Casual Observers

Angel and Spike take matters into their own hands. PWP, A/S, consensual masturbation.
Dedication: I have an unhappy friend who needed a dose of A/S...this is for her, with a smooch.
Dedication2: For Laure, who said that A/S without the D would be ok.

"Jesus, Spike, you could have hidden these a little better," Angel muttered to himself as he stared in disbelief at what he had found sticking out from under the mattress.

He had only wanted to change the linens. Was it a crime to want clean sheets every week? If he left the job up to Spike, he'd be sleeping in filth.

Which he had actually been doing, unbeknownst to him. Angel held the magazine by a corner and eyed it with distaste. Jugs A' Plenty? What kind of idiotic name was that for a porn magazine? He shook his head. No creativity. Well, he supposed that it was reassuring to know that even after several months of living with Angel's influence, Spike was still....Spike.

A moment of curiosity struck. Glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder, Angel sat on the edge of the bed and thumbed gingerly through the pages, frowning with concern at the rather contorted positions of the models. No girl he knew had ever been able to put her leg there...oh, wait, there had been that one circus girl from Russia. He grinned slightly.

Sighing, he flipped to the next to last page, ready to replace the magazine back beneath the mattress and try to forget he had ever seen it. He would have missed the picture entirely if he hadn't glanced at the page, and when he did, he paused.

She was pretty, this girl, in a wholesome way that the others had tried for and failed to achieve. Angel squinted at the fine print. Audrey, her name was, and she liked kittens and sunsets and cotton candy. He snorted. How unique. But still, she was pretty. Nice breasts, firm but not fake. Straight, even teeth. Long torso that showed off her taut stomach. Tight ass with an easy curve to it, and what looked to be lots of silky skin.

Good Lord, was he actually getting hard? Angel felt himself stir to life inside his jeans, and he shifted as his cock began to press uncomfortably against the zipper. He continued to eye the girl that was staring lustfully at him from the confines of her photograph. His gaze traveling lower, Angel noted with approval that her pubic hair had been trimmed neatly, exposing the soft petals of her sex, and that she held her hand temptingly close to her moist folds. He tilted his head as he began to picture her sliding her finger into that wetness, keeping her eyes trained on him, delving deeper and deeper as he watched.

Yes, he was definitely hard. And it hurt. Throwing another cautious glance behind him, he looked back down at the picture. *Come on,* Audrey whispered to him. *Just do it. You know you want to.*

Yep, he wanted to, all right. What the hell, no one was home. Leaving the magazine open on the bed, he sat back further and reached for the drawer on the nightstand. The bottle of cinnamon lubricant was within easy reach and he palmed it, flicking open the button on his pants and lowering his zipper with one practiced hand. A small sound of relief escaped him as his erection sprang free.

Angel kept one eye on Audrey and the other on his shaft as he squeezed several glistening drops of the clear fluid onto his fingers. He lowered his hand immediately to his cock and gripped it, coating it liberally with the lubricant in one gliding motion. His eyes fluttered closed of their own accord as he stroked, reveling in the perfect pleasure that only he could give himself. It wasn't quite the same with another person, though he had taken pleasure many times from others. Spike, for example. Buffy. And even Cordelia, once...a long time ago.

But the knowledge of his own pleasure was by far the most intimate.

Angel pumped himself slowly, drawing out the intensity of it, opening his eyes every now and again to glance at Audrey. She was smiling at him, encouraging him, and he could tell any minute now she was going to move her hand lower and dip a finger into her --

"So, you took a fancy to Audrey, did you?"

Angel's eyes flew open and his head jerked toward the door. He groaned inwardly. Spike's timing was impeccable. Stupid little shit.

Spike stood with his arms crossed as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. He raised his eyebrows. "She's a lively one, that Audrey," he said, nodding toward the magazine. "Always good for a toss or two. Or ten," he grinned, his eyes going toward Angel's jutting shaft.

Embarrassed, Angel glared at him and began to tuck himself into his jeans, but Spike spoke softly to him.

"Oh, by all means...do continue."

Angel looked at him, ready to be angry if his childe was provoking it, but he only found encouragement on Spike's lean features. He paused.

"You mean it?"

"Oh, yeah."

Angel arched an eyebrow. "Will you?"

Spike considered. "After you."

Without a word, Angel sat back on the bed and resumed his position. He left room for Spike, who crossed the floor silently and joined him on the bed.

Ignoring his childe for the moment, Angel began to stroke himself once again, making sure that Audrey was still watching. He smiled inwardly, remembering from long ago when he had performed this way for Spike. Spike always had liked to watch.

And he was watching now, Angel noted. Through slitted eyes, Angel observed him as he continued to slide his aching cock through slippery fingers. Spike had let his tongue poke out just slightly between his lips, his fascinated gaze drawn to the angry head of Angel's hardness. Spike's eyes had begun to gleam in the darkness of the bedroom, his own excitement becoming evident, but Angel pretended to notice none of it as he concentrated only on himself.

He began to grip himself more firmly, increasing the rhythm, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes closed. He did not need to see Spike to sense his desire, Angel could smell it growing in the air and it was heady. It made the sluggish blood in his own veins gather heavily in his groin and pulse with a steady motion that matched the rhythm he was setting. His fangs began to lengthen and he let them, easily sliding into the face of a demon.

Funny how his demon was so eager for pleasure. He chose not to think about it.

The pad of his thumb caressed his sensitive tip each time his fist rose and fell over his shaft, making him shake his head slightly with the keen pleasure of it. It was almost over, he could feel the pressure behind his balls. There was always the choice, of course, to stop at the peak and prolong the pleasure, but he usually saved that for days when he was feeling self-tortous.

Which would be most days, actually...

But today, no. He wanted the gratification, and wanted it now. And he knew just what to do to get it, he had worked himself over many, many times before. The fact that Spike was watching him, sitting there just inches away, made him hunger for release even more.

Angel gritted his teeth, reveling in the feel of the slickness beneath his palm. The friction was just right, the lubrication doing its job nicely. Pre-ejaculate began to glisten at the slit in his cock, spilling over like crystal and trying to ease down his shaft but being wiped away with each pump of Angel's fist. He jerked his hand harder, straining, feeling the explosion begin at his base and shoot upward until his climax hit with a force that made him snarl through his fangs and throw his head back. His semen arced upward before falling back to the bed, landing on both his own hand and Spike's, who was watching the scene with flaring nostrils.

Angel continued to stroke for several seconds, still twitching, until his hand fell away limply and he felt the need to take a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself. After a long moment of heavy silence, he glanced up.

"You." Angel motioned with his head toward Spike.

Spike did not bother to answer, merely sprang the fly of his black jeans and let his own stiff shaft jut forward. He pushed the confining pants down and away, scooting back to rest against the wall in order to be perpendicular to Angel's position.

Angel watched him languidly, his climax leaving him sated and lazy. When Spike closed his yellow eyes, Angel gave a half-smile at the seductiveness of the picture his childe painted.

Spike was beautifully made, from top to bottom, and Angel took it for granted. Most of the time. Sometimes, like now, Spike's beauty was stark and apparent, and Angel growled low in his throat in approval of it.

Spike cracked open one eye to look at him, then closed it again as he began to lightly stroke his velvet skin with a gentle touch. Softly at first, then a little harder, and just as Angel was wondering if he should pass Spike the small bottle of lubricant, Spike opened his eyes and reached out for Angel's softening cock.

Angel started in surprise as Spike's hand snaked around his shaft, then relaxed as he realized that his childe was coating his hand with Angel's glistening semen to use as lubricant. It was something he had always liked to do, Spike used to say he preferred it over any kind of manufactured liquid.

"What can I say," he would grin, "I'm into organic food."

Spike's features changed suddenly as he spread Angel's come on himself, the feelings in his cock springing to life with the friction he made. He could feel Angel's serious eyes boring into him, through him, and it made him hard as rock beneath his own hand to know that his sire was watching him give himself pleasure.

He stroked hard and fast, preferring it that way, but able to draw it out for a very long time. Spike kept the same rhythm Angel had, sliding himself through his fingers, using his thumb to flick over the head and tease the tip. His cock grew red with someone else's blood as he grew even harder and thicker, and Angel heard him begin to snarl softly to himself in time with his grip.

Angel watched him closely, lifting his head slightly to scent the air, knowing when Spike's orgasm was approaching simply by instinct. He listened to his childe's low growls begin to get louder, and when Angel saw Spike bare his teeth, he lunged forward and pressed his wrist against Spike's mouth.

Without hesitating, Spike kept one hand on his cock and grasped Angel's wrist with the other, holding it tightly to his mouth. He pierced the skin easily, his fangs sliding deep, and when he felt the blood hit the back of his throat, he jerked in response to the automatic climax that rocked him.

Childe fed from sire for what seemed an eternity, snarling and growling against Angel's wrist. His semen had fallen across both of them in the same way Angel's had, and Spike continued to pump himself and shudder violently. Angel watched without taking his eyes away.

Spike was done, finally, withdrawing from Angel's wrist and his human features sliding back into place immediately. He looked almost shyly at Angel, then away again, ducking his head.

"What's the matter, Will? Not playing the coy maiden, are you?" Angel said it seriously but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Fuck off," Spike said easily, twisting his body to lay down next to Angel.

"We did," Angel said, and Spike let out a short bark of laughter.

"That we did. Damn, that chit Audrey does it to me every time."

Angel snorted. "Hide those disgusting things better if you're going to bring them home." He glanced sideways at Spike, who was drowsily lighting a cigarette. "Or at least...get some better ones."

Spike grinned.

Mistakes

Angel POV. Sometimes Angel screws up.
Note: Thank you to my muffin, who said she wasn't in a penis mood but read this anyway and suggested good stuff.

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
--William Wordsworth

There are mistakes, and then there are mistakes.

There are mistakes like 'Oops, I got 2% milk instead of nonfat.'

Or, 'Damn, I meant to spell 'hear' and spelled 'here' instead.'

But sometimes, mistakes are more painful. Mistakes like, 'I got drunk and operated a motor vehicle, conversely killing an innocent driver in another car.'

Or, 'I drank the blood of a young, tender gypsy girl.'

Yeah, that one was quite a mistake.

But last night --

Last night, I made a mistake that thoughtlessly wounded the two other parties involved. One of the parties in particular.

And myself, of course, because for a mistake that I make to go without guilt is absurd.

In any case, it was far past midnight when I heard the key fumbling in the lock of the office door.

Wesley, maybe, I think, rising from the comforting familiarity of my desk where neat stacks of papers are in towers. He comes back sometimes to finish --

Nope, not Wesley.

Cordelia, bright-eyed and grinning and slightly mussed. Her perfect brows raise in surprise when she sees me come out of my office and lean against the doorjamb. A small 'o' transforms her lips.

"Angel," she says, slurring the last syllable of my name. She doesn't drink often. Very rarely, in fact. So it's a surprise to me to see her this way, her lipstick rubbed off, her hair tucked carelessly behind one ear. When she left earlier in the evening with a girlfriend, both of them shiny and perfumed, she had given me an admonishment not to work too late and then wrinkled her nose at Spike who sat lounging in a swivel chair.

"Bye, *Sprite*," she called over her shoulder, delighting in the childish new nickname she'd devised for him.

He growled after her, making a halfhearted attempt to get up, but she wasn't fazed. "Bring it on, gelding," she taunted, much to the amusement of her friend, who tittered. "Let's go," she commanded with a wave of her hand toward the door.

"Who are those guys?" drifted back up the stairs, and I blinked at Cordelia's answering reply.

"My boss and his...companion..."

She blinks owlishly at me in the darkness. "I left my house keys," she explains, looking about her as if they would be perhaps lying on the floor. "I need my house keys. To get in my house." She nods her head to punctuate her knowledge of this fact.

"Dennis is home," I say, and she giggles.

"You're right, Angel! Dennis is home! Dennis is always home. Good Dennis. Nice, good Dennis," she laughs, as she drops into the same swivel chair Spike had been sitting in when she left. "Oof, I need a drink."

"How were you going to get home? How did you get *here*?" I ask, wondering if her friend had also been drunk.

"I hitched," she says seriously, then laughs at the horrified expression that must cross my face. You don't hitchhike in Los Angeles unless you like being dead. "No, I didn't. There was a cab. A pretty yellow one. Now another pretty yellow one has to come and take me home."

"Just stay here," I sigh, already crossing the floor to help her.

"I can get up," she insists, but when she tries, the chair rolls away from under her and she winds up on her slim rear end. "Huh," she says, puzzled. "Why are there moving objects attached to that seat?"

"Beats me," I say, humoring her. "Makes it hard for drunks to sit down, doesn't it?" We head toward the elevator, her arm firmly tucked in mine.

"Yeah," she says absently, moving into the elevator and leaning back against the wall. "This thing is going too fast."

"It's not going anywhere yet," I inform her, sliding the cage door closed and pressing the button.

We descend in silence.

Reaching the apartment, she follows me obediently to the couch and sits down. She kicks off her high-heeled sandals and looks around, licking her lips. "Got anything to eat? 'Sides blood."

"Do I ever have anything to eat?" I ask dryly, glancing toward the darkened bedroom where I know Spike is sleeping.

With the short attention span that only the intoxicated have, she forgets about food and begins to unbutton her blouse. "Tired," she yawns, fumbling with the buttons. "And why did I wear a shirt that's so hard to open?"

I try to avert my eyes as I sit next to her and finish undoing her buttons. Thankfully, she wears a silky white camisole top underneath, but I still can't help seeing her full breasts push against the flimsy material.

I've made love to Cordelia, lifetimes ago.

Actually, it was just before Spike came, so only a few years past. It was passionate and it was tender and it was warm and it was fulfilling, but it was a poor substitute for the other woman that I was dreaming of the entire time. I tried more than once to see only Cordy, to know that it was Cordy I was touching and it was Cordy who clutched at me and whimpered when I entered her, I tried my damnedest to want her and need her. I tried my damnedest to love her.

I failed at all of those things, and Cordelia is far from stupid.

So it ended as easily as it began, our little time together, and though Cordelia Chase might be conceited and thoughtless and selfish, she has grace and dignity and self-respect. We're friends, Cordelia and I, and while I love her the best I know how, I was not and never will be in love with her.

When Spike came, and Cordelia unwittingly discovered the nature of our relationship, it was a giant credit to her that she did not question me about it or demand to know why Spike can share my bed when she can't. She just arched a fine black brow at me when he marched naked into the living room and snatched a beer from the refrigerator. "Hullo, princess," he winked, and disappeared again.

I could only shrug, and blush.

She looks up at me now, her eyes bright with alcohol and her skin luminous from the tiny light over the stove. The rest of the apartment is dark and still. We're very close to each other.

"Angel," she murmurs, and then her perfectly shaped lips are touching mine, and I can taste the rum and pineapple juice she consumed earlier.

The mistake begins there, not started by me but perpetuated all the same, and it grows.

It grows when I, startled by the realization that I miss human warmth, put my hand to her cheek and let her nuzzle me with soft kisses. It grows further when she deepens the kiss and I let her, making my mouth go pliant against hers and allowing her access to my tongue. And it grows to gigantic proportions when I hear her sigh into my mouth and settle against me, and I do nothing to stop her.

Until, that is, I snap back to reality with a jerk. We've been down this road before, and while I would give a thousand lifetimes to make it different, I know it will never be. And I also know that if Cordelia were sober, this situation would be an impossibility.

Not to mention the single most important reason why this is not something I want, why it's something that I don't think I'll *ever* want.

The reason is sleeping soundly in my bed, most likely with his Docs on, a still-burning cigarette probably dangling from his black-nailed fingertips.

Her mouth is still soft on mine as I start to put my hands on her shoulders. Before I can push her gently, however, a cough from the darkness startles me and I break away from Cordelia. She opens her enormous child-woman eyes and blinks once. "Oh," she says. "Oh." And bites her bottom lip in embarrassment.

I purposely don't look toward the doorway of the bedroom.

I soften her chagrin with a kiss to her forehead. "Get some sleep," I whisper, and she nods.

"Angel, I --"

"No," I cut her off firmly. "No, it's all right. Good night, Cordy."

"'Night," she murmurs, already fading off to sleep, turning her back to me and nestling into the cushions of the couch. Tomorrow it will be only a blurry memory, and I'm glad for both of us.

I pause to lay her shirt over the back of a chair and drape a light blanket over her still form. Then I turn toward the bedroom, unexplainably sad, and wanting the comfort of Spike and his lean hardness.

He stands in the doorway, bare-chested, black jeans slung low. I can see the cut line of his hips as his abdominal muscles meld into pelvic bones.

He stares at Cordelia, then accusingly at me.

In the morning, he is gone.


He returns home in two days, beaten and bloody.

Straight to the refrigerator, rips open a fat plastic bag of blood. Drains it while leaning one forearm heavily against the tile counter.

Never mind the fact that I have paced a groove into the wood floor.

Never mind the fact that for forty-eight hours, I did not sleep and went to the roof six times to look out over the twinkling city.

Never mind the fact that Cordelia avoided my gaze and looked guiltily at Spike's duster, which lay on the floor of the office where he had last discarded it.

Never mind all that, because he's home now, though every fiber of his body radiates stiffness and pride.

Another bag of blood, this one only half-done, and he leaves it to drip on the counter. Into the bedroom, kicks the door closed.

Mistakes will be the death of me. Again.

I feel sick at the thought of what's happened, what he saw, what he obviously misunderstood. I feel sick that his anger has gotten the best of him, because I know it's tormenting for him to even admit he cares that much.

I feel sick that I made such a mistake, that I hurt Cordelia and myself and especially Spike in the whole terrible process.

It's been a difficult year for the two of us, adjusting to a new kind of life together. He's disrespectful and messy and fidgety and loud. He calls me nasty names and makes fun of the products I keep in the bathroom.

'...why the fuck is there facial scrub in here, angelus...you don't even fucking have dead skin cells to ex...exfol...'

'exfoliate.'

'what the fuck ever.'

He torments Wesley, who remains stoic and martyr-like under Spike's onslaught.

'you fit in well with us, watcher. two gelded vampires and a puss.'

He leers at Cordelia, who most of the time puts on her best I-can-ignore-you-forever face, unless she catches him trying to sniff her clothes or cop a feel if she walks too close to him.

'try that again, you moral equivalent of a diseased leech, and i'll put holy water in your bags of blood.'

He doesn't remember that you can't put metal in the microwave and so far I've had to replace two of them.

There are two cigarette burns on the underside of one of the sofa cushions. I turned it over, but I know they're there.

He steals money for beer and doesn't wash a single dish and left an empty bottle of peroxide overturned on my best towel so it dripped out and left a nice yellow-white stain. He is annoying and insufferable and attention-getting.

And sometimes, his eyes are so blue that I have to stop and blink and look at them again because I could swear that someone took a piece of sky and painted his eyes with it, then framed the whole picture with thick black lashes. His eyes glimmer at me and they laugh at me and most often, they haunt me, and this is why Spike is allowed to leave his dirty dishes on the counter and burning cigarettes on the table and empty bags of reheated blood in the sink instead of in the trash.

His eyes, which would be the windows to his soul if he ever had one, follow me around the apartment and then glance quickly away when I try to catch him looking. The eyes that two nights ago were accusing and stormy, and then shuttered and dark.

Those shuttered and dark eyes were the ones that used to watch with anguish when Drusilla would run to me rather than him. Those shuttered eyes would watch, and turn away, and it was so damn amusing to me that William the fucking Bloody was in pain over a wraith of a girl who was convinced that the flowers were telling her jokes.

I compounded on Spike's pain, first with Drusilla, then eventually with Buffy. My soul returned to me or not, it didn't matter to Spike, because to him I was a demon simply by my actions.

And I was, it seems, and still am, and both of us dance around the plain fact that I had left him all those years ago and didn't return. And then when the laughable thing that is fate brought our paths together again, I still did not belong to him and he knew damn well I didn't want him to belong to me.

So, he hated me even more than he had ever known how to before.

And then Buffy died.

When a little piece of the tremulous soul I have went with her, Spike sensed the loss immediately. It angered him even further.

He has never had that piece of me, and for a killer of our kind to possess something he wants, well...

So now I stare at the closed door of the bedroom and consider how to make reparations. Reparations for allowing him to see me kissing a tipsy Cordelia on the couch of the apartment we share. Reparations for showing him that, once again, there is a part of me that he doesn't have and most likely never will.

The door isn't locked, which makes me hopeful. I'm hoping that he left it open on purpose, rather than accidentally.

Looking in, I see him lying stiffly on his back on the bed. Blood is already staining the forest-green sheets.

"Are you hurt?" Moron, of course he is.

"Nope."

"There's blood, Spike. Yours."

He glances down at himself. "Huh. So there is."

I cross the room and stand at the foot of the bed. "Do you want me to help you get your clothes off?" I'm an idiot. Why am I asking him questions that he can say 'no' to?

"No."

"All right." Not knowing what else to do, I leave the room.

^*^*^*^*

Returning to the bedroom an hour later finds Spike huddled underneath the covers and his dirty clothes in a ball on the floor. I do a quick scan of the sheets to see if there is any more blood, and it seems that he is healing.

I could sleep on the couch, I guess...

Discarding that idea, I shuck my clothes and climb in with him, noting how far over toward the edge of the bed he is. He was always an expert at creating invisible barriers.

I know he isn't asleep because he's fidgeting, but I let him pretend. I lie and stare at the ceiling, my hands steepled on my stomach. Why do I feel like the childe? I am the sire, I have power and authority and dominance. I'm Angelus, childe of Darla, sire of Penn and Drusilla and William, the Scourge of Europe --

"D'ya still miss the git, Angelus? Is that it?"

His soft voice startles me out of my thoughts. I turn my head to look at him.

He rests his blonde head on the green-sheeted pillow, studying me.

"Buffy, you mean?"

A barely perceptible nod.

"I'll always miss her," I say truthfully. "But she isn't...she doesn't..." Pausing, I search for the right thing to say that will encompass both truth and comfort.

"I know she ain't here," he says slowly, "but she is. She's here. You look for her everywhere. Why the soddin' hell do you keep that useless brat Cordelia, if she don't remind you of the slayer?"

There's truth in that, and he knows it.

"I ain't enough for you," is his next comment. "I never was. You left, and found yourself a fucking soul, and now all your goodness and light is enough to keep you content."

It's so ridiculous that I laugh, and his eyes narrow. He hates to be laughed at. But really, content? Is he blind?

No. I am.

Acceptance and tolerance and forgiveness are not things that Spike wants, not things that he has ever wanted.

He wants my love, and I've been reluctant to give it for fear of his retribution, for fear that he will take the love that I give him and he will leave me.

As I left him.

His head still lies on the pillow, watching me, a small furrow appearing between his brow. His eyes begin to take on that empty appearance as the emotion drains from them, and suddenly I couldn't bear it if his eyes are ever empty again.

A kiss is what he wants, and he asked me as plainly as if he'd said it with words. Such a small wish to grant. So I rise up and over him and at once the light rushes back into those sky-eyes and his lips begin to form a rude grin and I don't look anymore because I have to kiss him and let the reassurance wash over him and make things better, because that's what I do.

He kisses with passion, my boy does, throwing his entire body into the small movement of lips and tongue, pressing up against me and letting the whole of his lean hardness melt into me. I don't know where he learned how to kiss that way, only that he's been kissing me like that for a century and I hope he continues for centuries more.

I look down and see that his cock is straining already, the tip a beautiful shade of purple, his soft pubic hair creating friction against my own stiff member, and suddenly I must taste it, I have to lavish attention on it, on him.

The hiss he lets out is music. He brings in a breath of air again between his clenched teeth and murmurs my name when he feels me nudging his cock with my cheek, then suddenly all at once taking the entire length of him into my mouth and rubbing the sides with my tongue, nipping the tip with fangs that I didn't even know had descended, and sucking the ruby drop of blood that appears at the cut. More, I give him more, cupping his sensitive balls with one hand and bobbing my head smoothly over his cock, bringing him up and up and up until his ass begins to clench and his fingers grip my hair, up and up and up until he starts to quiver with the tension and is groaning my name uncontrollably.

"...angelangelangel...."

And then, surprising me completely, he pulls out of my mouth and slides out from under me and uses his whipcord strength to push me down flat on my stomach on the bed.

"Hey," I question, "don't you want me to finish..?

"Oh, you'll finish," he chuckles. "Next time around, you'll finish. Now shut yer mouth because you talk too damn much."

So I do.

And hooooooly Jesus, he's sliding right inside me, using a bit of blood and a lot of pre-fluid for lube.

It's not often that he fucks me, not because I won't let him, but because he's still got preconceived notions of sire and childe bullshit, and who should fuck who and domination and submission and blah blah blah. So even though there have been countless times when I've presented him with the opportunity to do it, I can count on one hand the times he's actually taken the chance. Those times are usually when he's angry.

He must still be angry.

And oh, my fucking God, I don't care, because now he's eased one hand in between me and the sheet and found my weeping cock and he's squeezing it as expertly as he knows how, rocking against my back with furious thrusts and I can feel him so deep, so hard inside, and I move against his hand because if I don't come right now I think I might cry.

And then I do, a tear finding its way out from my tightly closed eyes and quickly becoming lost among the fabric of the pillow because this feels like heaven and it's no different from any other time with Spike, it always feels this marvelous and emotional and angry and hurtful and...alive.

I feel alive, with him.

With Buffy, with Cordelia, with the thousands of other mortal women that came eons before, I was attuned to the difference in our bodies.

I was dead, and they lived.

But with Spike...I'm never dead.

And he is as alive as he can be also, which is never as evident as it is when we fight and wrestle and roll around and fuck, like right now. And as he gasps above me and stiffens, I can feel the life pour from him into me, and then I'm pouring my own life into his strong hand below and I can't think because it feels too good and too much like home.

He lies atop me for a while, his limbs languid and his torso heavy. Then he rolls to the side and away, banging open the drawer of the nightstand and finally giving a triumphant "Ha!" when he discovers a cigarette.

The only light in the room is the tiny glowing tip, and I watch as his face is illuminated briefly when he takes a drag. All angles and sharp planes.

"Want a hit?" he chuckles, knowing I'll glare disapprovingly.

"Sure," I say, and take it from him.

"Hey," he protests, watching with horror as I take a long drag of the cigarette, the ash at the end taunting him. I hand it back and expel a stream of smoke into the darkness.

Thinking that maybe I should finally apologize for what he saw with Cordelia, I turn to face him.

Immediately he shakes his head. "Just be quiet, cantcha, Angel? Why do you have to fucking talk all the bloody damn time?"

I nod, and turn back to stare at the ceiling.

I'm forgiven.

Broken

Sex. A little angst.
Apologies given to Jessica and Kita, whose drunk Spike fic was many planes above mine

I am so angry I think my eyes might explode.

My fist is itching for something wooden to smash through his black heart. Is it not enough that I invited him to live with me? Is it not enough that I give him food, shelter, and the occasional fuck?

Well, more than occasional.

But he's done it now. He crossed that fine line that he loves to dance around so much.

I deal with finding his filthy magazines under the mattress. I deal with him wearing the same disgusting clothes for three days in a row. I deal with him drinking the last bag of blood and waving me away impatiently when I hold the empty plastic up accusingly.

But this....!

I can only stare in disbelief at his mussed blond head that happens to be sticking out over the disheveled bedclothes. His hair is going every which way, the unruly waves curling messily over themselves and the pillow.

The fact that he looks like the angel Gabriel in sleep does not crack the icy anger one bit. Spike looks innocent while he's got a human heart in his hands and a mouthful of entrails.

I was not even this angry the time I came home to find him chasing Cordelia around the apartment while he was in full gameface, with her wearing only her underwear and a shredded shirt, and him singing "Glory to the King" at the top of his lungs.

*She* was probably this mad, though. Even though he had pouted and claimed he was only teasing her after I cuffed his head.

No, what he's done this time can never be undone. If we both live to be one thousand years old, I will not forget how furious I am at him right this minute.

He's drunk, my idiot childe is.

On.....MY....Irish....whiskey.

My four-hundred-dollar bottle of aged Irish whiskey. Which is gone now.

It's not the actual whiskey itself, though my mouth is practically watering just at the thought of the warm silky taste of it. It's the fact that it was a gift, a gift I received well over five years ago, and not only is the whiskey gone but the giver of it is too.

*That's* what's making me so mind-numbingly angry.

I pad across the wood floor, avoiding the plank that creaks. The element of surprise is important.

Spike has the precious bottle clutched in one hand, his long fingers curled around the neck. As I get closer, I can see that there is a single drop hovering on the lip, trembling there. The clear brown liquid taunts me with that one drop.

I grab the coverlet, yank it off of him, and stare down in distaste. He's fully dressed, for God's sake, his Docs leaving black streaks on the 300-thread count sheets. His trademark t-shirt has stains: a drop of old blood here, a cigarette burn there. I reach down and take hold of his shirt in my fist.

"Get up!" I howl in his ear, dragging him to a sitting position.

The bottle falls to the floor and breaks, enraging me even more.

Spike comes to with a shake of his head and a startled, "What the fu --"

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence because I'm pulling him out of bed, ignoring his yelp of pain when his ass hits the floor. I know the dimwitted hamster on the wheel inside his brain has finally started running when we crunch across the broken glass.

"Now, Peaches," he wheedles as I drag him by the arm across the room, "I would have saved you some, but there was really only enough for one..."

"Quiet!" I turn and bark in his face. I can still smell the whiskey on his breath, and his blue eyes are overly bright.

He's a slobbering lush, that's what he is, and he needs some sobering up.

His expression turns sullen when I yell. He doesn't like it when I yell. I think I'll yell some more.

When we reach the bathroom, he grabs on to the doorjamb but his coordination is off. Oh, imagine that, his balance is off after drinking A WHOLE FUCKING BOTTLE of my liquor. It's easy for me to pry his fingers away from the door and yank him into the bathroom.

"Angel --" he starts, in that slinky low purr of a voice.

"SHUT UP!" I practically throw him into the little room, and he goes reeling into the tile wall. With a groan, he slides to the floor and stares up at me through unfocused eyes.

"Wha'd ya go and do that for?" he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. "That hurt, you big ol' stupid motherfu--"

My warning growl makes him snap his mouth shut. But he continues to glower.

I kick the door closed and give the cold water faucet in the tub a jerk. The shower comes on full force, hitting the plastic curtain, and Spikes looks suspiciously at the bathtub.

He hiccups once, then giggles idiotically. "You gonna take a shower? Good. You stink. You stink of that crappy, fruity hair shit that gets all over the fucking pillows. And that cologne? Jeeeeeesus, Angel, that shit ain't worth the bottle you put it in -- oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you sure as bloody hell ain't puttin' me in that water, you goddamn pussy!"

But it's too late, and I feel a glimmer of satisfaction as I heave his dead weight into the ice-cold spray and plant my fists firmly on his chest.

Spike sputters under the onslaught of water, his white-blond hair turning a soft, golden honey color as he's thoroughly soaked. My knees hurt from kneeling on the tile, but I don't care.

"Sober up, you *stupid* idiot." I give him a good punch in his solar plexus and that ceases his struggling momentarily.

He glares balefully up at me while cold water streams over his cheeks, running rivulets down his jaw and turning his eyelashes into little points.

I want to lick the water off his face.

*What*??

No, I don't! I want to beat the death out of him and throw him onto the Los Angeles freeway!

So why, then, why do I feel myself softening even as I struggle to remain angry at this stubborn, willful childe? Why does the sight of him, fully clothed and soaking wet, make the perpetual darkness inside of me recede just a little?

Angry for not being angry, I begin to haul him out of the tub.

Never should have let my guard down. William was not nicknamed "the Bloody" for nothing.

With a grunt, he rises unsteadily to his knees and slaps his hands to my chest. Tightening his fists around my shirt, he gives one good tug and manages to heave me up and over the side of the bathtub, ensuring that both of us get entirely soaked.

And, god *damn* it, this shirt is suede.

He's grinning maniacally now, his eyes a little less hazy, and I know the alcohol is wearing off. "Oh look," he says in a falsely apologetic tone, "the pansy's hair is getting wet."

I lunge for his throat with one hand but he ducks to the left and I wind up smashed against his chest, nose to nose.

He smirks, a flash of white teeth.

Yep, I'm hard.

So is he, though.

He loves confrontation. He can make a whole sexual thing out of it.

Suede shirt, off. A button pops and rolls down the drain. I don't care.

Spike, still grinning and smelling slightly of fine whiskey.

Pants unzipped, little harder to discard than the shirt. Have to peel them off while standing.

One yank to the neckline of Spike's already battered shirt sends it on its way to cotton heaven. It falls away and he pulls his muscled arms out of the sleeves.

Why? Why is it like this between us? Mostly violent, battling for domination. Until the very end, that is. There's never any question at the end who will submit, only because that's a rule older than the devil himself.

He pops the button fly on his jeans but I push down hard on his shoulders and he goes sliding down the end of the tub to land flat on his back between my legs.

"Open," I hiss, grabbing his chiseled jaw and forcing his mouth.

He does, but the flare of his nostrils tells me to be careful.

"*No teeth*," I command him, "or I'll yank your fangs out and use them as toothpicks."

The softness of my voice tells him I mean what I say, and he retracts his fangs.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, *God*, the inside of his mouth feels magnificent as I slide my cock in, and I have to close my eyes and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning it out loud.

I've had a lot of head in the past two centuries. All right, maybe not so much since my soul was so thoughtfully returned to me. But before then...

Before then, my days and nights were one big Bacchanal festival, with enough drinking, whoring, and blood to satisfy the greediest of sexual conquerors. I had a lot of women, and a few men when it struck my fancy. And I had a *lot* of blow jobs.

But nothing is like Spike.

He's a master at blowing me. And well he should be, he's done it enough. He knows what I like, for example, right now he's ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh......*God*!

If he sucks any harder he's going to leave stretch marks.

My eyes flutter open as I feel his hands creep to the vee between my legs and rest lightly on either side of my dick. His lips are red with the friction and his wet hair is slicked back and he looks like he's thoroughly enjoying what he's doing.

Well, you enjoy doing what you're good at.

Damn him, he always turns it around, always takes his punishment and makes it into his own pleasure.

I'm envious of the lightheartedness it must take to do that.

I continue to thrust, his mouth is warm by comparison to the icy water. Slow, downward strokes, and then a quick withdrawal. He's keeping his teeth out of the way. Smart boy.

His hands edge closer to the base of my cock, and one encircles it with thumb and forefinger. I watch as he removes the other hand and places it on his own swollen penis, gripping it tightly and matching the rhythm he's making with his mouth.

Good, let him jerk himself off. I'm sure as shit not going to do it for him.

Like he even fucking cares, anyway. Spike tossing off is a sight I've walked in on all too frequently. He must do it once a day, at least, and it doesn't matter if we've had sex or not. He just does it, and likes it.

And he's liking it right now, circling the tip with his thumb and jerking his shaft roughly while he continues to suck as hard as inhumanly possible on me.

Is *this* why I never stay mad? Or is it something else?

Is it the flash of rebellion I see in his eyes? Is it the howl of protest he gives when I turn off the Spice channel and make him watch Arts and Entertainment? Is it the way he has no regard for anything and everything that's mine?

Or is it the way he turns into me while he's asleep, heaving a deep breath like he used to do while he still lived?

And, Christ, I can't think about that anymore because the telltale tingle in my balls is traveling, and I'm starting to grip his slick hair between my fingers and pump just a little bit harder into his eager mouth, and he's giving it all he's got. To himself, too, because he growls around me and jerks a little, and I know he's coming.

Ohhh, *shit*, this feels good.

This feels so damn good, and I'm about to....yesssssssssssss....

Like a trooper, he swallows it all and then licks his lips for more. He even gives the tip of my cock a final squeeze, and greedily swipes his tongue across it.

I can't stay balanced on my knees any more in this damn hard tub, and I get to my feet. He ignores the hand I hold out to him.

Insolent, insolent.

I shut off the water and grab a towel. I throw a clean one over his head while he's struggling to peel off his jeans. He snorts and throws it on the floor.

Leaving the bathroom reminds me of why I became so furious when I first saw him. The shards of glass still lie glittering next to the bed.

He comes out and sees me looking. "Oh, Lordy, ya big bloody poof. I'll buy ya another stinkin' bottle of that swill."

It's not another bottle that I want. I want *that* one, the one he drank, and the one that broke.

I don't answer. He will not understand the significance of that bottle. It will go completely over his empty blond head and he will only laugh at me in that infuriating way of his.

Careful not to step on the glass, I get a broom and dustpan from the closet and silently sweep up the mess. He watches me dump it into the wastecan. I crawl into bed without another word.

Silence from the doorway.

Then, a rustle of sheets as he climbs in.

"You don't even like to drink," he says tentatively.

I present him with my back.

"Aww, fer chrissakes, Angel. I said I'd get another one." He acts disgusted.

I turn to my back and stare at the beamed ceiling. "You can't."

"Sure, I saw 'em at that fancy-shmancy liquor and tobacco store we were at in --"

"It was a gift from Buffy," I interrupt tiredly. There, it's out. I said it.

There is a very long, pregnant pause.

"Always love's bitch, ain't ya."

Then he turns over and goes immediately to sleep.

~*~*~*

Some time in the middle of the night, I wake. Perhaps it was the emptiness beside me that did it. In any case, I hear sounds.

A thud. Muffled, "Fuck all!"

Then, a rustling, and an opening and closing of a drawer.

A whisper of sheets as he crawls back in beside me. Our eyes meet and he glares. "What? I had to piss."

In the morning, a crumpled paper bag sits on my bureau.

There is broken glass inside.

Unabridged

Didn't wanna whip up any kind of plot.
Thanks: Donnalove, who betas for everyone on demand. Adore and fondle her.

"Wanna fuck?"

"Huh?"

Spike snorts and rolls his eyes at me. "Do. You. Want. To. Fuck. I'm bored."

"You're bored?"

"Jesus! Yeah, what are ya, deaf? I'm bored." He hooks his thumbs through his beltloops and shifts his lean weight.

"Spike, please. Can you not see this stack of files I have to go through? Wesley's out of town this week."

He says nothing, just stares at me.

How annoying.

"There isn't anything on tv?" There has to be something he likes to watch. One of those inane cartoons or something. Porn. Anything.

"Angel. Do ya wanna fuck, or not? 'Cause I can go jerk off, but I tell ya, I'm gettin' a sight tired of it." He is very affronted.

At trying times like this, I have to remember that I invited him here. It was my idea, and he only agreed to come because I asked him to. He is here because of me.

It's my fault.

My fault that an edgy, twitchy, bleached demon with eyes the color of morning rain is standing there asking me if I want to have sex.

No. That is incorrect. He is asking me if I want to fuck. Spike rarely does anything other than fuck. On the exceptional occasion, he has sex, which is only slightly less impersonal. And once in a great, great while, he makes love.

This is not one of those whiles.

"I mean, damn, Angel, y'haven't moved yer ass from that chair for a week."

"Uh -" I say, not sure of how to answer. "Umm ..."

"Fuck, Angel, buy a vowel. I ain't askin' ya a hard question." He sneers. "Ya know what? Never mind. Just read yer damn files for the Watcher."

And he turns on his booted heel and stalks up the stairs.

I stare at a dot of dried wax on the desktop from one of Cordelia's scented candles. Again, with the petulance. How, after over one hundred years, do I always find a way to wound him? Spike, Master Vampire ... sensitive. Who'da thunk.

And why do I always fall for it?

I raise my eyes to the ceiling, trying to hear if Spike has gone into the room we share, or if he has retreated sulkily into one of the many empty rooms on the same floor.

Silence. He has taken offense to something he considers important.

When will I learn that what comes out of Spike's mouth is not necessarily what he means? I need an unabridged dictionary just to decipher childe-speak. For example: "Wanna fuck?" apparently is defined as: "Angel, you've been spending too much time working and not enough time paying attention to me and asking you if you want to screw is the only way I can think of to make you raise your idiot head from your desk and look my way."

Well. I guess I do want to fuck.

When I make my way to the second floor, I find the door to our room stands open and no light shines from inside. When Spike broods, he does it in the dark, using the absence of light as shelter for his hurt feelings.

I will not feel guilty. I will not. He is behaving childishly.

And yet ... here I am, staring into a dark bedroom.

I honor his preference and make my way into the blackness, sensing where he's taken refuge. He lies in the middle of the enormous bed, fingers steepled on his stomach and legs crossed at the ankle.

"Y'didn't have to come chasin'."

"I'm not chasing. I'm following."

"What the hell for? Y'already ran me off."

"Yeah, well ... I changed my mind."

"'Bout what?"

"I want to fuck."

A sudden, surprised bark of laughter. "You never say that."

I can see his grin in the darkness, his whiter than white teeth glinting in the faint light from the hall. A good sign. "I never have to. You always say it for me."

He sits up. "So ... let's fuck."

Let's, indeed.

And as I join him on the bed, as once again I sink into the comfort that is my favorite childe, I marvel at just how forgiving he is.

I've wounded him with words, with actions, with misunderstandings and miscommunications, and it seems all I have to do to make reparations is touch him. Spike will respond to touch beautifully, just as he's doing now, letting me take his face in my hands and resting his forehead against mine.

If you try to apologize for whatever imagined slight with words, it only makes him more angry.

And me, more guilty.

So no spoken "I'm sorrys" or "I won't do it agains" because chances are, they would be lies and both of us would know, and that would wound him more deeply than before.

So, kisses instead, deep ones that make him close his azure eyes and fist his hands in the front of my shirt, waiting as always for me to lead.

And I do, because it makes him comfortable. It is familiar and predictable, something Spike surprisingly appreciates. Sire-Childe relationships are what he knows and what he expects. I hate them. And no matter how I try, I can't break him from the mold.

"Lead," I have said, and he only looks doubtful. "Tell me what you want me to do," I have told him, and it only causes his confusion.

He just doesn't know how.

Even now, with evidence of his arousal pressing painfully against the fly of his jeans, he waits. I have no doubt that if I were to get up off the bed and go back downstairs, he would not follow.

And I lead, because I'm supposed to.

I lift his shirt over his blonde head, running my hand in appreciation over the planes of his abdomen. The ridges of muscle tighten under my fingertips and he lies back, his hand still clutching my shirt.

If there is ever a time when he is guileless, it is when we're having sex. He has no ulterior motive, I don't have to be on the alert for a hidden agenda. He just wants pleasure. And who am I to refuse him that?

Both of our shirts fall to the floor, and zippers whisper down their ridges. Clothes become an inconvenience suddenly, and I find myself at once impatient for his naked, smooth skin.

He tastes like our history together, and that never changes. When he lies next to me, nude and stealthily quiet, it could be twenty, fifty, one hundred years ago, and we could be in any of the world's most decadent cities ... we fucked our way through Florence and Paris and then made our way to Rio, creating our own den of iniquity and debauchery and vice.

He is history, my childe is. He is *my* history. And who am I to refuse him his pleasure? It was I, after all, who taught him how to receive it.

So when he thrusts willingly up into my hand as I stroke him, and he takes a fistful of bedclothes and arches his neck on his pillow, I know that he is only a follower because I taught him to be.

Tentatively, he places a hand on my thigh and curls his fingers in my waistband. It's about as bold as he'll get, so I push down my pants and take his too.

He grins. "So fuck me already."

Unabridged translation: "Angel, would you make me feel like I mean something to you?"

Flip him over, put a hand in the small of his back, lick my finger and push it into the tiny entrance between his tight cheeks. Feel him relax and tense all at once, hear his imperceptible sigh. Close my own eyes against the sheer gratification of it.

Then he is ready, stretching inside, and he buries his face in the pillow with a groan. "Do it, Angel," comes the muffled plea, the only time he ever asks.

To melt into Spike is such bliss, I've never felt its equal. I've had different kinds of sexual pleasure, and each was satisfying, but Spike is different because Spike is of my blood.

I *made* him.

And now I'm inside him, letting him milk me the way he knows how to do so well, taking short, shallow thrusts in an effort to make it last longer.

I don't think "longer" is going to happen.

He turns his face to the side and I can see the glow of his eyes, the glitter of lengthened canines, and I doubt he even knows he has morphed.

A drop of saliva rolls off my own fangs and drips in the valley between his shoulderblades.

I can tell he's creating his own friction between his body and the comforter, using my thrusts as leverage, so I concentrate on the pressure building behind my cock and let it sweep up and over and through, feeling my climax shudder from me into him.

The delicate slope of his nape is shining with sweat, and it's too much for me to resist. Lunging forward, I sink my teeth into it, reaching over his shoulder and offering my wrist to him at the same time. His blood spurts in great pulses, cinnamon and ginger, and just when I feel his canines pierce my skin, he comes with a grunt.

His climax makes him jerk violently despite my weight on top of him, and when he is finished, he is drained. I move off to the side, one leg still entangled with his and my arm resting across his back.

Perhaps now is the time for verbal apologies?

I make an effort.

"Umm ... Spike ... I know I've been unusually busy the last couple of weeks -"

"If I threw you in the Pacific, Angel, you'd sink like a stone," he interrupts.

"If you - what?"

"Yer stinkin' soul," he explains with disgust. "It weighs ya down, y'know?"

Oh, yes. I know.

We lay in silence for a long time, which is usual for us. Then I try again.

"Will."

"What?"

"Next time you're bored ... I won't be busy."

I see his scarred brow arch with amusement. "Yeah? Good. I'm bored again."

Reparation

A/S slash, angst. Miscommunications are a way of life

Thanks: To Saber, who arrived in the nick of time and guided my hand
For two of my dearest, Donna and Maayan. Donna, you are both a delight and a treasure. Maayan, you are loved and worried about.

Three days sliding into four, and Spike has not come home.

Angel paces the Hyperion.

Three days ago, he went out for cigarettes, and Angel barely raised his head from his paperwork. Hardly acknowledged Spike's taking of his car keys and ten dollars from Angel's battered wallet, paid no mind to Spike's "Gotta get out for smokes" and instead just gave him a brief nod and turned back to his endless files.

Three days sliding into four.

+ * + * + * +

A week turns into ten days and Angel has not eaten for the last two of them, has not slept or changed his clothes, and has borrowed Gunn's car four times to scour the twinkling city for a sign of his childe.

He has prowled the dirty, stinking alleys. He has nudged the homeless with his foot on the off chance that Spike, for whatever inane reason bouncing around in his brain, may have decided to sleep on the street. He has gotten in two fistfights, both of which he won, though not without injury to himself. Angel cradles his left arm close to his body, wondering if the cracked collarbone is taking longer to heal than usual.

Ten days, and Spike is gone, with no reason or rhyme.

+ * + * + * +

Cordelia comes. She peers into the darkened room where Angel sits in the armchair, looking out over the city. "Anything?"

"If there were anything, you'd know," Angel says shortly, and doesn't watch her leave.

Wesley's turn a day later, and he is bolder, actually entering the room and coming to stand next to Angel at the window. He unconsciously mimics Angel's pose, standing with his feet apart and his hands linked behind his back. "Angel," he begins, not unkindly, "Spike may be dead."

Angel appreciates Wesley's honesty. He appreciates the fact that Wesley considers their relationship to be strong enough to withstand the truth. But if Wesley does not leave the room immediately, Angel thinks he may have to demonstrate unusual force.

When Angel turns toward Wesley with glistening fangs, Wesley leaves.

+ * + * + * +

Two weeks.

The Hyperion is strangely silent. Angel has told Wesley and Cordelia to go home and not return until he contacts them.

//yes cordelia you'll still get paid//

Angel is living in the void created by Spike's unexplained disappearance, racking his brain for reasons

//excuses//

why Spike would stay away so long when he has never done so before.

//death is not an option spike is not dead//

Angel lies on his bed, stiff as a board. Stares at the ceiling. A tumbler of whiskey is on the nightstand.

The void looms.

+ * + * + * +

On the fifteenth day, the front doors of the Hyperion burst open and then slam shut. Angel hears booted feet clomping across the tiled floor. Overly sensitive hearing picks up the jingle of car keys being dropped on the counter.

Slowly, so as not to disrupt the white noise that is coating his brain, Angel sits up and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He focuses bleary eyes on the rectangle of light in the doorway.

Up the stairs, muffled by carpeting. Angel can hear soft whistling now, some tuneless thing that is low and melodic. Still focused on the door. Somehow Angel thinks that if he peels his eyes away from the door the room will begin to spin like a mad carousel, and he won't be able to get off.

Silhouette in the doorframe, lean and lanky. Momentary pause as he squints in.

Angel focuses.

Into the room now, casually dropping his duster on the armchair that Angel has inhabited every night for fourteen nights. Past the bed, looking at Angel curiously, gesturing with his chin.

"Hey," Spike says, heading into the bathroom, smelling of tequila and cigarettes.

The white noise increases.

Some time later, Spike emerges. Angel smells clean, damp hair. He can hear Spike behind him, rooting around in the dresser drawer for a fresh shirt, mumbling under his breath when he finds only Angel's clothing because Spike has once again failed to put his soiled shirts in the laundry.

Spike gives up and yanks one of Angel's too-large shirts over his wet head, mussing his hair and causing his bangs to tumble over his forehead. Angel watches him with interest.

"There any blood down there?" Spike asks, pulling up a relatively clean pair of jeans and leaving the fly open at the waist. "Huh? Is there?"

Angel blinks at him owlishly, unsure of the answer. He hasn't eaten anything since day eleven, when Cordelia, against his wishes, returned to the hotel with a bag of blood.

//don't ask where it came from angel just drink it please//

It had been human, and still warm.

Spike rolls his eyes and gives up on an answer, leaving to discover for himself.

Angel hears him slamming doors in the kitchen and letting out a string of profanities when he finds an empty refrigerator.

Spike returns to the bedroom, disgruntled. "Whyn'tcha got any food, lameass?"

And then the white noise is turned off, and there is a terrible silence. At once Angel has to fill the quiet.

"Because there's been no one here to eat it!" he shouts, and suddenly he is rising from the bed and advancing on his startled childe, backing Spike into the corner of the bedroom and his voice just keeps getting louder and louder until Spike's brow is furrowed and he is turning away from Angel in confusion.

"Two weeks!" Angel continues to yell. "Fifteen days, Spike! Where in the name of Jesus Christ have you been for fifteen goddamned days?"

Spike turns sullen, and his mouth tightens. "You ain't my keeper, Angelus."

Angel's initial relief turns to fury, white and hot. The demon comes to the fore with a snarl. "You're fucking insolent," he bites out.

"And you're fucking pathetic," Spike shoots back, pushing away from the prison of Angel's body blocking him against the wall. "Wha'd you do while I was gone, Angel, sit and brood? I'm shocked outta my knickers that you even noticed."

"I looked for you, William," Angel says in a dangerously low voice. "I looked all over this damn city for you. I looked for two weeks."

"Well now," Spike says with a grin, "ya found me. Am I in trouble?"

Angel is nonplussed. He has expected an explanation, even an apology. He has not been prepared for casual, indifferent Spike.

This disturbs Angel on a level that he does not care to examine.

But Spike is home. He is whole, intact. He is solid, standing before Angel with his hands on his hips, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

The fury abates into relief once more, and to the surprise of them both, Angel reaches out and pulls Spike into a hard embrace.

Spike stands still momentarily, arms at his sides, while Angel nuzzles his hair and pushes his nose into the hollow below his ear. Then when it seems that there is no immediate danger, Spike raises his hands to Angel's waist and rests them lightly on his hips, unconsciously tilting his head the slightest bit to allow Angel greater access to the smooth flesh of his neck.

"Wasn't gone that long," Spike murmurs, his voice a bare whisper in the dark.

Angel does not answer him, he is reveling in the feel of the flesh under his fingers, willing his worry away and tamping down the panic that has been choking him for a fortnight. Spike is home.

A tug on his shirt, and then Spike is bare-chested before him. Angel looks. Examines. His gaze skates over Spike's sculpted abdomen, searching for wounds, looking for signs that he has been injured while out of Angel's sight.

There are none. Spike is unaltered, his appearance exactly the same as when he casually walked out the door fourteen nights ago, except for the fact that he appears slightly thinner. But the rakish grin is still the same, the dancing blue eyes are not dimmed in their mocking. The corner of his mouth still curls in an disrespectful sneer.

It suddenly becomes less important to Angel to find out where Spike has been than to ensure that he never does it again.

Angel stares down at his boy, who either by will or by choice is not cowed and does not look away. "I was worried," Angel says succinctly.

Something flashes behind Spike's eyes and is gone. "You want me to say sorry? I ain't gonna."

No, Angel realizes, he won't apologize. It is foreign to his nature. Angel is sure that in Spike's own convoluted way, he thinks that Angel should be the one to apologize for whatever imagined slight has occurred.

Instead, Angel just leans in and brushes a kiss across those hard lips, putting his hands on either side of the sculpted face and waiting for Spike's mouth to soften into the embrace.

It takes perhaps three seconds for Spike to melt into the kiss, fitting his lips to Angel's and darting a soft pink tongue out to swipe over the indentation in Angel's upper lip. Then Spike's mouth is open and wet and cool, and his hands are fisting in Angel's hair and Angel indulges in the tiny, sharp pains that are caused by the tight grip on his scalp.

There is a slow, erotic descent to the floor, marked by many kisses and low growls and tiny drops of blood welling up from small nips to the skin. The light from the doorway shows smears of Spike's blood across his chest, and Angel knows there are identical smears on his own cheeks where he has kissed and licked at his childe.

Spike's recently donned clothing is discarded, and Angel somehow kicks away his own pants and shirt so that they lay naked together, small dots of blood still marking both of their white skin, one or two cuts deep enough for the blood to form a little trail down Spike's chest.

It is manna to Angel, and he can't stop licking at it, can't stop from swallowing his childe's thick blood and listening to the resulting purr. Angel coats his tongue with it, rolls the coppery ginger taste around the inside of his mouth, and then slides down Spike's body to engulf his straining cock.

Only once, twice, three times does he bob his head over the engorged shaft, barely hearing the grunt Spike emits, and then raises himself up on his forearms. Spike opens heavy-lidded eyes and glances down at his own glistening erection, understanding at once what Angel is asking him to do.

Angel is asking Spike to fuck him and has prepared him to do such. Angel knows that Spike would not take the initiative on his own and so he has nudged him in the direction of dominance, wondering even as he does it why he feels the need to have his power taken away, if only momentarily.

It doesn't matter. Spike is home, and Angel can only feel relief.

Putting two hands on the small of Angel's back, Spike rises up and out of Angel's line of sight, and suddenly it is wrong, all wrong.

Spike becomes faceless, nameless, almost as if he is not there at all, and Angel feels the panic returning when he thought that it had left for good.

"No," he says, and it does not come out loudly enough because Spike still has not reappeared in his vision, so he says it again.

"No!"

Then Spike is leaning down over his shoulder, his strong, hard frame pressed to Angel's back. Angel can feel his beautiful thick length pressing into the crack of his buttocks. "No, what?"

Angel begins to breathe through his nose, a sure sign of impending hysteria, and he reaches back to grab hold of something solid. His grip connects with Spike's neck and before Spike can even let out a startled "Hey!", Angel has flipped him over his shoulder to once again land on the ground in front of him.

Annoyed blue eyes meet frenzied brown. "What's that all about?"

"Can't see you," Angel says, and thinks it sounds rather insane even to his own ears.

"But I'm right there," Spike says slowly. "You gone daft or somethin'?"

But Angel takes Spike's hardness into his hand and begins a slow, steady rhythm, that shortly has Spike forgetting about Angel's momentary foray into terror. Angel watches his childe as he pumps him, using the slick lifeblood that marks them both, and before long Spike is arching his back and groaning without reserve.

Angel's own cock throbs, and he realizes he has almost forgotten about his own desire in his brief moment of fear.

Almost.

Without embarrassment he reaches down and places one of Spike's capable hands on his own cock, knowing that Spike will unselfishly comply with Angel's wishes.

Spike doesn't disappoint. Angel sees him smile, his whiter than white teeth glinting in the light from the doorway, and he grips Angel's cock and starts to stroke.

Is it shameful or a miracle that sex brings them together? Angel thinks, his nostrils flaring with each sure pump of his childe's hand. Why does it always come to this, the two of them in the darkness, pushing away whatever misunderstanding led them down this path to begin with?

Shameful ... or a miracle?

But Angel doesn't want to think any more, his brain is hurting from all the thinking the last two weeks have caused, and he only wants to concentrate on Spike.

Bringing his other hand to Spike's cock, Angel grips the head between his thumb and forefinger while holding the shaft the same way with his free hand. Spike begins to arch in anticipation, knowing that Angel's technique is fast and hard and the surest way to pleasure, and some of Angel's inner hurt is soothed at the sight of his childe lying spread before him, trusting and open and waiting for his pleasure, one of his own hands still holding Angel's dick.

Angel rubs, and Spike nearly rises off the blanket beneath them, a whispered, "holyjesusangel" the only sound he makes.

Again, Angel rubs with two hands, sliding the thin foreskin back and forth, watching as Spike's cock becomes even heavier and more infused with blood, and then he stops.

Spike pants and swallows once but does not open his eyes, waiting.

Again, Angel rubs, and Spike jerks with the force of it, his buttocks tightening and his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth.

He never relinquishes his hold on Angel's cock.

A third time, Angel rubs Spike's aching erection with two hands, and this time he doesn't stop. Again and again and again, stroking the foreskin over and back, and finally the silence in the room is broken by Spike's guttural growl when he comes in thick spurts, the lifeless semen spattering on Angel's hand and chest.

He still holds Angel's throbbing dick in his hand, and now Angel is tense with his hunger for orgasm. He knows Spike has not recovered but he can not help pushing into his childe's hand the slightest bit, seeking pressure and friction and release.

Spike reacts instantly, tightening his fingers around Angel, and leaning up on an elbow for better positioning. He is fast and thorough, using the semen that coats Angel's chest for lubrication, and Angel suddenly finds himself on his back with his childe straddling his hips.

Angel lets go.

There is only Spike and this room and his impending climax, and finally all the worry over Spike's disappearance has taken a back seat to something else, and Angel finds his release with a roar, his head thrashing on the blanket beneath him and his body shuddering helplessly under his childe's talented touch.

Spike is the one to retreat to the bed some time later, yanking the blanket out from under Angel's sleep-heavy body.

Angel willingly follows.

He lies next to Spike, both of them awake and wide-eyed in the dark.

"Tijuana."

Angel turns his head in silent question.

"That's where I went. Down to TJ for a few days." Spike shrugs, as if this explanation makes things right.

Angel ponders any number of answers he could give, none of them calm. He decides to focus his gaze again on the ceiling.

He feels rather than sees Spike's frown.

"You're really that jacked up about it?" Spike asks, after another long silence.

Angel turns to face him once more. "Yes," he says carefully, "I'm really that jacked up about it." And then Angel gets up and leaves the room.

Down the wide staircase, unmindful of his nudity, into the darkened lobby where he finds a comfortable chair and sinks into it.

Night glides into dawn.

At daybreak, there is soft padding of feet behind him.

"Umm ... Angel?" Tentative question, not typical of his boy. His boy is usually brash and tactless.

"Yes?"

"Ya ... ya shouldn'tve worried."

Angel keeps staring straight ahead. "It isn't something I can turn on and off," he says shortly.

Spike is very close now, Angel can feel him standing directly behind his chair. He hears Spike take a deep breath of courage.

"Sorry, man. Didn't know you'd get your shorts in a knot over me ... it."

Then Spike is gone, back up the stairs.

Angel watches the dawn stretch pink fingers across the floor.

Anomaly

PWP in the Wounds Invisible series

You would think he's lost, the way he looks uncertainly through the open roof door. Don't know why he'd get lost up here, but with Angel, nothing's impossible.

"Uh ... what're you doing?" he asks you, despite the fact that your bottle and your smokes are in plain sight on the edge of the roof.

It doesn't require an answer, so you don't give one. You look out over the sparkling city instead.

"Did you want to be alone?"

"No, Angel. I wanted to be surrounded by laughing children and warm puppies. But since all ya got down there is Wesley and Cordelia, my dreams were dashed."

A little sarcasm is good for the soul.

He doesn't retreat, which strikes you right off as odd. You swing your legs back over the ledge to the solid ground and face him. He stands with feet apart, hands supporting his weight on the back of an abandoned folding chair.

"Did you need something?" you ask, before raising the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red to your lips. If he tells you it's Wesley's, you'll break it on his moussed head. You know it's Wesley's. That's why you took it.

The uncertain look is replaced with determination, and you sigh disgustedly. Determination only means that Angel has Thought Things Out before coming to find you and now has Something To Discuss.

"Erm ... yes. Yes, I need something." He licks his lips and furrows his brow.

You gesture impatiently with the hand holding the cigarette. "Have at it, mate."

"I need a blowjob."

He makes this statement as you are inhaling sweet nicotine, and for the first time in a hundred years, you choke on your smoke. Your lungs are burning and your throat is closing up and you can't stop coughing.

He of course waits patiently for your vision to clear, and when you finally wipe the tears from your eyes and spit the acrid taste from your mouth, Angel is standing in the same place. Feet apart, hands on the chair. The determined expression is gone, however, and now there is blankness.

"Forget it," he says flatly. And then turns to go.

Aw, hell. You weren't laughing at him, he just caught you by surprise. He never asks for that shit. Angel never asks for anything.

"Hey," you say loudly, before he reaches the door. "Come back, dumbass. I can't blow ya from there."

Well if that ain't the goofiest lookin' smile.

He returns, eyes down, and you pick up on the "pretend I'm submissive" vibe. Angel's an anomaly, that's for damn sure. You push him down in the old metal chair because it's what he seems to want, and try not to laugh when you see his fingers already fiddling with his belt.

"Lemme do it," you growl, and his nostrils flare out at the command. He drops his hands to his sides and the bulge at his crotch grows bigger. Makes it tricky to maneuver his pants down, but in his anxiousness, he helps by lifting his hips.

You're good at giving head. It ain't braggin', s'just a fact. And Angel likes gettin' it. So when you kneel before him and take his cock in one hand and start running the velvet head over your dry lips, he practically wriggles with happiness.

You slip the soft mushroom tip past your lips and tongue the small hole, keeping a firm hand around the shaft and bringing your other hand up to cup his sac. You could make this last all night if you felt like it. Again, not braggin'. You've done it before. All you have to do is lower your head slowly ... slowly, keeping a nice suction going, pushing the foreskin back and coating his pale dick with your saliva. You stop for a minute to look at it, and admire how it glistens with your wetness in the light from the full moon.

He doesn't let you admire for long, thrusting up impatiently and whimpering -

Heh, whimpering.

Maybe it won't last all night.

Keeping your eyes on the job in front of you, you lower your mouth again and then withdraw quickly, making sure your hand remains on his balls. You'll give him another ten minutes of this, at least, before -

Huh. Maybe not. You feel him shudder and he slams his hands down to grip the sides of the rusty chair, and then with one more thrust into your open mouth, he's coming.

Shortest blowjob in history.

You dutifully swallow what he delivers and give him one last swipe with the flat of your tongue. You cock an eyebrow up at him from your position between his legs.

He grins at you, a real, genuine grin. Happy Angelus. Amazing what a little head'll do. He stands and picks up his pants, then offers you a hand up. You take it.

"Thanks," he says cheerfully. "You can go back to your ... uh ... whatever you were doing before."

And then the roof is yours again, just yours and the moon's.

Humanity

A/S angst, sex. Shmoopy, too. Small tribute to our new season of Buffy and Angel!
Note: For my lambs - specially Avarice -- who have been grumbling about the dearth of ... well, you know what there's been a dearth of. Don't think this really qualifies, but at least it's something.

"It's broken. Fuckin' thing is broken."

"What is?"

"The damn remote for the telly. It's broken." He punctuates his words by smacking the hapless remote against the wooden arm of the couch, causing the back battery panel to open up and skid across the floor.

"See? Fuckin' thing's ... oh, wait. Why the hell is there only one battery in here? 'Posed to be two."

"Because I used one for my CD player," Cordelia informs him breezily, and ignores the maddening glare he shoots her way.

Take cover, Hurricane Spike has broken in the west.

He heaves himself off the couch and starts rifling through the paperwork on the counter, scattering folders and newspaper articles in his wake. "Where's my *smokes*," he howls at top volume.

"Er .." I say eloquently, unsure of why he is so agitated. He loses those disgusting sticks of cancer around the lobby every day.

Snorting, he dashes a stack of files to the floor and stomps into the small kitchenette.

I stand amid the floating sheets of paper, bewildered. What is wrong with him? Aside from the obvious, of course. Mentally I begin to tick off things I could have done to upset him.

After my list of Possible Slights Against Spike has reached gigantic proportions, I give up and follow. He is in the tiny kitchen, mumbling to himself as he opens drawers and cabinets and then slams them shut again.

"Can't find 'em," he says. "Can't find 'em. Wha'd you do with 'em? Did your prissy little bitch of a glorified secretary toss 'em? Where. Are. My. Cigarettes?"

There's only one thing to do, so I do it. Just as he flings a pile of neatly folded dishtowels into the air, I grab his wrist and jerk him toward me. I fold his lean frame into mine and put a firm hand on the back of his neck, placing his face into the hollow of my shoulder.

And I just hold him tightly.

After a long, long time, he heaves an enormous sigh and relaxes. I wonder if this is a good time to ask him what might be the matter. And if he'll tell me.

I try to remember what Cordelia said about communication. She got it into her head one night to give me lessons in the fine art of "Angel you have to actually do more than look good in dark clothing, you have to actually speak sometimes."

I try to, now. Really. Especially with Spike, who wears all emotions on his dirty sleeve and nothing seems to bother him more than my silence in the face of one of his outbursts.

Gives me a good passive-aggressive weapon, but I try not to wield it too often.

What did Cordelia say? Oh, right. "Sometimes you have to ask Spike what's wrong instead of cowering away from his tantrums."

Ok.

"Spike, what's wrong?"

He lifts his head from where it is neatly placed in the hollow of my shoulder and stares at me. "What's wrong? What's fucking wrong? Are you yanking my chain, you jackass?"

Fuck Cordelia and her goddamned lessons.

I start to shake my head in protest and I can feel my mouth opening and closing like a fish. Why, why, WHY do I always miss the boat with him?

By now he's pulled away from me completely and is backing up, and the expression on his face is almost horrified. "You ... you're ..." he stutters from the doorway. "You're fucking incredible."

And then he is gone, but I can track his journey through the lobby and up the stairs because there are things crashing to the floor behind him. Cordelia yelps when he knocks down one of the very large mirrors on the wall on the second floor, and even Wesley raises his eyes to the ceiling when the bedroom door slams with the force of a tidal wave, and then both pairs of accusing eyes turn from the second floor to the doorway I am standing in, totally perplexed.

"Angel," Cordelia warns me, "you obviously were not listening at our last communication session."

"But ... um ... he just ... well." I gesture vaguely at them with my hand, because this of course will explain exactly what happened in the kitchen just now.

Even Wesley is looking doubtful.

Cordelia raises a hand and points to the staircase. "You need to go up there. And when you get there, you need to remember lesson number seven, when we discussed smoothing over an argument without actually admitting guilt."

Was there even an argument that I have to smooth over? Why am I so confused?

"But ... what's wrong with him?" I ask, and I suppose the look on my face truly shows my bafflement because Cordelia relents.

"Angel," she says softly, "You do know what month it is, don't you?"

Umm ... April, maybe? I stare at her blankly. She points to the calendar hanging behind my desk, the desk I use every single day of the year.

"It's May."

Oh. May.

* * *

There are not many things I have in common with Spike, aside from the fact that we have both killed hundreds of people. And we share the same living space. That about covers it.

But there is the minor detail of both of us loving the most powerful vampire slayer that ever lived, and she died, breaking both of our hearts in a single blow.

There is that.

And it's May, which is coincidentally the month of her death. Even though it was six years ago, and I did my time or penance or repenting or mourning or whatever you want to call it. Not like I don't still mourn her ... because the shining truth of the matter is that she was the love of my life, and I did grieve intensely, and I still miss her to this day. I mourn her every minute I'm awake, only most days it's pushed to the back of my mind and it's more like a dull ache than a persistent pain.

But it's still mourning, and I still do it. I just do it a little more quietly than my childe.

I ponder it all while I stand in the doorway of the bedroom that the hurricane has swept through. I will not get mad at the overturned dresser drawers. I will not be upset at my comb and brush and accompanying hair products on the floor.

::what will you get upset over, angel?::

It's a small, niggling voice. Familiar and comfortable with residence in my already too-analytical brain. I ignore it.

::you never get mad you never get mad you never get mad::

Ignore it. Go into the bedroom, Angel, I think. Go and comfort him, for he cannot mourn as quietly and as privately as you. Go and find him.

::find him and make him comfort you for a change::

And then he is there, materializing in the doorway of the small attached bathroom, his glowing cigarette the only light in the room. A small red ember in a blanket of dark.

"Cordelia guilt you into chasin'?"

The rage explodes from my lungs before I even know what I'm going to say. It must have been there all along, like a flame that has sucked all the oxygen from the room and is just waiting for someone to open the door.

I guess Spike opened the door.

"It's May!" I shout at him.

He turns sullen immediately. "So fuckin' what."

"So what?" I repeat. "So what?" I'm in the bedroom and advancing on him before he's even moved from the doorway.

Blue eyes dart nervously to the side and he takes a quick hit of nicotine, expelling the stream of smoke over his head. "Why d'ya care, all of a sudden?"

Oh, so brave. Even in the face of wrath, he is brave. Always been brave, come to think of it, never ever backing down from a challenge or a fight or

::love::

his sire.

"You do not have the authority on love, Spike," I tell him while we're nearly nose to nose. "You are not the only fool on earth who's ever been in love."

"Yeah? Leastwise I'm man enough to say it, Angel. You call yerself a man, you like to walk and talk and dress like one, but you ain't one. A real man admits when he's in love, no matter how much it kicks him in the balls. And a real man stays in love." Not looking away any more, but straight on now.

So, so brave.

"Stays in love? What the hell are you talking about?" He speaks in riddles. Or at least I think he does. Cordelia says he's easy to understand, but she's a woman. They understand emotional things.

Emotional things make me sort of itchy.

"You forgot," he accuses. "You forgot this is when the Slayer died. You forget everything, Angel. Who's to say you remember how you ever felt about her?"

It is an anomaly to me that Spike is not scornful of the passion I had for the Slayer. Instead, he seems to clutch my love for her close to his own heart, as if it somehow validates his own misguided feelings ... as if it makes it all right for a vampire to love a Slayer.

Because of course, at one time, a vampire did.

"I will not let you," I tell him, jerking the cigarette from his lips and throwing it to the floor. "I will not let you stand there, boy, and tell me that I did not love the Slayer. You and I both know it's not the truth."

"You forgot," he says again, lamely.

"I never forget her. It doesn't matter when she died. I never forget her. I never, ever forget her. Do you understand me?"

There must be something like a crazed look in my eye, because he nods reluctantly although I'm sure he doesn't believe me. His expression turns thoughtful. "Did you tell her you loved her?"

A small twinge of slicing pain. "Yes. More than once."

"Uh huh," he muses. "Me too."

And then suddenly he looks small and young, very similar to the way he looked when I found him and turned him on the streets of London. Heart of a poet.

I heave a huge sigh and feel some of the tension go with it. A thought occurs to me. "Hey," I say tentatively, "I love you too, you know." Sort of not really eloquent, but I think that's Cordelia's next lesson.

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and worries it. "I know that, ya dumbass."

"Yes. Well." I absently scratch my arm. See? Itchy. "I think there's ... something ... downstairs I have to do. You want to help?" What a lame effort. Now he'll predictably get mad for me being condescending.

"I think," he says slowly and with a very wicked grin, "there's something upstairs you have to do."

Well. Something to be said for unpredictability.

* * *

It is quiet and smooth and rough and harsh all at once, which is usually the norm with Spike. There is sweat and a grasping hand and a tight, slick grip, not to mention an even tighter sweet spot below the small of his back. He whispers my name again and again until the whole room is nothing but a litany of his gasping voice and my grunts, and in the middle of it all is the memory of a fallen Slayer. We come together, he in my hand and me in his body, and I know there are tears on both of our cheeks as we shudder and arch and collapse on each other on the damp sheets. He is sticky with my fluid.

I hear him swallow twice. Then a third time, and I know he is crying. I ease off of his body and turn his back into my chest, snaking an arm over his waist. "It's all right," I murmur into his sweaty hair. "It's all right to love her. I still do."

He shakes his head in frustration. "That ain't it, Angel," he chokes out.

"What, then?"

"I want to know if it's all right to forget her."

The End?

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