Disclaimer: Nothing's mine except the plot of course. Oh, and to whomever invented the peek-a-boo game? Please don't sue, either.
Timeline: Post Ats Sleep Tight and Btvs Hell's Bells (roughly)
Somewhat hard R for m/m sex, language, a few disturbing images, violence, bloodplay, and the destruction of wineglasses. ;)
A/N: This fic was originally posted under the title Lies. However, it has since been changed to its current title, the first chapter has been edited quite extensively, and I've also added a second chapter (Spike's POV of the event, with a more thorough ending than Angel's POV).
Whew, okay, 'nuff said. Sorry about that.
"Oi! 'gelus! Where's all the blood?"
He comes and goes on an irregular basis. Angel is no longer surprised to see him striding into the hotel and rifling through the refrigerator as though he has always been there. No questions were asked the first time Spike showed up and none are asked now.
Angel sighs and peers partway down the stairs to see Spike striding purposefully up them, teasing eyes unabashedly fixed on a very specific point down south on Angel's body.
"You drank it all, remember?" Angel says. "It happened right after I told you not to."
"Buy more," Spike replies. It's not until they're toe to toe that Spike lifts his gaze and flashes a crooked grin. His advancement, however, doesn't stop, and Angel finds himself back-pedaling down the hall again, through his room, and around the bed.
He can't quite recall when all this started, though he remembers Spike arriving in the lobby in a tearful and violent rage some time ago—long ago, at least several months back. He remembers leading Spike upstairs where he spent the night rocking his boy slowly until they both fell asleep. And he remembers getting a bloody nose and a black eye and a split lip because Spike is uncannily much more accurate when he's pissed and drunk.
To this day Angel doesn't know exactly what was behind Spike's outburst or what it was that drove him to L.A. to see his sire, of all people. He does know, however, that it had involved Her. That it always involves Her.
"It's daylight," Angel replies. "I can't go out."
Spike curses and flops down on the bed with a petulant pout, reminiscent of a child who has just discovered that the last of the chocolate cake has been eaten.
Angel smiles inwardly at the display, though it's a frown that appears on the outside, one that Spike knows is a fake. Spike knows everyone so well and the way he picks the truth out from underneath everything is something Angel mostly loathes and occasionally admires—but he doesn't envy it. Never will. Spike lives free of illusions, of the little lie that fluttered out of Pandora's box at the very end.
"Sun's setting in fifteen minutes, you know. You can go buy all the blood you want then."
Spike shrugs easily and lights a cigarette. "'Kay."
And of course it's not about the blood. Spike may drink Angel's whiskey and blood, steal Angel's money, but these are simply bonuses. Spike is here for much deeper reasons than what he can bum off of his sire.
Reasons Angel really isn't willing to explore. Because Angel, like most of the world, does not live free of that little lie. He can still close his eyes and make believe that, in some way, he is what Spike truly wants.
And as Spike presses in close to Angel, trails his fingers up the inside of Angel's thigh, and murmurs, "'M hungry for something else, too, pet," it's not very hard to make believe at all.
In a flash, Angel has his childe's mouth in his own. He plucks the newly-lit cigarette from Spike's hands and sets it on the ashtray he has just of late acquired, having recently learned that cigarettes, sex, and a flammable bed are a perilous combination.
He remembers Wesley set the bed on fire once, when they were still back at the old office. The lights had gone out and the man was stumbling about in the dark with a candle since there were no flashlights—as a vampire, being able to see in the dark wasn't a major concern for Angel and he'd forgotten about it when his friends moved in. Wes tripped over Angel's foot three minutes later, fell, and made a nice little bonfire from Angel's silk pillows and cotton sheets.
Angel remembers the yelp and Wesley shoving his boss out of the room and away from the flames while Cordy ran in with a fire extinguisher. Remembers the stuttered I'm-terribly-sorry-Angel and oh-dear afterward and the bemused look on Wes's face when Angel apologized for having been in the way.
("some people need to learn to how to apologize. somehow i don't believe you're one of those people")
("you don't need to apologize for every single thing, Angel")
He'd smiled then, for Wes's benefit. They were comforting words, anyhow, if a bit delusional.
But when he looks back now, he realizes…that Wes had simply stated that there was no need to say sorry every single thing.
Wes had never said that every single thing wasn't Angel's fault.
Ridiculous, true. In Wes's mind, the two statements were probably the same.
But Angel wonders.
("it wasn't for her")
("it's because i trust you")
Wonders if Wes had ever really trusted him.
Fangs slice into his tongue, effectively banishing the thought. Angel groans into the kiss as Spike draws on his blood, blood that is thundering in his ears, hissing at his absolute lack of intelligence and logic. Because he loves Cordelia and he loves Buffy and he loved Conner and Spike is the piece that fits perfectly into the puzzle, but when it's in place, you don't know why the hell it belongs there.
Spike slides his hand down Angel's chest and after a second or two of fumbling with the buttons, he simply rips the shirt off, and it's gotten to the point where Angel no longer even flinches in the face of his clothing's destruction. Everything else soon follows thereafter, dropping to the ground in a heap of black and red and silk and leather. Belt buckles clatter as they hit the floor and it sounds very loud and very far away.
Spike slams him into the little bedside table. There's a sharp crack of breaking glass, from one of the two wineglasses he has on the table every night. They are always demolished by the end of each visit.
The world does not quite melt away as Spike crushes him against the desk—he can still feel the hard, wooden surface underneath, the hundreds of shards of glass twisting painfully into his back—but it has greatly diminished.
Fingers bury into his hair, tugging and yanking violently, and he does the same to the short blond strands, so that they quickly return to their naturally curly state.
He misses so much. Misses the beating of his heart, though he doesn't remember it anymore—two years is still a long time, even for a vampire. Misses gripping the brown, silky locks, misses pulling on it to expose that smooth, pale neck.
Blunt teeth reopen the rapidly closing punctures in his tongue. Through his own blood, he can taste the bitter tang of childe and family and blood, all carefully blended with sweet Sunshine Hair.
He closes his eyes, wanting the last to go away, concentrating instead on the shattered glass buried in his back. Concentrating on anything but the Sunshine Hair he can taste on his boy.
Close your eyes and it all disappears. Right?
(peek-a-boo. he used to play it with Conner)
(peek-a-boo, where did you go, Conner? where'd ya go?)
(oh that's right)
(Uncle Wesley took you)
And it's silly because of course he knows about Her—he has known since day one. She is, after all, the reason why Spike is here in the first place.
Spike pushes him on the bed and he can feel the weight of the slim body above him pressing down, strangely comforting.
(and sometimes he stands over the empty crib. plays peek-a-boo, thinks maybe his son will be there when he uncovers his eyes again)
(and sometimes he just wishes he never had a son, never heard of Conner)
(wishes he never heard of lovely girl with blond hair, either)
(because it's not better to have loved and lost)
He wonders what She tastes of to Spike. Whether She still tastes of pink cotton candy and bright summer days and picnics-under-the-apple-tree.
Whether She still tastes of everything he cannot ever have.
Spike's fingernails dig into the cuts that cover his back. Angel bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, but a soft moan escapes anyway. And though he knows it's wrong, that he shouldn't be getting off on this, it still feels really, really fucking good to hurt.
Much too cheery jingle of steel, like shop bells at Christmas time, and he lets Spike bind him to the bed because dammit, he needs this, needs to be allowed to relinquish responsibility. He's so fucking tired of being the Champion, the one who must always be In Control. He wants to be the sheep for once. He wants to be the guy in the corner of the bar whom no one blinks twice at if he chooses to be a total narcissistic asshole 'cause it's what they expect, and right here and now, he can.
Familiar crash and bright, shimmering, jagged bits and pieces from what was once the stem of the wineglass waterfall from the tabletop.
Drusilla used to be fascinated by broken glass. Once, giggling like a little girl who'd discovered a new secret, she scattered the shiny, sparkling, transparent bits at her Daddy's feet.
("fallen stars for my fallen Angel")
He remembers dragging her off into the cellar where he spent the next few hours burying those very fallen stars into her smooth, unmarked flesh.
(she screams loud enough to shatter the already broken glass and he laughs. red always looks so much better when it's thick and flowing)
Spike swipes a piece off the table. Pushes it in deep and Angel gasps, arching his back.
Is this what Karma feels like?
(blue eyes, dark with anger. "let her go, Angelus. she didn't know any better, she was only trying to please you")
("now, William, are you not remembering my little lesson about interfering with what i do to my property? mayhaps we should go over it again, hmm? what do you say, boy?")
Soft kisses and small bites just deep enough to bleed, deep enough to make him feel.
Dip of the tongue that leaves wet, shining trails, drying up the crimson rivers running down his chest, only to have them fill up again as another sliver goes in. And oh, how he'd like to think of this as a Holy Rite. Bleed the Angel; see the cherry gashes and dripping strawberries. Blood to the gods, offer it up.
How he'd like to think so. Because sacrifices are pure, they are sinless.
They are accepted.
But there is none of that. No gods here, in this hotel. No angels, no sparkling white wings, no pure souls. Certainly no virgin sacrifices; Lord knows there are no virgins here. Only tainted ignorance and blissful black innocence. Tattered plumes and grey feathers.
A halo no longer shining and beyond polishing and fractured. Touch it and it just might crack some more. But it won't fall apart.
No, it needs to be intact for him to listen to those empty, shattered lies like so many clear-ringing, hollow bells.
(yes yes i am accepted because someone is fucking me)
(someone recognizes me. hears my screams, hears me beg)
(sees me long enough to make me bleed)
And though he's lost so much
(no more Sunshine, no more bouncy baby cries, no more delightful, bittersweet blond Sire)
(no more Forgiveness)
a part of him is satisfied in knowing that Spike will always be there.
Spike is raw, hopeless, tattered love. And that kind of love, Angel believes, is indestructible.
Because there is nothing left to destroy. Something left to cling to yes, but while you can grip scatters of ash in your hand, you cannot make those individual bits any smaller.
Nails dig in and pry open a cut
(and whatever happened to the always-there black nail polish? did he get rid of it for Her?)
and Spike tenderly swirls his tongue in the gaping wound. Dividing lines between opposing forces are always blurry and it is no different here: Angel whimpers, fingers tightening around the short length of chain that connects him to the headboard even as his mind screams for more.
His eyes fall shut again and he can feel cold tears slipping out from beneath the lids. Self-pitying, bitter, meaningless, and he doesn't care.
"Sshhh. Hush, love." A brush of cool lips against his ear that nearly kiss but choose to whisper instead. Fingers that only moments ago had been ripping into his flesh now gently wipe at the corners of his eyes.
Angel breathes in deep and he catches Her scent beneath it all, so strong it's almost as though She is right here.
(cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip, and the memory of its taste has long since faded. he knows it's supposed to taste cold and sweet, a mixture of whipped-creamed snow, but he can't seem to understand what all those words mean)
It feels like such a sham that he cannot touch what is right there.
(beating heart to a dead man)
And the pain suddenly stops. Angel waits, curious. Feels a smooth coolness on his chest as Spike licks and nibbles his gentle way up to Angel's Adam's apple
(too busy staring at Her to notice ice cream dripping from his spoon)
("okay, mortal coordination leaving something to be desired")
(silky tongue over his chest)
("wrong. it's just right")
and sweet Jesus, it's all just too goddamned much. He doesn't want Her here; doesn't want this. Sunflower hugs and rosy-pink kisses hit a little too close to home, and home is what he cannot have, and it's supposed to stay that way. Play pretend will only take him so far, after all.
Lids still firmly shut and he whispers, "Stop it."
"Stop what." A whiplash change in moods. Anger overrides what little curiosity there is in the words, words that dare him to Just. Fucking. Elaborate.
Angel opens his eyes, meeting irate blue ones. "Don't do that anymore."
"Why?" Spike asks harshly. Blunt nails which nevertheless feel incredibly sharp rake down Angel's chest. "You want this?" The scratching grows evermore frantic; Spike's voice gets louder with each word until he is screaming. "This what you want? 'Cause she never did it to you? Well, fuck you to bloody hell, Angel! Fuck you—"
Turn of the wrist and the cheap cuffs, like so much else, snap with ease.
Angel grabs Spike's arm, effectively silencing him. They stare at each other in a silent confrontation, surrounded by a sharp, jagged pool of twinkling shards flecked with crimson splatters. Two emotionally fucked-up vampires, blood running down one's chest and the other seeing blood, and isn't this an interesting sight in and of itself.
Spike breaks the gaze first and jerks out of Angel's grasp.
"Sod off." Soft, barely a whisper.
Angel opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. There's nothing to say.
And this should be the part where Spike storms out, promising never to come back on account of Angel being such a goddamned bastard.
Should be. Should be, should be.
Won't be.
Because it would all be such pure bullshit. They both know Spike will come back bearing a new pair of handcuffs just as cheap, and two more tumblers will be eliminated from Angel's collection.
Besides, didn't mother always warn to finish what you started?
Angel wraps his hands around the back of Spike's neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. Coats his tongue with Spike's blood, trying to hide from the flavor that belongs to Her, the flavor that runs rampant in Spike's mouth.
(cover it up with sparkly paper and throw on curled ribbons for good measure so that maybe even the giver will forget what he has given. see it, shake it, take a guess, but you'll only know blissful ignorance)
He growls as Spike presses down on top of him and somewhere in the back of his mind, a wild thought circles crazily that he is most certainly breaking the Lore right now.
The bed smashes into the wall with a loud bang and he doesn't care that there are occupants in the hotel who most likely heard. They know; of course they know. And while not a one of them breathe a single word about the issue, he can tell they know from the looks they give him the mornings after, looks dripping with honeyed pity that makes him want to gouge out their eyes.
(Oedipus in reverse)
Spike lays spread-eagled, flat on his stomach, in the aftermath of it all, the right half of his body draped over Angel's.
Angel snakes an arm around the slim waist and buries his face into the blond curls, once soft, but now coarse from decades of peroxide abuse.
He misses the silky, long, sable hair of a century past, of the William Spike tries so hard to bury.
An hour passes before Spike shifts out of his starfish position and gets up. Angel watches through half-closed lids as Spike throws on his clothes and slips out of the room, not once looking back.
He doesn't think Spike's ever stayed all night. And that's probably a good thing—he's not sure if he could let his boy go when he is no longer feigning sleep. When he has had that oh-so-familiar presence and touch for a full night.
As soon as he thinks Spike is gone, he props himself up on one elbow, eyeing the closed door before turning his gaze on the remaining wineglass. It's perched halfway on the edge of the table. He can see the room reflected in it, distorted by the bulbous shape of the glass. Distorted and seemingly void of any occupants.
Angel reaches out slowly, deliberately, and tips it over the edge with a finger. It shatters, spraying glass in every direction.
And he leans over and picks of one of the larger pieces. Stares into it, but no face stares back.
They say the mirror never lies.
He wonders if this proves them wrong, that he cannot see himself. He wonders if this means he really does exist, and the mirror is simply playing pretty pretend, just as everyone else does.
(covered up with sparkly paper)
He'd like to think that.
Feedback? Yes, please. (Nods vigorously)