A/N: Some Btvs cross-over for this chapter (only the occasional allusion to specific eps). Just in case you've never, ever watched a single episode of Btvs. :)
It's been seven months since he sat in his crypt in a sobbing mess until Red
("my god, Spike, you're being very—very—i don't know, pathetic! you're being pathetic and—and besides, Dawn…Dawn needs someone")
snapped him out of it and made him Lil' Bit's official babysitter.
(sometimes Dawn refuses to come out of her room so Spike sits outside her door and tells her stories. she told him once that he should write a book, his life's so interesting. he doesn't mention that most of the stuff he tells her are full of half-truths, edited to please little-girl ears)
(he tries not to consider the fact that it's all edited to please his own ears, too)
Five months since Buffy showed up unexpectedly alive with bloody hands and fingernails stuffed full with dirt.
("her hands")
("clawed her way out of a coffin")
Tonight will be the one hundred and nineteenth time he's gone to L.A. and chained his sire to the bed. The one hundred and nineteenth time he's bought handcuffs.
Tonight has been the one hundred and nineteenth time he's shagged the Slayer. He always goes after shagging the Slayer. It's a very fixed pattern, though he knows Angel is clueless to this particular fact. You'd think the old man would've figured it out by now considering Spike always shows up here wrapped in the Slayer's scent, but Angel's head is still shoved somewhere up his ass and around the corner.
Or maybe he just thinks Spike fucks Buffy on a nightly basis.
He's close enough, anyhow.
Utter silence greets Spike when he arrives at Angel's huge, poncey hotel. He can smell the humans, but no voices ring out. They've locked themselves in their rooms, no doubt complete with earplugs and industrial-strength denial that their boss and beloved friend is not fucking
(a thing)
an evil vampire.
Well, maybe not evil. He doesn't feel very evil; hasn't felt that way in a long time. God, falling for a bloody Slayer and then taking care of her kid sister.
(circles Angel relentlessly, carelessly twirling a hot poker in one hand. "it was a real bright move, mate, shagging the one chick who's destined to kill your ass")
The irony isn't lost on him.
("guess you're neutered for good then, eh, what with that sparkly soul of yours")
The irony of his situation is quite clear, actually.
Spike begins to rifle aimlessly through Angel's fridge. Where the hell's the stupid moron anyway? He's getting bloody bored, standing around.
(come out come out wherever you are)
Git doesn't even have a beer. Or blood, either. Dammit.
"Oi! 'gelus! Where's all the blood?"
Angel slides gracefully into view with a big huff and that is when meaningless words of useless banter begin to fall from Angel's lips in a vain effort to properly fill the silence. And Spike participates because he knows that Angel is trying to make this into something more than a quick fuck-and-run situation.
Funny, that. You'd think Spike would be the one to talk, but when he's here, he doesn't want to say anything. He has enough pointless chatter with Dawn. Sometimes with Red and even Xander. Empty out the silence, replace it with white noise.
He talks of history and English with Dawn. Tells her his version of past events. Recounts his tale of being in a Nazi sub, but leaves out any specific details about Angel. Listens to the witches when they go on about their sparkly magicks and sometimes pitches in; he did live with Dru for a century, after all. You can't live with Dru and not know about pagans and Latin and rituals. He helped Xander fix the windows and doors a few times, too. Things get broken a lot when you're a Scooby. He doesn't do much, just tosses the boy a few hammers and nails. Tries not to get in the way 'cause there's no use in taking over. No point in making Xander feel unneeded. Most times he just has a smoke and listens to Xander chatter about Anya and movies and Spiderman.
Annoying, pointless conversations. But at least the Scoobies talked about stuff that meant something to them, if not to Spike. Angel talks of empty air and hidden tragedies.
Spike finally backs Angel up into the bedroom and says something, anything, to get the pillock to shut the fuck up and kiss him already because he can't bloody well take this forced conversation any longer. And, wow, lookit, he even manages to force out a grin for the pouf to enjoy.
Goody for him.
Of course, his mouth is soon occupied, fingers soon twining through the dark hair. He backs Angel into that room with the empty baby crib.
Spike still doesn't know why it's there. The first time he asked, a couple weeks before, he only received a dreamy smile in reply. The second time he made an attempt to find out the answer, about two days ago,
("what's with the kiddie crap, mate?")
he wound up with a broken jaw. He's not gonna risk asking again this time.
Spike sinks his teeth into Angel's tongue, drawing out the coppery taste of
(safety)
sire and
(false)
comfort.
With one arm still wrapped around Angel's neck, he sheds his clothes—and Angel's—in seconds. It's not long before he has Angel against the little bedside table, not long before he's running a hand down that smooth chest. An expanse of white marble.
He parts his lips, lets Angel explore his mouth and taste it. Yes, taste it, Angelus, drink in the golden-bright-sunshine hidden within
(scratches and mottled yellow-purple on his body when he wakes the next morning)
(and Spike knows she's not as golden as Angel believes)
and it won't ever satisfy, will it? Because what Spike carries with him is only a mere synonym.
(the thesaurus lists love and lust together)
(but aren't they so very different things?)
Different, true, but Angel's eyes are closed and his tongue probing and it seems that different will do for now as Angel licks up that forbidden fruit.
(shiny red apple of Knowledge)
Know delightful sunflowerdaisy innocence. Spike knows that he certainly does—or did, for one brief moment, anyway,
("you treat me like a man")
before yellow-white petals were ripped and trampled and now he Knows he will find no more. And it hurts. Hurts, since once you have Known sunflowerdaisy nothing else will truly make up for it.
But he can't change that. So he takes what's left of Buffy
(most times she bites more than she kisses)
and it will do as he searches hopelessly for what he Knows is there. Because he has tasted it once, long ago.
(shiny red apple of Knowledge)
("that was real i won't forget it")
Angelus had once forced Spike to read the Old Testament in an attempt to teach him Latin. The lessons lasted through to the end of the Book of Genesis before even the mighty Scourge of Europe had to give up.
Spike remembers that the Bible says Adam and Eve were given all sorts of punishments for Knowing.
(et sub viri potestate eris et ipse dominabitur tui)
(and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee)
He wonders why the Bible never mentioned that Knowing itself was a punishment, too.
Because once you Know something, you cannot forget it.
(stuff it in deep, lock it up, and throw away the key but it is all much too fragile. and eventually the container)
breaks. Shards of glass clink and tinkle their way to the floor. The sound jars him from his thoughts and he is drawn back to the sensation of soft, silky lips which never fail to make him moan.
Spike is not altogether sure when Angel decided to put out the wineglasses, when the first ones were broken. Seems like they've been there forever. At any rate, it's damned more convenient than bringing his own razorblade.
He pushes Angel harder against the little table, throwing his entire weight onto the older vampire's body. There's a sharp, enticing smell of blood and Angel's back slips a little against the smooth wood surface from the steadily running blood. Spike buries his fingers deeper in short, dark locks as though it will stop Angel from falling, and he can feel those large hands in his own hair, feel them tugging. Knows that Angel is trying to bring back the curls. He remembers that Angel used to love those curls, always finding purchase on them whenever possible.
Spike gets a little pleasure in knowing that it annoys Angel that he has cut his hair.
Gets even more pleasure in seeing the flash of pain in puppy-brown eyes before pale lids descend down. A growl escapes his throat, one he knows Angel doesn't even register because Angel's eyes are closed and Angel is lost in a world of puppies and yellow canaries.
(no fuck you, don't close them, look at me, dammit)
He wants Angel to look at him because he is sick and tired of
(Dru)
people closing their eyes while fucking him. Sick and tired of everyone using him as a link to get a shag with
(Angel)
their person of choice.
Well, actually everyone is not quite accurate. Buffy doesn't close her eyes, but with her it's worse because he can see it, see within those green orbs that she is thinking of Angel. Bitch even had the bloody audacity to scream his name once.
That was when Spike broke her nose and gave her a black eye before
("fuck you! you can tell me you don't love me and you can fuck me mindlessly, but i am not your bloody Angel look-alike fuck doll!")
she finally kicked him into the bed.
("i told you once you were just convenient")
("pretty sure he still thinks you like rosebuds in bed, love. think maybe you should quit lying to the poor sod, let him know you've moved onto fucking the thorns? 'course, maybe admitting it to yourself first would be a good idea…")
By the time she walked out the door, he was sporting a bloody nose, too.
(that night he goes to L.A. for the first time ever since the hot poker incident. plays a game of kitten poker and drinks enough so that there are triple the number of kittens by the time the game is over. triple the number of everything, actually, including his hands, too)
(breaks down the Hyperion's doors while trying not to throw up and beats the shit out of Angelus)
(wakes up the next morning with Angel curled around him and a massive hangover)
(feels kinda peaceful till he remembers that bit about being convenient)
(then he feels sorry for himself. holds back frustrated tears 'cause he sure as shit isn't gonna bloody cry in front of Angel)
(already did that last night, anyway)
(thank god he can tell himself it was the alcohol)
But who is he to complain, really? Doesn't he have Angel? And isn't it enough that he can wave bottled Sunshine in his sire's face?
(angel-child in a shop)
(look all you want, honey, but don't touch anything)
It is, in a way, enough. In a way, it does give him a certain sense of satisfaction. And the only thing that prevents him from taunting Angel further is because the last time he'd done so
(spun-gold scented cuffs. dangle them close to Angel's nose)
(those damnable, always-closed eyes snap open at last in dark realization)
(and Spike only chuckles)
("it was good for her, too. always is")
Angel ended up driving him back because Spike could barely walk, much less spread his legs to sit on the motorcycle.
(eyes follow him as he limps out of bed and gets dressed, blood still caked on his thighs)
("i can give you a ride…if you like")
("fuck you, peaches," Spike snaps as he leaves, only to stumble back inside ten minutes later. "yeah, okay, fine, gimme that sodding ride")
That was one of the few times Angel was on top.
But tonight, Spike is
("you're beneath me")
on top.
They tumble onto the bed, Spike's arms subjected to Angel's vice-like grip. Creak of springs. A trail of crimson blossoms bloom along pale cotton sheets, tainting innocencewhite with scarlet as they grapple their way into the center of the mattress as to not fall off unexpectedly.
Spike slips his hands beneath Angel's slippery-sticky wet back. Brings bloodied fingers to his mouth and sucks gently as he stares down at the vampire before him, all closed-eyes and Slayer-imprinted eyelids. Spike remembers when he used to be imprinted behind those lids. Remembers nights of furious passion, entangled in bed sheets; demanding teeth and hands, harsh panting breaths, and sweat-covered skin.
And he wonders, even as he knows the answer,
("where's daddy i want my Angel Spike i want my Angel i want my Angel")
(Spike puts up with her incessant moaning for three months before he finally loses it and slaps her, hard enough for her to crack her skull open against the wall. snarls that if she doesn't shut the bloody fuck up about Angelus, he's gonna nail a cross to her tongue)
where the hell they went so wrong.
Wonders why he still loves this souled demon even after everything. Even as he mourns the loss of Dru, chases down Buffy's love. He supposes it's because his love for Drusilla is too old and his love for Buffy too fresh, but his love for Angel…it's timeless. And he will hate the bastard, always will—too much has happened for forgiveness now—but Spike knows that he will never be apathetic towards Angel, and isn't that what they say the opposite of love is? Apathy?
There's a lot of truth to this, Spike believes. 'Cause how do you hate someone you don't care about? Why would you even bother with them? You can't and you wouldn't. You can't and you wouldn't and he doesn't care what anyone else says—this is the one concept he will not let go of.
Because if he does, he will be faced with the prospect that no one has ever loved him. Faced with the prospect that fists and whips and lashing words are nothing more than amusement with no trace of affection behind the pain.
Faced with the prospect that he has lied to himself for a hundred and something years.
And that's just really too much for him to take.
Although, he doubts that it will come to that. He still has those memories of gentle kisses on his battered hips and shredded back; brief snippets of conversation with the Slayer while they lie somewhere on the floor of his crypt in the early morning hours. Still has it all as evidence that he is Telling the Truth.
There's a sharp pain in his arm from the shards of glass Angel has dragged onto the bed with them. He plucks out one in his elbow only to have another imbed itself into his palm.
He figures he might as well not bother and reaches instead for the floor. Feels for cold steel and hooks a finger through a circle of metal when he does. Pulls up the pair of manacles and slips them around Angel's wrists, wrists which are ringed with faint, prettily faint, pink bracelets which are only visible because Angel is so pale.
Propping himself up with one hand on Angel's chest, Spike reaches for the jagged stem of the wineglass. Smashes it some more until it's in sizable pieces and then takes one of the shards. Makes the first cut, a deep one, and watches as dark red oozes out. Spills over the boundaries.
And he wonders if Angel loves him, wonders this as Angel arches off of the rose-spattered mattress.
Decides that Angel has to. Has to because Spike really does, in some twisted way, love the nonce, and if Karma truly exists, then doesn't that mean Angel has to love Spike back? Isn't that the way it works? What goes around comes around and all that do unto others shit?
Surely.
Surely, though a part of him knows there is never anything on Angel's mind except a little blond girl with a wooden stake. Spike suddenly feels a rush of anger at this, despite the fact that he's no different himself.
It always comes down to the Daisyflower.
Running a hand down Angel's arm, he scrapes blunt teeth down Angel's chest. Bites down harder until he breaks the skin and then he licks up the crimson syrup. Sweet and sticky and penny-like copper. Places little open-mouthed kisses over the cuts. Watches as the gashes heal, far too quickly. Some are nearly gone.
Spike digs in with his fingernails and opens up the rapidly closing cuts on white flesh and licks up another taste of Sire's blood. He vaguely registers a whimper from Angel and hears Angel's breath catch. Sees shining lashes and a light trickle of tears.
Murmuring sweet nonsense into Angel's ear, he thumbs away the cold-wet at the corner of Angel's eye and leans down. And suddenly, he's tired of slicing open Angel. He feels an overwhelming need for something gentle. He's had enough rough sex in his life, anyhow, first with Angelus, then with Dru, then with the Slayer.
So he drops the shard of glass and gives Angel a tender kiss instead, stroking the silky soft brown hair. Slides his tongue lightly down Angel's chest and sinks deep into the blood that holds the world, holds bittersweet, cruel memories of a hundred years of heartbreak and dark lustful love. Drinks in the nights of the three of them, when William is sandwiched between two brunettes and William feels that rare moment of false love, the kind that does not hurt. Swallows down restless days trapped in a wheelchair with a crazy sire and a crazy girlfriend.
By the time his tongue reaches Angel's throat, Spike can feel Angel stiffen beneath him, can practically see the frown he knows is etched onto Angel's brow…and he knows. He knows why Angel is so suddenly rigid, no longer gasping for more, but he banishes the thought from the realms of his mind.
Spike pretends as much as anyone does, you see. The only difference is that he admits that he's pretending, which, if you think about it enough, kind of defeats the purpose of pretending in the first place.
Spike is careful not to think about it enough.
When Angel speaks up, however,
("stop it")
not even Spike can continue with his make believe fantasy.
He tightens his grip compulsively on Angel's shoulders. Tries to keep his voice calm, but knows even before he says anything that he will utterly fail.
"Stop what." The questioning lilt doesn't even manage to make it into his words.
Angel's eyes open at last
(peek-a-boo)
and ironically, Spike wants them closed again. Eyes may be the windows to the soul, but they are also windows to the Truth and Spike had been happy with the un-truth.
(peek-a-boo)
(cover your eyes and everything just disappears)
"Don't do that anymore," Angel says.
(denial is taught at an early age)
And he realizes, then and there, that Angel is just another person who only wants Pieces of Spike. Yes, give the Princess with dark curls and a laugh as shattered as her mind that slice of brutal violence and romantic devotion; the bloody sonofabitch sire that scoop submissive childe; the Slayer that spoonful of dark, secret fucks in the night—but make sure you don't let the separate dishes touch each other.
Customers don't like their food tainted.
And Angel only wants his mouthful of dominant top. No, none of that soft, romantic shit 'cause I'm feeling bloody submissive right now, okay? Yeah, scratch me up like that, make me bleed, 'cause I need my ritual of self-flagellation, but I'm to damn tired to do it myself, so do it for me, will ya?
Slash and rip viciously and there is a satisfying sense of shredding skin beneath Spike's nails. He's aware of that much, only that much. It isn't until a grip on his arm causes a deafening silence to fall around him that he realizes he's been yelling himself hoarse.
Angel glares at him, slight surprise in those eyes. Spike automatically glares back. Wrenches his arm out of that familiar clutch and tells Angel to piss off, or somewhere along those lines.
He watches as Angel starts to say something before thinking better of it.
And of course Spike could leave. But he knows there is nothing waiting for him back in Sunnydale except an empty, stone cold crypt and desolate rejection. And a part of him misses his sire.
So he lets Angel pull him down, lets Angel be the one to bite deep into his lip and draw childe's blood.
Spike pushes down on top of the older vampire as expected. Bucks hard, violently, so that the bed smashes echoingly loud against the wall and the mortals are sure to hear.
Spike's single, futile attempt to get the humans to quit fucking hiding and open their eyes.
He doesn't pay attention to when he climaxes, or when Angel does. He doesn't know, doesn't care. What he does know, though, is that there is still one wineglass left standing when it is over.
Spike looks at lone tumbler, curious. They're usually both gone by now. He shrugs it off and lies down beside Angel. Feels the weight of an arm around his waist; a dropped kiss on the top of his head. And he just lies there, trying to preserve this moment before leaving.
He never stays for the whole night. Because he knows. Knows that if he stays, he will wake up and beg Angel to let him remain here for good. Beg to have his Buffy wounds kissed away, beg for whispers of love. Beg for someone to just sodding care, for fuck's sake.
And Spike doesn't do begging well. God knows he does rejection even worse. So best to leave, which he does some hour or so later. Slip out and shut the door gently.
(don't wake the feigning-sleep Angel)
But he doesn't go any further than that. Rather, he sits down with drawn up knees, leaning against the door. He always sits here for awhile. Not for any specific reason except that it feels right and besides, he can, and that's reason enough for Spike.
There's a muted crash from inside the room, causing him to jump a little. He considers peering inside, but decides not to and fishes for a fag instead. Lights it when he finds one. He brings the cigarette to his lips and notices the
(blood on his fingernails. no, in. inside, deep inside, underneath his nails and caked on top. blood everywhere, all over his hands, the ground, can even see it on his black clothing and he's hysterical)
("oh god, Dru kitten, oh god. oh fucking hell, Dru, oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod—")
(only Dalton, book smarts 'i can translate anything, sir' Dalton, manages to get him a little calmer, enough so that he makes it inside before the sun rises)
(he scrubs himself raw in the shower but can't seem to completely remove the blood from under his fingernails)
(when he gets out of the shower, his skin now pink and almost hot to the touch, he gets Dalton to go out and try to see if there's a bottle of black nail polish somewhere in Prague. somehow, Dalton manages to find one)
(the next day, he wipes off the polish, but nearly goes into hysterics again when he can still see the crusted red beneath translucent white, though Dalton assures him there's nothing there)
(after that he makes sure his nails are always covered in black)
Until now. He stopped wearing it months ago when
("you think the nail polish we put on her is still there? or have her nails gone all black? it's still there, right? 'cause you're dead and your nails haven't rotted or anything and—and—")
(Dawn looks like she might burst into tears any moment now and Spike, for the first time ever, wants to hit her. hit her for putting those goddamn images in his head, hit her for ever bringing up the subject of a decaying Buffy)
(he doesn't of course. he only pulls her in close and she rests her head on his chest. makes a desperate attempt to control his voice as he murmurs,)
("i'm sure it's still there, Nibblet")
He had a night (day?) mare later. He can't recall much of the contents, but he does remember the rotting hands reaching out for him. Rotting hands with rotting nails
("you broke your promise, Spike")
and when he woke up with a strangled cry, he
(rips frantically at his black-lacquered nails until blood runs freely down his hands and onto the stone of his crypt and there is nothing left on his fingers, not even the cuticles)
("hey, peroxide boy—jesus christ, what the hell happened to you?")
("fuck off." voice rough from screaming. he can tell that Xander knows perfectly well what—who—this was all about)
(Spike tells Xander to fuck off again, but lets the boy help him to his feet)
(Red innocently inquires about Spike's mangled hands the next day, thinking it was a fight with some big nasty)
(Spike waits for Xander to snark something about how Blondie went berserk last night over a girl who never even loved him)
(but Xander is silent)
The door he's leaning on gives way suddenly. Spike yelps as he falls flat on his back and he's unexpectedly granted a direct view up between Angel's legs. There's nothing new happening there, so he pushes himself into a sitting position.
He starts to wonder why Angel didn't keep on going ignoring the nightly sits outside the door when he registers the surprise in Angel's eyes. Realizes that Angel hadn't known Spike has been out here all this time and feels a stab of hurt that his sire wasn't even able to bleedin' sense him.
Sullen, Spike expels a stream of smoke. Gazes at the wisps of white curling into the air. White death to the mortals. Buffy complained once of his smoking in her presence, something about second-hand smoke.
And it makes him think, perhaps white is not so pure after all.
When the silence continues to stretch on, Spike sighs. "The hell do you want, Angelus?"
Angel simply stares. It's only then that Spike realizes something's wrong.
He slaps Angel's ankle lightly. "Hey. Ponce. Answer me, ya bastard."
Angel crouches down, not a single scratch left on his chest anymore, and trails a finger over Spike's cheek. "Am I real?" he whispers finally. "Am I real to you?"
Spike considers telling the truth for once. But he wants to be real to Angel. And if the rules of Karma are what he hypothesizes, then—
"Sure, mate. Real and solid, all right." And now Spike must be real to Angel.
(yes yes must be must be must be)
(must be?)
Angel nods slowly. "Good. That's good. I wasn't sure…couldn't see myself."
Spike notices for the first time the piece of glass clutched in Angel's hand.
And he plucks it out of his sire's grip. Takes Angel's bleeding hand and smears the blood over the smooth, flat surface of the glass.
"'Course you can't, love. 'S all covered in blood. Who can see into that?"
A small smile graces Angel's lips and he curls his fingers around Spike's.
"True."
End.
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