Your browser isn't running scripts, so you might have trouble with the Drop-Down menu at top right hand corner of page. You can get it at http://www.java.com/en/download/windows_ie.jsp"

 

Sequel to Stranger Things Have Happened






Nothing Else Matters


by
Estepheia





Part Three



Roaring through the night on our bikes, we break every speed limit. Spike's an idiot to flirt with disaster like that, but I do my best to keep up with him, so I guess that makes me an idiot as well. Eventually he leaves the PCH and I follow him along a winding trail. We end up on a nice secluded beach, of all the places.

I wonder how he found this place. He must have been here before, probably with Drusilla. I remember that she was fond of the sea.

We jack up our bikes. Spike lights up while I untie my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

We walk quietly for a minute or two, heading towards the water. I've got sand in my $300$ shoes, and I worry about what salt, tar and sand will do to the leather. Maybe I should take them off.

He flicks his glowing cigarette butt away, causing sparks to fly. It lands several feet away from us on a patch of wet sand and winks out.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck," I finally say, slightly unnerved by the fact that he's so uncharacteristically quiet. "Do you want to talk about it?" I wince at my own words and the 'Vampires Anonymous' vibe they evoke.

"It's nothing," he says in an uncertain tone that sounds more like 'maybe.'

I turn towards him. "Whose handiwork is that?" I point at his black eye.

He shrugs. "No one you know."

I know he's lying. And he's not even remotely convincing. Wesley's a better liar than Spike and he's not even evil. What is this? What's he keeping from me?

Suddenly, I get it. "Buffy? Why, what did you do to her?" I blurt out, still feeling that protective surge in my belly. I've moved on, I had to, for her sake. That doesn't mean I don't care anymore.

"What d'you think?" Spike smirks nastily.

I grab him by the lapels of his coat, and growl at him. "What did you do to her?" Suddenly I'm scared that the behavior modification chip in his brain malfunctioned. That he killed Buffy and that he dragged me here to brag about it, to tell me that he 'bagged' himself his third Slayer.

"Oi! Sod off!" he snarls back. "You're tearing my coat, you dimwit poof."

I'm going to tear him a new one in a minute! I feel rage building inside of me. It's as if something cold and scaly slowly uncoils deep inside me.

"What. Did. You. Do?" I hit him without letting go of his coat. The blows open the cut on his lip. The smell of his blood spurs me on.

"Nuthin'. Slayer's all safe and sound, if that's what you're wondering about. She's probably selling greasy burgers to fat junk food addicts, as we speak." He snickers and runs his tongue over the cut, ever so teasingly, tasting his own blood.

He hasn't denied that it was Buffy who beat him up. I'm getting tired of his games and shove him away, hard enough for him to fly several yards before he crashes to the ground.

He rolls on his back.

"Look at you!" he laughs, propping himself up on his elbows, "Three years, and she's still in your system."

I study him coldly.

"Love-sick puppy," he taunts me. He jumps to his feet and starts circling me. While he's prancing around me he never stops talking.

"Come on, Angel, tell me: what is it that made you her lapdog?" he asks, his voice dripping with venom. "Her hair? Her tits? Her Slayer strength? Her scent? She smells nice, doesn't she? All the pheromones leakin' all over the place when she's fighting..."

I turn to keep my eyes on him. I wish he'd stop yapping. It's getting harder to control the rage. I could let it all out! Lay it on him. It's tempting. He's evil, he's a vampire and whatever I do to him will heal, anyway.

Unless of course it's fatal.

Suddenly he stops. He stands before me, his head tilted sideways, giving the impression that he's looking down on me even though he's smaller than me, smirking insolently.

"When you close your eyes to go to sleep," he says, "do you think of her, of her sweet and hot little cunt?"

That does it! My fangs slide down, a growl rises in my throat and I backhand him with all I've got. He doesn't even pretend to duck. My blow sends him flying backwards.

He slowly picks himself up. But he's laughing.

It's a sound so tinged with despair that it stops me in my tracks.

Sometimes I'm really slow on the uptake. This must be one of those cases. He's pushing my buttons, but I don't know why. Is this what he's been aiming at all along? For me to get so mad that I finish what Buffy started? Does he even know?

"Don't you sometimes wish," he pants, swaying unsteadily, "that love had an on and an off switch, so you can just turn it off when it hurts too much?"

And suddenly I understand. Light bulbs and everything. He's not going to tell me what's going on until I force him to. He's practically inviting me to beat the story out of him. Part of him wants to talk but he can't or isn't allowed to or promised not to. Whatever.

How screwed up is that? I shake my head in exasperation.

Okay, I can work with that.

A kick and a swing later I have him knocked over, lying sprawled in the sand. He tries to get up, but I press my advantage and catch him with a calculated punch before he can. I quickly straddle him and pin him to the ground. He struggles perfunctorily. If he really wanted to fight, this would have taken much longer. Maybe I was right and he really wants to talk.

And I? I feel myself growing hard. Because I'm lying on top of him, holding his wrists above his head, using the weight of my body to keep him down. His resistance only serves to increase my arousal. Our faces are mere inches apart. His lower lip is still bleeding.

Having him writhing underneath me like that brings back memories of the days when breaking William the Bloody into tiny little pieces was like a piece of art. The memory disgusts me. But deep inside of me something wicked stirs, almost languidly, and tries to urge me on.

I know Spike can feel it, too.

* * *

Now what?

Do I get a lecture on how I'm soulless and evil and disgusting? With maybe a bit of pummelling thrown in for good measure?

Or is this the bit where he's gonna shag me blind first, before goin' all high and mighty? I know he wants me, I can feel his hard-on.

I stare up into feral eyes. Inscrutable. Appraising me. Dunno what it's like to have a soul. Must be like a thick blanket, smothering the demon that lurks underneath. Right now that blanket's pretty threadbare, I'd wager. So, maybe Angelus will come out to play.

Feel like I'm trapped in a pattern: Get kicked, get shagged, get hurt, not necessarily in that order. Can't say I care. Right now I don't care about anything. Must've been insane to drag him out here. Dunno what I was thinking. Nothing makes sense.

Let's just get this over and done with.

"You wanna fuck, Angel? Yeah, come on, I'll give you a good fuck."

That's one thing I'm really good at.


* * *

"What?" I barely manage to keep my face impassive.

His erratic behavior is beginning to wear me out. I never thought Spike might be capable of such self-loathing and despair. Was it presumptuous of me to think that those are properties of a soul? I'm reminded of stories where a trapped animal gnawed off its own limbs to escape. Only, this feels like I'm supposed do it for him.

"That's why you're here with me, innit?"

God, is that truly what he thinks?

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I say harshly, tapping reluctantly into my nemesis, that dark well of deliberate cruelty that gave Angelus his reputation. "For me to throw you around a bit and fuck you like the worthless demon you are?"

The look in his eyes is indescribable. I feel sick in my stomach. But I think I just made another crack in his already battered armor.

"Well, let me tell you something, Spike," I continue coldly, "right now I wouldn't fuck you even if the end of the world was near."

Crack.

"You're nothing," I go on relentlessly. "Tell me, what's it like to always be second best?"

Crack and snap.

With an anguished howl he resumes his struggles. He bucks and squirms and thrashes around frantically, trying to dislodge me. "Let go, you stupid wanker! Get off me...you and your stupid soul, you sanctimonious fuck...I don't need you, don't need anyone..." An almost incoherent stream of insults and foul language issues forth. He struggles and rants for what seems like ages, but strangely enough he doesn't shift to his vampiric features, not once. Eventually, his outrage is spent and he goes limp underneath me. His gaze wavers, then he turns his face away.

"Spike?"

There's no reaction.

I let go of one wrist and cup his cheek. "William, look at me." He complies wearily. I let my human features reappear. "Whatever it is, just tell me," I say softly.

He doesn't answer right away. I wonder if he'll ever talk to me again.

"Why does she hate me so much?" he finally asks with a pained voice.

That one has me stumped. I can hear the unspoken message as clearly as if he had actually said it: 'Why doesn't Buffy hate YOU, Angel?'

Like I've got all the answers. Like I've ever known what goes on inside her head (or anybody else's). I've been around for over 250 years, but when it comes to dealing with people, I usually feel like I've only just reached 25. If you count Whistler's appearance in my life as a coming of age that's probably a fair assessment.

I think I'll just tackle this like a case I'm trying to solve. He witness, me detective. I think professional detachment will prove helpful. "Tell me what happened," I say, poker face firmly in place.

And then the story comes out. Slowly, haltingly. Some of it he told me already, six weeks ago. But he never mentioned that he and Buffy actually have sex. I can't believe she actually got involved with him. What I do believe is that she kept the whole thing secret. Obviously, that's one of the things that are eating away at him.

After a while I release his wrists and get off to sit beside him. Spike sits up. He pulls a flask out of his coat, drinks, then offers it to me. I can smell it's bourbon. I accept, take a sip and pass it back. He puts it back into his coat pocket and hunts for his cigarettes.

I hear him work his lighter and there is the crackling sound as the tip of his cigarette is consumed by fire. I feel briefly like I'm trapped in a Marlboro commercial. Except they don't do beaches, they do deserts and canyons. He inhales deeply.

We sit and stare at the waves rolling in, while he talks and I listen.

What I hear makes me both sad and angry. He doesn't go into great detail, for which I'm grateful, but it's obvious enough that their relationship makes both of them deeply unhappy. I don't even pretend to understand what makes these two do the things they do to each other and to themselves. I tell myself it is not for me to judge. After all, that mess is at least partly of my own making. In a way, both are still licking wounds made by me.

After a while he grows quiet and we haven't even reached a point in the story that would explain his bruises.

He pulls out his flask again and offers it to me. I shake my head. I get up and fetch my bag. When I open it he gets a good look at my favorite broadsword. But that's not what I'm looking for. I rummage around until I find the container of pig's blood. I know its healing properties are next to nil, but it's all I have. He makes a face but drinks it anyway. Like me, he doesn't even go into game face anymore, when feeding.

"Angel? Do you know how many people you've killed?" he suddenly asks.

"No, I don't."

How can I tell him that guilt cannot be measured in numbers? How can I tell him that I tried to make a list once, writing down names and dates, trying to find out just how evil I was?

He takes his time with his next question but I can see it coming. "Do you know how many you've saved?"

"No, I don't." This time I try to explain. "It's not like two scales that you can even out, if that's what you're wondering about."

He just laughs without mirth. "Heaven forefend, do I look to you like I want redemption? If I do, you need a pair of glasses, mate."

I leave that remark unchallenged and wait for him to continue his story.

He tells me how Buffy thought she killed an innocent girl and how she was going to turn herself in. This is one instance where I could have actually told him she'd behave like that... because of that thing with Faith. Spike tried to keep her from going to the police. Doesn't he know Buffy is the most stubborn girl... What am I saying? Of course he does. So, she wouldn't let him stop her. And then Buffy beat the crap out of him.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says sullenly.

At first I think he's being evasive but then I realize it's the truth. "And then?"

He just shrugs. He grabs a handful of sand and watches it run through his fingers. "Sometimes I think I know her inside out," he muses, "And then I don't get her at all."
He looks up, suddenly alarmed. "She mustn't know I told you!"

"That goes without saying."

He nods, taking my word for it.

"Spike? I'm glad you came to see me," I tell him, truthfully. "But next time you need someone to talk to, let's just skip the fighting und cut right to the talking, okay?"

"Or the shagging?" he says, smiling faintly.

"Or that."

There is a long silence. Finally, just when I think that he's done getting all his defenses back into place he says in a small voice: "Dru may have been crazy, but we could talk for hours. Or just watch telly, you know, do normal things. Sometimes I miss that." The memory softens his face.

I'm not much for talking. But I'm a great listener. And as for advice, well, I've read so many parenting books I've got good advice practically coming out of my ears, but Spike isn't exactly in his terrible twos. There is, however, one thing I can do.

"Spike, take your coat off."

"Changed your mind, did you?" he says with just a touch of sarcasm. "What happened to 'I wouldn't fuck you even if the end of the world was near'?"

I dig into my duffle bag and get my first aid kit out. I show it to him. He shakes his head. "It's nothing. A few pints of 0 neg from the hospital will stitch me up in no time."

"Just let me," I say. "Okay?"

He doesn't make a move. I take that as a 'yes' and push the duster off his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation he helps, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves. I slowly and carefully unbutton his shirt and push it off.

I pause. His chest and shoulders are covered in nasty bruises. I'm pretty sure he's in pain. I'm also pretty sure he doesn't want me to make a big fuss about it.

I unzip the first aid kit and get to work. I start with his face. There's not much I can do. I carefully wipe off some dried blood, cleaning minor cuts and wondering if he can actually see out of his black eye. It's almost swollen shut. His cheekbone is heavily bruised but the bone seems whole.

"I'll be honest with you, Spike," I say as gently as I can, while checking the rest of his body for broken bones, "I never liked you. At least not until I got to know you better last Christmas. I wanted you, certainly, but I didn't like you."

I find a fractured rib. He winces, whether at the pain or at my words I can't tell. There's a look of desolation on his face.

"You're not exactly making it easy to like you." I elaborate. I start cleaning the cuts and abrasions. "You know, Spike, you're vindictive, selfish and spectacularly rude. You're a liar, a rogue and a killer albeit on a leash. You're also one of the most annoying persons I've ever met."

I find myself smiling. He's still silent. I give him a nudge and he lifts his arms a little to allow me to bandage his ribs, so the bone will knit properly. That brings me pretty close to him, especially whenever I reach his back, where I have to change the bandage roll from one hand to the other.

"But I don't hate you." I deliberately plant a kiss on his cheek. "Not by a mile."

He blinks at me in surprise. He studies my face. The look of desolation slowly fades and is replaced by his usual smirk. "So, you want me then, do you?" he asks with a leer that's not quite back to its old strength. I can sense the underlying question.

"I would have thought that'd be evident," I answer, referring to the bulge in my pants.

"Poofter," he says, but without malice. It sounds almost affectionate.

"Spike, I wish you'd stop calling me that. Besides, it takes two for a good... um... shag, so if I'm a poofter, what does that make you?"

"Irresistible?"

I pull back and squint at him, giving him a once over. "Very."





Part Four



Okay, I just paid Spike a compliment (how poof-y is that?) and the earth didn't open and swallow me. Well, it wasn't really a compliment, more like the truth. He IS irresistible and I do want him. But it's foolish to think anything could happen after everything I said to him. Actually, I'm amazed he hasn't donned his old attitude—telling me to fuck off and then driving off to Sunnydale, already. He needed to unburden, so now that it's happened he should be on his way. Instead he's still here.

"So, you think I'm rude?" he asks.

"Yup."

"Annoying?"

"Yup."

"But irresistible?"

"Yup."

"I can live with that," he says.

I stare at him and all I can think of is that I want him. I can smell him. Leather and tobacco, plus the scent of his blood. He still hasn't put his clothes back on. I want to touch him... want him to touch me.

"Spike, those things I said... those other things, you know, when..."

"You think too much, Angel," he interrupts me. The ghost of a smile appears. "And you've got way too many clothes on."

I agree.

I take off my coat, shirt and undershirt, fold them neatly and pile them up next to me. Shoes and socks are next. I take my time, giving him every conceivable opportunity to change his mind.

Having done that I place my hand at the back of his neck and run my thumb over his uninjured cheek. His eyes close, like those of a cat when it's stroked.

"Are you sure? I mean, you're injured..."

"Yeah. So?" He opens his eyes and looks at me.

I run my fingers across his bandaged chest to his shoulders, caressing him. His gaze never wavers. His pupils dilate. I wonder what he's thinking behind those blue eyes. What is this to him?

"You're doin' it again, mate," he startles me out of my musings. He unbuckles his belt. When did he take off his docs?

"What?"

"Thinking. You're thinking again," Spike says, as he pulls down the zip of his pants, revealing his hard shaft, "When you should just gear up for a nice shag."

Crude... but accurate.

I bury my hand in his hair. I lean towards him and kiss him, slowly. My tongue plunges into his mouth, savoring him. He responds willingly. My hands roam over his back, his hands roam over mine. I push forward and he lets himself fall backward. I follow him down, our lips never losing contact. I slip one of my knees between his legs and grind my erection against his hip. My left arm has to carry my weight but my right hand is free to explore his body. I use it to slide inside his open pants to cup his buttock.

Such a nice ass! I give it a squeeze. Then I proceed to pull his pants off. He cooperates by lifting his hips. At last he lies before me, totally naked. He's totally desirable - and he knows it.

I take the time to admire his lean limbs, the mixture of lithe grace and strength. Even bruised and battered he still exudes a brazen sexuality. He's like a rapier, sharp, built for speed, lethal but smooth. Flexible, too. He bends and bends until you think he snapped, but when you release him he springs back unharmed and is as deadly and beautiful as ever.

Me, I'm more of a broadsword, big, heavy, with a nasty cutting edge. Next to him I feel slow, clumsy and rigid, in more ways than one. It took me a hundred years and a prodding by Whistler to set me on my path. Took him a chip and two years. But this is not some kind of contest or race. At least not to me. And this is not the right moment to dwell on such things.

He basks in my admiration. His cock is already hard and erect, but now that he feels my eyes on him he undulates his hip slightly, making it bob up and down. He smirks, folding his arms above his head and sprawling around like a large tom-cat. A horny and rather shameless tom-cat. I stare at the way he displays himself.

I grab my duffle bag and start rummaging around in it. He rolls over and reaches for his duster and searches the pockets. We succeed at the same time, triumphantly holding a little tube in the air.

"Boy scout," he calls me with a grin.

"Optimist," is my fond reply.

We smile at each other in a rare moment of rapport. He seems to come to a decision. He tosses his tube aside. "Your turn, Angel," he says, unceremoniously. "Do me."

Two words that aren't as callous as they sound. My throat constricts. He trusts me. After everything I did to him four years ago, when I was Angelus and he was stuck in that wheelchair, he trusts me.

I swallow. I take off my pants and my boxers and toss them aside. He grins. Somehow that gets rid of some of my nervousness. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

I think he expects me to take him on his back, but as nice as being able to look at him is, I want both of us to be more comfortable and relaxed. I coax him until he's lying on his side and then I position myself behind him, spooning him.

We're both facing the Pacific. I gently kiss his shoulders and his neck. I make sure I have no sand on my hands before I unscrew the little tube and squeeze some lube onto my fingers. I push my left arm underneath his waist so I can hold him tight or reach his cock if I want to. Then I move the lubricated digits of my right to the crease between his cheeks. I find his opening and probe it gently. He inhales sharply.

As Angelus I never cared about his pleasure. I just took what was mine to take. Not anymore. I nibble on his shoulders as I slowly push a slick finger into his tight hole. Okay, according to how this felt when we were doing it the other way round and according to everything I've read on the subject since then, the magical spot should be about ... here. He bucks against my hand.

"God, yes..." he whispers.

I take my time. I can be very patient. Also, a few hours ago I pleasured myself under the shower, so the need isn't quite as... pressing.

I listen to the sounds of his breathing as I work him with my finger.

"Yes..." he says hoarsely. And after a pause: "More."

I kiss the nape of his back. I withdraw and apply some more lube, then I push two fingers in. He tenses briefly at the intrusion. I pause, giving him time to get used to it.

How can I assure him that he's not disgusting?

"I'd like to draw you sometime," I murmur. "Will you pose for me? In the nude?"

I don't give him an opportunity to answer. Instead I wriggle my fingers and make him gasp. I trace the contours of his shoulder blade with my tongue and breathe on the moistened skin. He moans. I can feel him relaxing again.

As I continue to prepare him, I talk to him. I tell him that I've been thinking about him these past six weeks. That I've been dreaming of this, of burying myself in him. The fact that he's looking the other way makes it easier to say these things.

My cock twitches, as if to underline my words. My hips undulate against him with growing urgency. The friction of my leaking cock rubbing against his back sends shivers through my whole body. I leave a moist trail on his skin.

"Angel," he chokes out, his voice thick with desire, "Stop prattling and fuck me already!"

I smile, glad that he's his crude self again.

"Tsk, tsk, more respect for your elders," I chuckle, but I fumble for the little tube and carefully lubricate my length. I align myself properly and coax him slightly forward. He hitches up his right knee and leans on it. I place the swollen head at his opening and prod him with minute little thrusts.

He bucks backwards, trying to impale himself. I clasp his hips and stop him.

"William the bloody impatient," I chuckle. "Relax. Trust me. Let me take care of you."

He takes a deep breath and some of the tension dissipates as he places himself under my control.

I reach for his shaft with my left and slowly start to pump him. He pants. I position my cock with my right hand and start pushing again, teasingly, each thrust a little bit more insistent, until the anticipation becomes unbearable for us both. There. With a suppressed groan I push inside. I pause halfway to give both of us a chance to adjust.

I'd almost forgotten how tight he is. How good it feels to be inside him. I always shied away from the recollection because of everything else that memory entailed. But tonight we're making a new set of memories.

I sling my right arm around his waist. And then I push until I am fully buried in him. I can feel him tremble at the sensation. Not in pain, though, but in a good way. He clasps my arm.

I continue to stroke his hard length. As I start a slow rocking he throws his head back, and moans. "Yes, oh Angel... oh my god..."

I kiss his shoulder again.

Then I begin to thrust, following the soothing rhythm of the waves.

Would you believe that tenderness is something I learned from Buffy?

* * *

Oh God.

There's nothing wrong with a good hard fuck. And pain, well, it can become an acquired taste and we're vampires, for god's sake. I can take pain. Doesn't mean I'm in love with it.

But he treats me as if I'm dainty or fragile or something.

Part of me goes wild with impatience, and wants to dispense with the niceties, but the other half of me is almost sobbing with gratitude. How pathetic is that?

Angel's slow, languid thrusts send waves of pleasure without pain through my body, making me shiver. Making me gasp. Meanwhile he's also jerking me off. If he goes on like that I'm gonna... yes...oh yes... oh bloody hell! He pauses. I can feel him shudder with the effort to control himself. I try not to move, not wanting to push either of us over the edge. Cause I don't want this to end. Ever.

Cause it will. And tomorrow we'll be what? Back to normal?

I stare at the waves in front of me, just a few yards away. Listen to their sound and to our breathing.

God I never thought this could be THAT good. I'd forgotten what it's like to be filled like that. For a whole minute he just holds me tight, burying his face in my shoulder, then he's moving again. Again those long deep thrusts, almost torturously slow. He's groaning, as his movements become more erratic, and then, as we're nearing release he finally picks up speed.

"Yes... oh... yes... Angel, fuck... yeah..." I know I'm babbling but I don't care.

He pounds into me, Angel, not Angelus, and it's what I need, everything else is far away, there's just him and me and the waves, and only the stars are watching as I thrash around under his thrusts, coming forcefully all over his fist. My spasms are enough to send him over the edge, too. Two or three more thrusts and he spills his seed into me, calling my name.

I've done lots of things in my time. Me and Dru, we tried out everything; not to mention the stuff that went on when Angelus was around; shagged Harmony with her unicorn obsession and her Barbie doll brain; even did a robot. And passionately and wildly made love to Buffy.

But the one person to actually make love to ME is Angel, who I hated for most of my undead existence.

Ironic, innit?





Next



Index






Feed the Author

Visit the Author's Website Visit the Author's Livejournal


The Spander Files