from the command whispered against the sensitive skin of his jaw. Spike lifted his hands to grip around Angel’s forearms, holding them tight against his chest.
“Don’t,” he whispered, trying to hold Angel’s arms still, but the effort was futile. Angel curled his fingers into Spike’s t-shirt, and pulled it steadily up, baring Spike’s skin to the chilly air of the basement. “Angel,” Spike started, but his voice wavered under the strength of Angel’s purpose.
Angel turned his head and kissed Spike’s jaw, quick and biting. Then lifted Spike’s shirt up and over his chest. When Spike refused to lift his arms for the shirt to come all the way off, Angel whispered, “Come on,” and Spike stepped away and turned to face him.
“Why?”
Angel frowned, frustrated and desperate. “I don’t know, Spike. Because memories are hard to put away once they’re remembered? Because it’s easier than...” He stopped, ran a hand over his face and sighed.
“Easier than what? Letting me be?” Spike questioned, angry.
Angel wouldn’t look at him.
“Easier than what, Angelus?”
Angel looked up at him from beneath a heavy frown. “I can’t...” the words came slowly, dragged out of reluctant lips, and Angel closed his eyes to avoid Spike’s gaze. “It’s easier than letting you go. Because I don’t think I’m ready to do that just yet.”
Angel refused to look at him, so Spike stepped up to him again. He tilted Angel’s head to meet his eyes. “Always knew you wanted me.” Spike’s smile was only slightly mocking, and it made Angel chuckle.
“Always were arrogant.”
Spike slid a hand along the back of Angel’s neck and pulled him down, whispering, “So?” he taunted, “You still want me.”
Angel’s mouth quirked into a quick smile before settling on Spike’s.
Their mouths opened on each other, tongues sliding against one another in familiar exploration, but this kiss was different than anything they’d ever shared before. Finally on equal footing, neither of them fought for dominance in the kiss. It was a give and take of acknowledged affection, and when Angel bit down on Spike’s tongue, Spike countered by digging his fingers into the flesh of Angel’s hip.
Angel grunted, pushing harder into the kiss, and Spike moaned and welcomed the invasion.
Fingers slid under clothes, touching sensitive skin, pinching, even occasionally clawing. Both of them would hiss when the other’s nails dug in a little too deep, but it felt good, the pain falling into pleasure every time.
Angel again rucked Spike’s shirt up to remove it, and this time Spike let him, lifting his arms up and away. But he couldn’t release Angel’s mouth, so Angel pulled back, smiling at Spike’s moan of protest, and lifted the shirt off and tossed it aside. He bent down to Spike’s chest, and bit Spike’s nipple, sucking and flicking it with his tongue.
Spike fisted his fingers into Angel’s hair, laughing when the spiked strands poked at his fingers instead of bending.
Angel dropped to his knees, keeping his mouth on the cool smooth skin of Spike’s torso. His fingers lifted and curled into the leather of Spike’s belt, and Spike heard the jingle of metal as Angel unfastened it, then the rasp of denim as Angel made quick work of getting his jeans open.
Spike was aching, hard, throbbing, and when Angel pulled his jeans down past his hips, his cock sprang free, sliding against Angel’s smooth cheek. Angel turned his head and kissed the shaft that rubbed against him.
“Oh god, Angel,” Spike hissed, knees wobbling as Angel took him, whole, into his mouth. Angel’s hands kept him standing, strong fingers clutched his hips, steadying him. Then those hands started exploring, familiar fingers tracing the cleft of his ass, delving inside, seeking.
Spike shifted his feet wider apart, rocking into Angel’s mouth as his fingers found Spike’s entrance and circled it. He felt Angel’s thumb pressing against the strip of skin behind his balls, the pressure exquisite. When Angel pressed a finger into him, Spike jerked away. He reached down and pulled Angel up, latching onto his mouth. His hands burrowed underneath Angel’s shirt, fingernails digging into Angel’s skin. Then he bunched the soft silk of Angel’s shirt into his fist.
Angel had enough time to pull away and mutter, “Don’t tear the-” before the sound of silk being shredded filled the basement. “- shirt,” Angel finished, chuckling. “In a hurry?”
Spike growled and shoved Angel back onto the cot, then knelt at his feet and tugged his pants off. “Shut it,” he growled, then climbed on top of Angel. “Don’t have anything here, so..yeah, this is gonna hurt a little.” he said, settling himself over Angel.
“And I didn’t bring anything either,” Angel replied, then gripped Spike’s hips to pull him down onto his straining cock. “Never stopped us before, as I remember.”
Spike’s face twisted with pained pleasure as he sank down on Angel. He grinned, “Doesn’t look to be stopping us now.” He settled himself and uttered a pained hiss, feeling the intense burn as he was stretched out and filled up. After a moment he lifted up and said, “Believe me if I said I missed this?”
Angel arched his neck and thrust up, panting as he pushed further into Spike. “No. Not for a minute.”
“Good. Cuz I didn’t.” Spike countered, sinking down again.
“Oh, God,” Angel groaned, then, “Neither did I. Now shut up.”
Spike leaned down, settling a kiss on Angel’s lips, and grinned. “Make me.”
Angel did his level best to keep Spike quiet. As before, it didn’t work.
***
An hour later seemed like only minutes to Spike and Angel both, and Angel was climbing out of the cot and pulling on his clothes. He touched Spike on the shoulder, rousing him. “I’ve got to go. Buffy’ll be back soon.”
“Go on, then,” Spike’s muffled voice fought its way up from the cot, hindered by the fact that Spike had spoken into the mattress. Angel leaned down and kissed a bare shoulder, as Spike lay still sprawled face down in the mattress, covers pulled perfunctorily over his hips, and one bare leg hanging over the cot’s edge.
He took up the pad and pencil, and in minutes had the barest outline of Spike in repose etched out. A few more minutes, and the shadows were filled in, the lines of his back and exposed leg drawn. A few minutes more and he’d caught the edges of Spike’s face relaxed in sleep.
He looked over the drawing. There was strength in the hard lines of Spike’s back and shoulders, vulnerability in the smooth curves and shadows. And in his face, the combination of the two. Sharp bones and long lashes, gently curving lips under a strong nose. Spike had always been a dichotomy, and every time Angel sketched him, the divergent ends of the spectrum drew closer together. In this sketch, the strength and vulnerability were compatible, perfect foils for each other, and Spike looked whole.
Angel signed the sketch with, “I’ve always seen you this way,” and, knowing the reason Spike handed him the pencil and paper, let the drawing float down to lay beside Spike.
He cleared the basement window just as the front door slammed shut. Standing in the night, he listened as Buffy made her way down the basement stairs. There was a mumbled sound of appreciation underneath the fluttering of paper. Then he listened to the creak of the cot as she climbed in, and the way Spike mumbled “Angel” as he curled his arms around her. When she stayed curled in the bed with him, Angel smiled, knowing she’d heard the slip and just didn’t care.
******
The next evening, before the sun could think about setting fully, Angel woke up gasping, feeling as though he was burning up. He felt disconnected, like a cord severed, and he knew at last how the amulet worked.
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the day, only sat up in bed glaring at the sun setting beyond tempered glass, knowing the last real connection he had to the world sacrificed himself.
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