"Spike?" Xander called out loudly over 'Video Killed The Radio Star,'
which was blasting down from Willow's CD-drive through the hole in
the ceiling.
They had what was left of Angel's flat to themselves, since Angel and
Wesley had climbed up the makeshift ladder in the lift shaft a few
minutes ago. Allegedly to watch Willow perform last-rites on
Cordelia's computer, but actually to give them some time alone, which
was suspiciously nice of Angel. Spike's Sire had muttered something
about not getting peanut butter in his bed, which made Spike blink
for a few seconds before deciding that Angel was either doing some
freaky Drusilla thing and reading his memories, or he was just a
raving nutter. And did that mean he was actually *offering* his
collapsed but still usable bed, provided there was no peanut butter
involved? Could Xander be persuaded to use it, even if he was? These
and other questions will be answered on today's episode
of 'Passions'...
"Hello, larcenous vampire I happen to be sleeping with." That was
said a bit more softly, and from closer in. Followed by Xander
singing a little "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh" along with the bubblegum chorus.
More or less in tune. In that the tune was closer to the original
than it was to, say, the Hallelujah Chorus.
Spike looked up from where he was crouched sorting Angel's un-charred
clothes into 'Steal for Xander' and 'Let the Poof Keep 'Em' piles.
The first one had a nice set of chains at the bottom of it, but was
reluctantly leather-free, since he knew damn well when Angel had last
worn those black leather trousers, and didn't think his lover would
appreciate the reminder. Said lover was standing in the doorway to
Angel's mostly intact bedroom, dressed like a cross between Indiana
Jones and Magnum P.I.
"Yeah. C'mere, I wanna see if this shirt looks as good on you as I
think it will. Vague possibility of hotness, and couldn't be worse
than what you're wearing now, anyway. " The where-the-hell-did-Angel-
get-that-thing fedora looked just fine on Xander, but not when
combined with a shirt that Tom Selleck's wardobe-mistress would've
probably turned down as being too loud, and yes, Spike watched too
much telly. What else did he have to do besides shag and not kill
people?
Xander shook his head as if he should've known better than to expect
Spike to be doing anything useful, but he walked into the
room. "Angel tossed me down the key to that trunk you couldn't get
open. He said you might want this." Xander held out a large oblong
shape wrapped in some sort of black cloth, and Spike took it from
him, handing over a black silk shirt in fair exchange. Xander
examined the shirt critically, while Spike did the same with the
package he'd been handed. The cloth was old, velvet and lace, and
fringed.
"This was Dru's," he said suddenly. "We bought it for her in
Yorkshire." Spike fingered the shawl for a moment. "Well, I picked
his pocket an' bought it for her." He slowly unwrapped it, not really
daring to give in to his guess at what might be inside. It was
correct, though. "Bugger. Bugger it all, he kept it."
Xander paused in taking off the bilious blue and red shirt with
parrots-probably-shagging on it, and stepped close to look over
Spike's shoulder. "That's..."
It was Spike. And Angelus, and Drusilla, neatly done up in
watercolors, framed in dark walnut. Not brilliant by any means, but
it was them. Dru wearing the black shawl over a crushed velvet dress,
Angelus in dark gray and emerald green, like an overgrown leprechaun,
and Spike in black and red. But not a good red-- that awful reddish-
pinkish silk waistcoat with the raspberries embroidered on it that
Dru had picked out in a booth in the Shambles.
"Raspberries," she'd crooned, and the dark gray eyes had lit up, and
he could see the stars beyond the cobwebs in them. "All red and
sticky, like blood, and sweet, like my little Spike. It's delicious!"
Hideous, is what it was, and Angelus had only bought it to torment
him because he knew Spike thought so, and Spike had only worn it
because...
Spike looked down at his current attire, and choked back a laugh. And
what was shagging on this shirt of Xander's that he was wearing--
against his will and every ounce of fashion sense he possessed-- now?
Oversexed ferns? He'd only worn the waistcoat because Drusilla asked
him to, and he sure as hell hadn't changed all that much over the
years, no matter how smarmily Angel wanted to tweak him about having
fallen in love with a human.
"*That's* your real hair color?" Xander asked, dragging him firmly
into the present. He reached out a finger to outline the shape of a
dark blond wave that had fallen on Spike's forehead an unlifetime
ago, and then tugged not all that gently at its peroxided
counterpart. "You said you weren't a natural blond. Undead liar guy."
Spike grinned. "Actually, *you* said I wasn't. I wasn't really in any
condition to argue with you at the time, considering you had your
hands on my cock and it'd been a few months since anybody but me'd
had the privilege." If there was one thing he'd learned in a hundred
and twenty-whatever-he-decided-to-say-today years, it was that the
truth worked as good as a lie, sometimes.
Xander hmm-hmmmed, which meant he was blushing and trying not to
attract Spike's attention to it. Good luck, when your lover can sense
the blood rushing to your face. He didn't blush this much when they
were really alone; it was as if being around his friends had turned
Xander back into the vulnerable, head-trippable kid he'd been this
spring. Or maybe it wasn't his friends, maybe it was last night, or
maybe it was any of a hundred things stuffed into that random-access
head of his. Spike took a little pity. Just a little; he *was* evil,
after all.
"Alright, so I'm the original cuffs-and-collars boy. I'd really
thought it was darker, frankly." Hadn't he dreamed not that long ago
that they'd been a matched set, him and Dru and the Irish Bastard,
with Darla the odd one out? That he'd bleached his hair to wipe out
his likeness to Angelus. And that was laughable, because he was
*nothing* like Angel, souled or unsouled. Why *had* he done it?
Because he wasn't blond *enough*? Thinking Angelus would come back
for Spike like he came back for the Bitch in China, like he could
smell the bleach from halfway round the world? His mental chorus
laughed in his ear. [Christ, but you're a broody git, these days,
Spike. You bleached it 'cos you're a fuckin' vain little prick and
you thought it made you look like a serious badass.]
He shrugged. "You wait 'til you haven't seen yourself in a mirror for
a hundred and twenty years, then try and remember your natural color."
Xander was oddly silent for a bit, and then said, "A hundred and
twenty? What, you were *six* when you were turned? You've gotta pick
an age, Spike. You're worse than my mom."
"I was twenty-four." Twenty-four and a complete virgin, for all the
good his mooning about after Cecily Cardew and at least six other
muffin-headed London society girls before her had ever done. Dru and
Angelus had made short work of that problem, though. "It was eighteen
eighty, don't bother tryin' to do the maths, it won't come out right.
All the things I lie about, and you're worried about my *age* ?"
"Thought I'd start out with that, and work my way up slowly to the
big things like 'Did you break my disco ball' and of course the most
important, 'Do you really think I'm hot, or are you just saying that
so I'll keep feeding you and letting you have your wicked demonic way
with me?' " Now there was a grin, something half shy, half
lascivious.
"No, I didn't break your sodding disco ball, but I'll buy you a new
one if it means that much to you. er...if you'll lend me the cash."
Xander laughed at him. "And I didn't so much imply that you're hot,
as that you make *me* hot." Another flush, and Spike smirked,
wondering if he might be able to give up lying completely. Just tell
Xander some embarrassing but less important truth every time he
stepped too close to a ticklish subject, instead. "So can I have my
wicked demonic way with you again?" He gave Xander his own lascivious
glance, and random-blush-boy looked down at the portrait to escape it.
"A room and a half away from Willow? I think not, somehow." Xander
stared at the picture, and Spike wondered what was going through his
head. Was there some unwritten law that said he could read any git in
the world except the man he was in love with? "Hey, I know that
face," Xander said after a moment, pointing at the painted Spike,
with a bit of a smarmy Xandergrin replacing the blush. Spike raised
an eyebrow at him.
"I should hope so; you've been lookin' at it on and off for two and a
half years now."
Xander thumped him on the skull with his knuckles, and then pointed
again, tracing the edge of the smile on the other Spike's
face. "*That* face. That's your 'I've just been fucked until I made
little squeaky noises, and ain't I happy about it' face."
Spike gave Xander an arch glance, one that Angelus had taught him a
hundred and twenty years ago, give or take. "Oh, you know that look,
do you?" It was shot right back at him with a nod-and-a-half, and
Spike had to laugh. He learned *far* too fast, Alexander Harris
did. "Well, you're right. I had. Gotta give him that, he got us all
down."
Xander snorted. "And then you ate him, right?"
"Well, not right afterwards. We gave him time to clean his brushes
first." Xander gave him an "Oh" and Spike rolled his eyes. He smacked
his lover lightly on the seat of his trousers. "Angelus painted it,
you git. From a photograph." And they *had* given him time to clean
his brushes first. Just. Mostly because they'd been promised
unspecified treats if they would stay the hell out of the room until
he'd finished painting.
"They had cameras back then?" Which went to show that Xander Harris
learned fast when he was paying attention, but not when he was
staring at his History teacher's knockers. Or possibly when he was
trying to pretend he wasn't staring at his History teacher's cock,
Spike mentally appended.
"Yes, Mister Radio Killed The Music Hall Star. They had indoor
plumbing, too, even the sort that flushed, if you had the dosh for
it, and those little round things we used to call wheels were
catching on in the smarter circles. It was eighteen eighty-six, not
the bleedin' stone age, Xander. Maybe you should watch a bit more
History Channel and a bit less Cartoon Network."
"Or we could watch a bit more Blackadder. That's vaguely historical,
right?" Xander was still staring at the picture, and Spike held it up
so he could get a closer look. So Spike could get a closer look as
well, though it was behind his eyes if he closed them. Dru staring
off somewhere, seeing the stars only knew what, Angelus looking
straight at where the camera would have been, all serious except for
the twitch of a smile at one corner of his mouth-- and Spike himself.
With, as Xander had said, the look of a man who's just been fucked
into smug insensibility. Spike closed his eyes, and he could almost
smell the chocolate oranges.
"Okay, tell me about it," said Xander, sitting down next to Spike on
an overturned bookcase, and slipping off his shirt. Putting his warm,
bare chest up against Spike's t-shirted back, and it felt almost as
hot as the fire had been in that little room in York.
"Really?" He hadn't thought Xander would want to hear about anything
Angelus-related, given his jealousy of Angel. Which was suddenly not
too hard to pick up, now that somebody didn't have his bleached head
stuck completely up his fiendishly attractive arse. He opened his
eyes, and Xander was nodding, a small smile on his face. It made no
sense, but it seemed to be a good sort of senselessness, so Spike
didn't question it too hard. "You *want* me to tell you about me
getting shagged?"
"Yeah, you're obviously dying to. Fell asleep during the last Spike-
gets-fucked bedtime story you tried to tell me. Here's your chance to
come up with one that's interesting enough to keep me awake. You've
got a better chance now-- it's noon, and I'm not in bed."
"Which is pretty bloody rare." Xander thwapped him again, and Spike
grinned. "Alright-- though we could correct that, y'know. There's a
perfectly good bed right over there, and the door still shuts on this
room and everything..." Xander flipped him the finger, and he sighed
tragically. "Fine. We were in Yorkshire. York proper, actually. Dru
liked it, 'cos of the Shambles. Little alley market, and she just
loved to look at the pretties on the market stalls. Clothes, girls,
ribbons, fresh raspberries. Oranges. She'd eat fruit, for some
reason. Blood and fresh fruit. Chocolate if you fed it to her, though
she didn't care much one way or the other about it."
"That's 'cause she's insane."
"True enough, though that doesn't exactly explain you and me." If
anything did. "Anyhow, we'd walked all the way round the city on the
wall the day before, to show her you could do it, and probably
because the great Irish poofter thought it would wear me out and I
wouldn't be so likely to drive him buggy--fat chance of that. Himself
noticed this little shop where a professor-type was doing photographs
and got some daft idea of us doing a family portrait, even though her
high-and-mightyness was off in London."
"Who?"
"Oh, the Bitch. Angel's Sire. Bane of my bloody existence, she was,
and you think *he's* got no sense of humor? Eh. She wasn't there,
though, wandered off to London to see *her* Sire, and me and Dru got
the dubious joy of havin' the Poof to ourselves for a year or three.
So. York. That next day he dolled us all up in those fancified
threads, and said we had to be *good* for an hour while the professor-
git wanked about with his equipment. Aside from in bed, have you ever
seen me be *good* for an hour?"
"I can't believe you made me wear this fairycake getup." Spike tugged
at his collar as Drusilla leaned against him, and Angelus cuffed him
across the head.
"As if you've never worn a gentleman's clothes before, brat. Hush and
behave, or I'll give you somethin' to complain about."
Sodding waistcoat with the sodding raspberries that looked like
somebody'd squished a sodding jelly-roll on him... "Promises,
promises."
"You promised me a lolly if I'd be good," Dru said sincerely, turning
her head to look back at their Sire.
"That I did, precious." Leaning his head close to Spike's ear,
Angelus whispered, "Which one was Lolly again?"
"The little dark-haired chit in the chocolate shop. Promised me a
lolly too, you did."
Angelus smacked him on the skull again. "That I did not. Might find
you something else to lick, though."
Spike pouted. He'd got quite good at that, since the Bitch took off
and he didn't have to play the bully-boy anymore unless he felt like
it. With a sigh, his Sire smoothed his hair. "I've a chocolate orange
for you in my pocket."
*****
"Geez, and I thought you acted like a kid around him *now.*" Xander
had slipped Angel's shirt on, and yeah, the boy definitely needed to
wear more black. Spike tore his eyes away reluctantly, and found them
caught by his own painted reflection.
"Well, he let me, then. I'd not had the chance to be one, really, the
first time, and he knew it, so he let me get away with acting as
young as Dru did. Up to a point. Even though she couldn't help it,
and I could. Mostly."
*****
"Daddy, I'm feeling wick-ed," Drusilla sang after about ten minutes,
her eyes sparkling, and Angelus groaned. Spike grinned. Family
portrait or not, Dru wasn't supposed to be calling him Daddy and
confusing the poor little professor fellow. Not when Daddy only
looked two or three years older than the both of them, at most. "Can
I play with the little man?"
"No, Princess. Not now. He has to be around to develop the
photograph. Next week, then you can play. Just sit still and wait
while he fixes his equipment." Angelus fussed a bit with her hair,
and she hummed happily, momentarily distracted. Spike,
meanwhile... "And Will, stay out of my pocket. Y' can have the
chocolate when we get home." Bugger. Caught red-handed.
"But I'm bored *now*." Spike looked around the shop for something to
occupy his twitchy mind. Shelves full of books, which might've been
interesting enough, if his body wasn't feeling just as twitchy. They
should've gone walking today; that would've worn him out a bit, but
it hadn't been cloudy like yesterday, and they'd had to wait until
true twilight to venture out.
"And chocolate's going to make you more likely to sit still? You must
take me for a bigger idgit than you."
Spike looked him up and down. "You *are* a bigger idgit than
me. 'Bout three stone bigger, at least. You should've shared that
vicar on the way here-- you're getting fat." Another cuff, this time
on the ear, and he grinned again. Sire-baiting. A much more
entertaining game than sitting still and staring at the skinny little
wanker with the glasses as he messed about over his camera and plates.
"Miss Millicent says you boys aren't to fight, or she'll be cross."
Dru held up her doll, a new one that she'd taken off her latest snack.
*****
"I *so* didn't need to hear that part."
"Sorry, shall I pretend she popped over to the magical faerie toy
shoppe and picked it out? If it helps any, I never fancied kids
m'self. Takes too many to make a mouthful, and they don't fight back
enough."
"That's...oddly comforting. Alright, go on, but try to gloss over the
gourmet dining reviews, okay?"
*****
Twenty more minutes, and Spike had been up and down three times. Over
to the bookshelves, thumbing through a treatise on blacksmithing, a
collection of Irish fairytales, and a copy of 'Through the Looking
Glass and What Alice Found There.' He'd brought that last one back to
read to Dru, but lost interest himself after a few minutes, and
handed it over to Angelus, who was doing his best to explain to
Drusilla that no, you *couldn't* just walk into mirrors, and her
looking glass girl hadn't run away somewhere because she was ugly.
Across the room to stare over Professor Certified Plum-Duff's
shoulder at the camera, and make grr faces behind his back, which had
Angelus snarling terrible things at him in Gaelic. Back to sit and
fidget for a bit, before he couldn't take it anymore and bounded up
again, this time pacing the room and studying the ugly little
linotypes of political figures on the walls.
"William, sit down before I have to come over there and *knock* you
down."
It was a bad day, and he really couldn't help it. The devil was in
him-- not the demon that he actually was, but the May-mad one that he
*really* had no leash on. Spike threw himself into his seat with a
petulant growl and started picking at the threads in his tie. He
wasn't usually so restless; it was just that every so often, when the
wind was wrong or the moon was too bright, he needed to...
*****
"To what?"
"I dunno. Throw m'self against the walls and see how hard I could
bounce off, I s'pose. See where the edges of the playground were."
*****
"And the spiders said you shan't, you shan't, but Mummy knew better,
didn't she, darling?" Dru was crooning to her doll. Angelus had given
up any attempt at interesting her in the book again, but at least
she'd been relatively good, which was more than Spike could say for
himself.
He'd tried once more to filch the chocolate from his Sire's pocket,
and been smacked on the hand for his pains. So he'd proceeded to
unbutton the back of Drusilla's dress, slipping his hand inside and
tickling her back, with an eye to reaching all the way round the
front, given time. That might've been alright if she hadn't started
going on about the tarantulas wanting to dance with her, and stood
up, whirling around and letting the front of her dress fall to her
waist.
Luckily for his fragile human sanity, Professor Whatzit had his back
turned. Angelus had grabbed Dru, buttoned up her dress, set her down
with her doll, and told her if she'd be Daddy's best Princess, he'd
punish her when they got home, which had her beaming. Then he grabbed
Spike by the ear. "Pardon me, sir, I'll just be a minute," to the
photographer, who waved him off with a distracted 'Of course, quite
all right,' and obviously wouldn't have noticed if Dru were dancing
naked with a thousand hairy spiders, just so long as he had the right
lens in his big black box.
Then it was into the room next door, which was much warmer, what with
the roaring fire and all, and slam went the door to the kick of
Angelus' foot, and a rough push sent Spike stumbling in the direction
of the big oak trestle in front of the fireplace.
"Over the table, Spike," Angelus growled in that Sire-says, don't
arse about, do it now or else voice, and Spike was forgetting any
hope of a fight, just stripping his jacket off, stupid raspberry
waistcoat off, dropping the braces from his shoulders. Trousers round
his ankles and bare-arsed over the warm wood before Angelus had even
shrugged off his coat. Spike lay there, listening. Listening to the
rustle of wool as it fell against the tabletop, the little snarls of
annoyance. Impatience with him, and hadn't he been asking for it.
Begging for it. Listening to the sound of hands fiddling with that
shiny Celtic knot on the buckle of the wide belt. Eyes closed,
waiting. Waiting for the first blow. The first crack.
*****
"Pet?" Xander was warm behind him again, a layer of silk between them
now but that didn't mean Spike couldn't still feel the heartbeat
speed up, the body tense. Then black-silk-covered arms wrapped around
his own, and Xander's chin was on his shoulder, hat knocked off
somewhere. Beating of the heart against his back, throbbing of the
throat-pulse, echo skittering across his shoulderblade. Shallow
breath in his ear, but no words, so Spike gave them. "You do remember
I *like* that sort of thing? Did back then, too."
Liked was really too ridiculous a word. Loved. Loved and hated. Loved
the touch, loved the hit and the hot and the hurt spreading across
his skin like fire, but a safe one. Loved the loss of control, giving
it up, letting somebody else tell him how far it was alright to go,
because that somebody *knew*. Hated the feeling of being a child
again, and loved it with an uneasy mix of worship and not-quite-
shame. Hated the knowledge that he was being punished, like any child
hates it, and the knowledge that he was asking for it, and loved the
touch and the hands behind it with a passion that had terrified him
even then.
"With a belt?" And it wasn't just the heartbeat that twitched against
him.
"Could've stood up and walked out any time." Which was both truth and
lie. There was more to that Sire-says voice than just Pavlovian
conditioning-- there was blood in it. There was always blood in
it. "But he was *good* at it. Why would I want to? Good with his
hands, too." He closed his eyes, and listened to Xander breathe. "Dru
wasn't half bad, really, but her heart wasn't in it. She liked
rougher stuff, and she'd rather take it than dish it out."
"You're a complete sicko, you know that, right? I mean, I'm not
informing you of anything that slipped your mind?" There was a touch
of sarcasm in that voice, as if mocking Spike for thinking he needed
to remind *Xander* that he was a sicko, but it was shallow. Beneath
it was something else. The warm hands slipped down his torso towards
Spike's own belt buckle, not quite touching it.
"Anytime you want to use it on me, you can have it, luv." He waited.
Tasted the air like a snake, mouth open and silent. Tested a
theory. "And if you want to try it the other way, all you have to do
is ask." Beat-BEAT. "Anyhow, I was waiting for Angel to whale the tar
out of me..." And there was the twitch again, though the timing was
odd, and he smiled.
*****
Heavy sound of leather being drawn through beltloops, and Spike was
hard against the table, and screwing his eyes shut. Waiting. Still.
*Now* he could hold still, now that he was waiting, in this
completely undignified position for a grown man of thirty, or even a
vampire of six years. Waiting to be beaten until he blubbered, and he
always did, when it was this kind of day.
There'd be no being held over his Sire's knees, smacked with his
hand, something simple and safe no matter how hard it got, the sort
of thing they did for fun as much as anything else. Not now. He'd
passed that about ten minutes and four hundred fidgets ago. But after
it was over, that way or this way, Himself would pull Spike up onto
his lap and hold him while he cried it out. Whatever was in him
today. Whatever he needed this for. And sometimes that was the best
part. He could almost hear the whistle through the air that would
start the whole thing going.
Which was why he jumped when a heavy body bent itself over him.
Pushed him flat and whispered in his ear.
"Why always so hard, so much trouble, Will? Can't you just ask?" He
shook his head, felt his hair brush against Angelus' chin, and scrape
in the bristle there. Why he wouldn't just grow a beard and get it
over with... No, Spike couldn't just ask, and his Sire knew damn
well, and Spike knew damn well it was a rhetorical question. "No, y'
never can. Can't help it, can you." Spike silently shook his head
again. "I don't think you even know, do you." And what the hell did
that mean?
Then the touch was gone, and he was cold again, though the fire
wasn't really all that far from his bared backside, and he should've
been worried about it, probably. But all he wanted was that touch
back, any touch. Anything against his body, against his skin, as long
as it came from his Sire. What was he *doing*-- oiling the damn thing
up so it would swing better?
But he was fiddling around in that great heavy wool coat that smelled
of old blood and night air and mostly of *him*, so much that Spike
would sometimes lay with his head pillowed against it, when Angelus
was off somewhere with Darla, and Dru was in one of her untouchable
moods. Just lie there and smell him, and be easy.
Now there was a crinkling of paper, and then the smell, faint before
in the other room, hit him. Chocolate. Not English chocolate,
wonderful and sweet and cheap enough for him to fall in love with
even on the little money he'd had free to spend when he was alive.
No, this was something dark and rich that had made its way here from
the Continent. Something that Angelus had spent real money on, for
him.
Could've just taken it and killed the shopgirl, but not when Dru
wanted her for a pressie on their going-away night, so he'd forked
over some ungodly amount of the cash that he carried in those
hundreds of pockets. Hadn't let Spike in to see what he was buying,
just said it was a surprise, and would he watch Dru before she
snatched another pram away, because they always made such a fuss
about the infants. He could smell it, though, even wrapped in paper
and hidden away for later, and now Angelus was going to what--
*really* punish him by throwing it in the fire? He'd moved over
there, and Spike could smell melting chocolate, and the over-sugared
tang of glacé oranges. Couldn't say he didn't deserve it, but...
"Get it over with, will you?" he begged finally, in as low a voice as
he could manage, and he didn't know whether he meant the torment of
smelling his treat go up in flames, or the waiting, or the beating,
or what. Maybe that was what Angelus thought he didn't know, and if
so, he was bloody annoyingly right as usual. He waited, again. Waited
and waited, and at last his Sire was behind him, picking up the belt
from the table--
And tossing it to the floor.
He twitched. Fidgeted. Didn't know what was going on. "Dammit,
Angelus, you fucking nancyboy of an *artiste*, don't torture me, just
get on with it!" Whatever it was, and Spike twitched again, until
large fingers, warm from the heat of the fire, touched him in *that*
spot. The one on the small of his back, just there, and it was
automatic: he lifted up into that touch and purred, and rested his
head against the tabletop. He smelled chocolate again, so strong that
he couldn't believe he wasn't in the doorway of the sweet shop,
eyeing that pretty girl Dru was so peckish for. But he was seeing his
Sire's hand, instead, holding a warm candied orange in front of his
face. Streaked with just the barest trace of dark brown.
"Chew on that, Will, and shut up." Spike accepted it between his lips
in utter confusion, and bound himself to waiting again-- but there
was no more of that. Fire-warmed, dry hand returning to his back in
half a second, and the other, slick and warmer still, touching his
arse with practiced ease, and pushing inside him. He was so shocked,
he bit clean through the candy. Never. Angelus never did this, not on
a bounce-off-the-walls day. Might throw him over a table and bugger
him senseless and dry, just for a change, and that was good too, but
never this. Never slow and warm and sweet and easy on a bad day.
Never, but as he twitched again, squirming against his will, he felt
the warmth inside him *move*, and he relaxed. Gave himself over just
as he would have to the leather, but this was slick and sweet inside
him, and the scent of the melted chocolate on his Sire's fingers made
him melt as well, onto the table. Just let go and fall into that
place where he was being held and done to, and it was better than
anything, because it was *Him.*
Candy orange in his mouth, and the whole room was full of the smell
of chocolate, heated by the fire, being heated again by the movement
in and out of him. The long, slow touch inside him at the place that
made him try to either push back against the fingers or fall forward
against the table while his head filled with chocolate and stars, and
his body couldn't decide. *He* couldn't decide. The touch
disappeared, for the tiniest of seconds, and then that heavy body was
against him again, and the cock sliding into him, so damn slowly, so
perfect. Taking forever, but it wasn't waiting, now, it was being.
Being there, with Angelus in him. Bent over him and whispering in his
ear.
"I know you can't help it, mo chroi. I know." And strong arms,
stronger than his own, were around his shoulders. Tight enough to
make him feel held. Loose enough that if he wanted to, he could've
pulled away easily. The illusion of being trapped, the knowledge of
freedom, and the feel of Angelus against him, pushing in and pulling
out, rubbing him against the table at the same time. Slow, each time.
Letting him choose whether to be still or not. Let go and be a child
or accept this as something given freely from one man to another --
and give it back. "Sire," he whispered once, and then "Angelus."
He wrapped his hands around those arms. Fell into the rhythm, lifting
up for him, but controlling it at the same time, with his own
movements, his own sounds and sighs. Being together with Angelus. Not
just his boy. Always his boy, but not *only*. Being thirty years old
instead of six, with a man behind him, moving with him, who was *not*
his father, no matter how much they liked to play at it. Faster,
warmer, and he knew he was making little noises, the kind that made
Angelus smile wickedly, and thrust in harder. He'd seen that smile,
other times, when they were facing each other. Just the two of them,
moving together.
He finally did collapse forward on the table, as Angelus filled him.
Spike grinned his own wickedness, because even if Himself couldn't be
teased or pleasured into mew-squeaking like a bloody kitten, there
was always that long, low groan at the end, that tickled the hairs on
his neck, that made his ears vibrate for what seemed like hours in
the silence afterward. Then he was pulled up, just a little.
One hand left Spike's arm for a moment to reach beneath. To touch
Spike's own aching need, and Spike let his hand join his Sire's again
there, stroking that need together until it left him in a flood of
insanity and helplessness and power and love that ached just as much
when he was spent. For only a second or two, he lay still, not
actually breathing, but tasting. The room, the air... Dark and sweet
and full of chocolate and sex and the smell of him. Of them. Then
Angelus helped him up, and stood him straight. Pulled up his trousers
and brushed the long strands of hair out of his dry eyes. Looked him
in the face. "Better?"
"Yeah." Spike reached up to kiss him, and he reached down. They met
somewhere in the middle, man and boy and man, and if they were both
monsters and shouldn't be thinking themselves either one, there was
nobody in here to tell them so. "Love you."
"Bastard always knew," Spike said slowly, leaning back against
Xander. Looking not at himself in the portrait, but at the man
standing behind him, the man who painted it. "Even when *I* didn't
know. When I couldn't even ask." He kept giving these little pieces
of himself away to Xander, and he still didn't know where they went
or what his lover did with them. If he knew what they were, even.
"Knew what?" It was a still, small voice, at odds with the hardness
against Spike's back.
"When I needed to be a kid. When I needed to be a man."
The voice had been a boy's, that had asked him, but the body against
him was something else. Over and over, the both of them. A lost child
in his arms one minute. A confident adult protecting *Spike* from
grumpy Sires or teasing cheerleaders, the next. And Spike was no
better, still, though he might pretend to hold tight to that warm
body at night just for Xander's sake. Or just to leech some heat.
Well, it worked, as long as *somebody* was playing the grown-up when
they got arrested for public indecency, as he was sure would happen
one of these days, or needed to look old enough to buy a few bottles
of Diamond White. Just God help poor prats like Angel when the
timing was off and they *both* had to be kids, because... Oh, the fun
they could get up to with a certain party's credit card number that a
certain other party had memorized purely by Braille while he had his
hands on the party of the first part's wallet for a few brief seconds.
*****
When Spike was presentable again, Angelus gave him a nod, and he
grinned. Shook his hair out slightly, undoing all the lovely work his
Sire had put into combing it. Gave him a smarmy two-fingered salute,
then thumbed his nose. "Just couldn't resist me, could ya."
"Don't flatter yourself." But Himself was grinning too. "I could
hardly beat ye senseless if I wanted that ugly face of yours to look
nice in the photo, could I. And I didn't see you as very likely to be
still if I tanned y'r backside and then made you sit on it." Not that
he hadn't done *that* before, and watched Spike squirm his way
through an entire bloody dinner party, with a smile that made
his 'wicked' one look positively angelic.
"Makes you think I'm goin' to be still *now*?" Spike answered back,
with the devil in him again. This time it was his own devil, though,
and they both knew it.
"I bought *two* chocolate oranges."
****
"Course, when we got out there, Dru was sittin' in the chair and
lickin' her fingers, and the poor little professor was just puttin'
his jacket back on and trying to pretend we couldn't all see the
steam on his specs. Angelus did tell her not to eat anybody while we
were gone, but --heh-- that wasn't really what he meant. Can't say I
blame her. She got bored, and Miss Millicent wasn't really
entertaining company for somebody with an attention-span shorter than
mine. Y'could tell Professor Whozit thought she'd been *good* while
we were gone, anyway." He came to a stopping place, and waited. Could
still feel Xander, close against him, and not remotely asleep.
"I'll...um... be right back."
And then bang, zoom, no more Xander. Out the door and up the ladder
and Spike just sat there, shaking his head. Lightly cursing himself
out. "Bloody well knew you shouldn't be describin' in detail how
somebody else fucked you mindless, but oooooh no, you have to be
Spike, Vampire Porn Star. Christ, he was insecure enough to give you
a blowjob in a *sewer tunnel* a few hours ago, " ---and only Xander
could possibly make a blowjob in a sewer tunnel romantic, somehow.
When he'd laid his head against Spike's thigh--- "and you're tellin'
him afternoon bedtime stories about you and the bloke upstairs with
the fussy hair."
Spike sorted clothes. He could do that. He could concentrate on that,
and sooner or later, Xander would come back down. This one for
Xander, this one for Angel. This one for-- actually, this one
wouldn't look bad on Spike himself. It must have been somebody's daft
idea of a pressie, because there was no way Angel could've ever
squeezed into it. He put it into a third pile, and tried not to think.
*****
"Hey doofus, are you done stealing clothes for me, or do you feel the
need to dis my fashion-sense in private for a few more hours?"
Of course he was done-- it was an hour and a half later, and even the
Poof didn't have *that* big of a wardrobe. Spike had absently stuck
Xander's hat on his own head, and he was staring mindlessly at that
portrait again. Could still almost smell the chocolate oranges. He
looked up to watch Xander in the doorway. Still wearing Angel's
shirt, and still looking a damn sight better in it than he had in the
Hawaiian thing. This one clung to his muscular chest, tight stomach,
as if it had been tailored for him. Now if only Spike could get him
out of those baggy cargo pants and into... Was there an into? Out of
sounded pretty good, all by itself.
"Done. You wanna try some on?" If he could get Xander out of, they
could worry about into after an appropriate interval, after all. Say,
four days or so.
Xander smiled at him. "No. But you can change out of that shirt, if
you want. Even though you kinda look like Sting, P.I. You know..." He
made mushy noises. "Cuuuuuuuute." Alright, now the bastard was just
torturing Spike for the hell of it, and... wait, he was free?
Spike looked down at himself. Followed the pattern of green and blood-
red leaves on the shirt and shuddered. Cute? Xander thought he looked
*cute* in this thing? He ripped it off with a little squeaky happy
noise, oddly reminiscent of certain sounds that might've been heard
not long before his expression in that portrait was captured forever
on film. He was reaching for the shirt he'd found for himself,
something slinky and silver, when he felt a hand on his bare back.
Tracing up and down his spine, and then settling in *that* spot. He
hissed softly, then purred, as Xander's fingers splayed across his
skin.
"Sorry it took so long-- there was a line, and I-no-longer-have-
scones-up-my-ass wanted Aero bars, and Willow and Tara wanted Dairy
Milk, and Cordy wanted anything chocolate that didn't list how many
calories there are on the package, and Angel-- get this, Angel's up
there eating *jelly babies*..." Xander babbled into his ear and
rubbed his back at the same time, and Spike was hard put to decide
whether to ask him what the hell he was talking about, or just stand
there and moan slightly. "And I have to say, Smarties suck. I'll go
with the English chocolate is better theory on everything else, but
give me M&M's any day."
Then Spike felt something round and metallic pressed into his
hand. "Bought you something," and he was flashing back and forth
against his will, with a man against his back whom he loved to a
level that petrified him, and the scent of chocolate oranges in his
head. Spike was pretty sure he was going crazier than usual, until he
opened his eyes and looked down at the brightly-colored ball in his
hand. A Terry's chocolate orange, and he could smell the dark
chocolate and the orange oils that flavored it even through the foil
wrapper.
"I know it's not quite the same thing," Xander apologized, pulling
Spike back against him as he studied it, and wrapping his arms
loosely around Spike's waist. Hands on his stomach, drumming to the
rhythm of whatever Bronze-music CD Willow was playing upstairs now.
"No, they didn't invent these things 'til the thirties," Spike
answered, and Xander's arms tightened around him. He turned to face
his lover. There was uncertainty in the dark eyes, and it wasn't
about candy. He touched Xander's lips with his own, and then tasted--
and Xander had been tasting on the way back from whatever import shop
he'd found nearby, because he had chocolate orange on his breath.
Dark chocolate and fake orange flavor and a fading hint of essence-of-
Spike, from hours ago.
"Like 'em, though. Not worse, just different," Spike said finally.
[If I said 'better,' would you believe me? Do I have to explain it in
words even somebody who can't pay attention in History class would
understand?] Xander smiled at him, and maybe he didn't.
Spike pulled the hat off his head and tossed it on the bed. With a
last look at the portrait, he dropped it gently onto the 'Let the
Poof Keep It' pile. "There. Was that maudlin and romance-novelish
enough for you?"
"I just thought you might like some chocolate. You're the one who
decided to go all Harlequin on me." A shrug, but there was a smile on
the quirky lips that hadn't been there a few seconds ago. "Or no,
Mills and Boone, right? That you--yeah, right--just read to
Dru 'cause she made you."
"You want Mills and Boone?" Spike challenged, and grabbed Xander.
Pulled him close and pressed lips together and bent him backwards in
a pose that was so completely unmanly it was ludicrous, all the while
engaging in one of those stick-my-tongue-so-far-down-your-throat-I-
can-taste-your-toenails kisses. Xander went with it, fake-swooning,
one hand to his forehead, and Spike dragged him melodramatically over
to the bed, before letting him drop with a thump onto the mattress.
Fell down on top of him and started reaching for the waist fastening
on those baggy trousers, but Xander stopped him.
"What did I say about having sex a room and a half away from my
friends who don't know we're having sex?"
"We should do it more often?"
Xander whacked the chocolate orange against Spike's skull.
"We should tell them we're having sex, which would clear up the whole
problem?"
"Yes, that would solve *all* our problems." Whack.
"We should have sex really loudly, so there's no doubt about it?"
"Thank you, Anya the Bloody." Whack!
"Ow. I think it's ready to eat now."
"Oh, let's give it one more, just to make sure." Whack. They
unwrapped it, and the slices of chocolate fell in sections. "Would it
be too sappy if I fed you some?"
[Yes, Harris, I have moral and religious objections to you putting
chocolate in my mouth. Twit. ] Spike shook his head, and they lay
there on the bed for a long time, just eating chocolate. With
occasional interludes of shin-tickling. When the last section was
gone, Spike made a mournful noise, and Xander smiled mysteriously.
"What?"
"Oh no, I'm not telling you. You lie about your age, you lie about
your natural hair color, you don't like my clothes, you steal
Angel's, you're a sick, twisted masochist..."
"Er... yeah, and?"
"And you don't deserve to know that I have another chocolate orange
in the glove compartment. For later."
"It's ninety-five degrees out there-- it'll melt!"
"That's kind of the idea."
*****
Spike fell asleep, afterwards. A few hours afterwards.
After stealing all kinds of things Xander didn't even want to think
about and mostly sitting around laughing at other people doing the
actual work, but that was Spike for you. After bitching loudly that
he *wasn't* getting back in that damned bodybag again, it smelled
like dead people--which got him the obvious comment from Cordy-- and
they'd just wait here 'til nightfall. Meet the witches at the Rosa
Grande Hotel after the sun went down, with 'Yippee' bubbling
somewhere between Xander's ears, and no, wait, Spike's looking, a
science fiction convention, how boring, don't make us go.
After Xander had gone back out to the car, and returned. After he had
let Cordy drive it, the girls, and a load of salvageable stuff back
to her place, with yet more bitching from Spike about how come *she*
got to drive the car without an hour and a half of argument first,
until Xander had elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and the moron had
finally taken the hint.
After Xander had given Angel a Look. A new Look, one he didn't quite
have the hang of, yet. He really needed to memorize the muscle-
positions for that look, or make sure there was a mirror around the
next time it actually worked, because, unbelievably, Angel had nodded
and taken Wesley off down the tunnels to show him where they'd been
attacked by the Fyarl demon. Or that was what he *said* they were
going to do. Xander really didn't want to think of Angel and Wesley
doing what he and Spike had been doing in the tunnels, so he had
whispered 'Soul. Curse. Good guy. Just going to look at demon
tracks,' to his imagination, and for once it had left him alone.
After all that. And just...afterwards. Spike fell asleep, afterwards.
Might have had something to do with the beforewards. Might have had
something to do with lack of sleep last night. Might have had
something to do with the fact that Xander was stroking that weird
kitty-cat spot of his, over and over and over.
When he was pretty certain that Spike wasn't going to wake up and get
all macho with him about it, Xander stood up and walked over to the
two piles of clothes on the floor. Grinning, he dropped Spike's
cabana shirt into the Angel pile. The other vampire would never wear
it, but just the thought of Angel in it was enough to set him
giggling quietly.
Then he crouched down to pick up the portrait. Stared at it, lost in
it for a while, as lost as Spike had been. Weirdly beautiful, all
three of them, and nothing of Xander there at all. No living
twentieth-century people who were addicted to Doritos and Ding-Dongs
and weren't quite sure when the camera was invented. Just Dru, who
wasn't here, and Angel, who wasn't the same, and---
He glanced back to the bed. [Is he watching me? Is he sleeping? He's
dead, and he doesn't snore-- how the hell do I know for sure?] Xander
rolled his eyes at himself. Real Spike's back was turned, and it
wasn't like Spike from a hundred and whatever years ago was going to
tell anybody he was acting like a complete idiot.
He touched Spike's smile again. It was enough, for now. Enough that
he *knew* that smile, because at least once --no, twice-- he'd put it
there himself. He buried the portrait, Angelus, Dru, natural-blond
liar-guy Spike and all, in the middle of the Xander pile, trying to
pretend he couldn't hear the chains rattle at the bottom when he
nudged them with his foot.