Warnings: Dubious consent
Summary: Buffy S2, post "Passion." Maybe this is why it took Spike so goddamn long to heal.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously.
A/N : HUGE thank you to _green_ for betaing, cheerleading, and being Virgil to my Dante in the Jossverse. She is my hero. I couldn't have written a word without her.
It had taken her half a century to forget him. No, Spike had let himself believe that she had forgotten him. She would never forget him. Angelus was the center of her world. Her father, her mother, her bloody GOD. He had created her, taken her and twisted her and blown her personality to bits until there was nothing but him at the center. How was a bloke supposed to compete with that?
But she needed Spike. She would fall to pieces without him. And, more to the point, he needed her. She was his muse, his dark reflection. The only thing in the world that didn't get stale after a hundred years. He could drown in the taste of her blood, sweet and cold, like copper and smoke. He loved her deceptive innocence, her subtlety. The look in her eyes before a kill, all anticipation and wonder, as if she were waking up from a long sleep. The casual brilliance of her cruelty. The way her body snapped from soft to rigid when he squeezed a nipple between the pads of his fingers, and the tiny sounds she made, whimpers and mewls, dark bubbling laughter. Her caresses were double-edged, full of unexpected slaps and stings. Her orgasms were sudden and sublime, and they always seemed to take her by surprise.
But there was a part of Dru that he could never touch, a hidden flaw that trembled and split open only for Angelus. She would always go back to *him*.
Spike was growing stronger. The crushed vertebrae at the base of his spine tingled and ached, shifting and hardening as the nerves around them thickened and reformed. He could stand, walk a few steps before his legs gave out. A week more, perhaps two, and he would be close enough to full strength to--
He frowned. Honestly, he hadn't planned that far ahead yet. He would watch for his chance, once he figured out what the great bloody wanker was up to. Find Angelus' flaw, hit him hard and watch him crumble. Blot him from Dru's mind forever, so that things would go back to the way they were.
But for now he was stuck in this bloody chair, eating animals and children while Dru clucked over him like some kind of twisted goth mother hen. He sucked in a lungful of smoke, wishing that sodding church hadn't fallen on his head, wishing that Angelus was still neutered and brooding and making nice with the Slayer, prancing about, playing at being a superhero. Angelus, the superhero. Funny how life worked out.
The screaming stopped abruptly, and Spike froze. The silence was more troubling than the screaming had been--at least when she was screeching her head off he knew she was conscious.
The arm of the chair crunched and splintered under his fingers. He was going to tear Angelus to pieces. Slowly.
He smelled Angelus before he heard him. Sex, blood, and pricey hair gel. He was coming up behind Spike from the direction of the house, barefoot, from the sound of it, and stinking of Dru. Oh, this was bloody fantastic. Well, he wasn't going to stay around and watch the tosser gloat.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Actually, I was just leaving." Spike flicked a half-smoked cigarette away and wheeled toward the house--and ended up turning in a pathetic half-circle instead, as a large hand reached out a grabbed the right wheel of his chair.
"What?" he said, gritting his teeth, pointedly refusing to look at Angelus. Because if he *did* look he didn't think he could stop himself from leaping out of his chair, going for Angelus' throat--and probably winding up crumpled at the bastard's feet, instead.
The next thing he knew the chair was turning sharply, and his face was two feet from Angelus' lean, pale stomach. A red silk robe tied loosely at his hips left little to the imagination.
"Love that little tick in your jaw." Angelus said. "Impotent rage really works on you. Anyone ever tell you that?"
Spike rolled his eyes, turned his chair, and started toward the house again. Angelus sidestepped, blocking his path.
"Please. Stay." This time there was steel in his voice. When Spike looked up and met his eyes Angelus grinned, flashing two rows of perfect white teeth. How did a dirt-poor 19th-century Irishman end up with a mouthful of perfect teeth? They were probably false. Wanker.
"Piss off," Spike said, but at this point, it was only a reflex. The both knew that he wasn't going anywhere.
"Well. That's not very polite." Angelus moved past Spike and sat on the edge of the fountain. His robe fell open, and he let his knees fall apart with studied casualness. Posturing. Posing. Because everything was a bloody performance with Angelus. His cock, half-hard, languished on one thigh.
Spike swallowed thickly. The man had stamina. He had to give him that. He lit another cigarette, inhaled, watched the orange glow swell and creep up the paper until his hand stopped shaking.
"Would it kill you to put something on?" he said.
"You were looking? I'm touched."
Spike ground his teeth and kept his feet firmly planted, showing more restraint than he would have thought possible. His temples itched. The demon in his mind was roaring for a fight, and he ignored it with difficulty. Angelus wanted an excuse to beat the piss out of him. If he found one, and Spike was stuck in the chair for another month, it would take that much longer to get himself and Dru out of this mess. He could keep his bloody temper for once.
But Angelus wouldn't let it go.
"It's nice to know that you've been taking care of Dru while I was gone. That thing she does with her tongue--that's new."
Spike's vision actually grayed out for a minute. The skin at his temples twitched and stretched; he could feel the bones pulsing in his forehead and his eyebrows drawing together. He relaxed with difficulty.
Angelus laughed. "I'd rather fuck your girlfriend." He licked his lips, eyes lit up and boring straight into Spike's. "…unless you insist."
Oh bloody hell.
So that was it. Angelus wasn't looking for a fight after all.
The smartest thing he could do right now was to say nothing at all. But--a gauntlet had been laid down, and somehow, he couldn't stop himself from picking it up. Angelus was going to do what he liked anyway, and there wasn't a goddamn thing Spike could do about it. Why not go down in style?
Besides, he was *sick* of sitting here and taking it from Angel. What a glorious relief, to hit the bastard where it hurt. He felt his lip curl.
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather bend over for the Slayer?"
Angelus' laughter died. His eyes flashed yellow. Spike leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.
"Sick of being the Slayer's bitch, are you?"
Angelus stood, advancing slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, of course, he did, because what was Spike going to do, run him down with the wheelchair? Oh, this was turning into a spectacular fuck-up. Yes, William, provoke the insane vampire, really *good* idea. But he couldn't seem to stop himself. He was royally fucked. In so many ways.
"I think," Angelus paused, as if considering, "that maybe you're feeling left out."
Spike took a final drag and tossed his cigarette away. The recklessness was like a high. Recklessness, in the face of inevitability. He was going to get slaughtered. Angelus was going to take what he wanted, and Spike was going to end up being ground to dogfood before he was done.
Spike morphed into game face and grinned.
Angelus lunged. Spike blocked the first punch. The force of the blow sent his chair rolling backward, and the second punch caught him square in the jaw. He recovered in time to drive an elbow into Angelus' side, and a rib cracked with a satisfying crunch.
But all it took was one good hit to the gut, and Spike was finished. He doubled over, grunting, and Angelus took the opportunity to jerk him out of his chair by the lapels. The next thing he knew he was crashing headlong into the fountain, and before he could raise his head Angelus' boot had slammed down hard on the small of his back.
For a fraction of an instant there was nothing. Then his spine seemed to uncurl and snap back like a white-hot lash. He could feel the vertebrae grinding together, the bones that had been mending so nicely crumbling to fragments. Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK. Angelus tsked softly, squatting down beside him.
"Spike, if you don't take better care of yourself, you're never going to get out of that chair."
He coughed weakly. Stay down, he told himself firmly, already knowing that there was no way in hell he was going to stay down. He was smarter than this. There was no reason to engage Angel; it endangered everything. Why couldn't he bloody well stay *down*?
Because it felt *good* to have Angelus' undivided attention, didn't it? To see just how far he could push his grandsire. No one understood pain like Angelus. No one understood *Spike* like Angelus. Which was not to say that Angelus understood him--because he didn't; he had all the subtlety of a great bloody freight train--but when Spike was with Angelus, everything that made him Spike seemed to fall away, and he was *William* again, a newborn demon first breaking through its fragile human shell, tasting pure freedom.
It was a dance. And he knew all the steps by heart.
He grinned, raised a fist, and punched Angelus in the balls. Before he could even begin to think about defending himself, Angelus' boot slammed into his face.
It was all familiar. The blood in his mouth. The ringing in his ears. The intoxicating freedom of knowing that he was about to be royally shitbeaten, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. Laughter bubbled up like blood from a wound. Not quite hysteria, not quite relief.
Angelus' hand closed around his throat, fingers gouging under his jawbone and into the sides of his neck. The world seemed to jerk and spin until they were eye to eye, with Spike's feet dangling in the air. Somehow, he managed to grin, cock one eyebrow. Angelus shrugged and threw him again.
Pain exploded like cut glass through his sinuses. He tasted blood and chalk. He rolled over, gasping, wishing he didn't look quite so pathetic, reveling in being utterly pathetic. Blood from his shattered nose pooled in the back of his throat. He swallowed.
Angelus was really getting into it now, gameface on, splattered with blood, eyes flashing. He rushed at Spike, growling, tangling one hand in the front of his shirt. A moment later he was crashing face-first something that felt like stone and tasted like copper. From behind him he heard a whisper of a zipper, the slide of fabric on silk.
A flash of memory. He was on his hands and knees, doe-eyed and pathetic, with Angelus pounding away behind him; Darla looking on, smiling the ice-queen smile, Dru wringing her hands and babbling about ice cream and massacres.
"Built up a bit of frustration, have you?" He was babbling now, caught in an agony of pain and self-disgust and something that tasted suspiciously of anticipation and oh bloody HELL he was getting *hard*-- "Slayer won't have you anymore, right, so you have to make do with--"
A bright flash as his face hit solid rock. He felt his jawbone crunch and bruise. When he raised his head, growling, Angelus slammed his face into the stone again. This time he stayed down.
"You don't like me fucking Dru." Angelus' breath was clammy in Spike's ear. He peeled Spike's head back again. "I think--" slam! "that you're jealous." Slam! Close to Spike's ear again, whispering. "Well don't worry. There's enough of me to go around."
Spike thrashed, roaring, muscles straining hard. Angelus held him steady, pinned him easily, ripped open the back of his jeans and jerked the tatters down to his knees. Slammed his head against the rock once more for good measure. The pain in his face crackled and faded, and then there were Angelus' fingers, trailing down the small of his back. Bringing back the familiar panic. Helpless, pathetic William spread out under his grandsire with absolutely no idea what to do.
He wasn't that person anymore. Not William. *Spike*. Things were different now. *He* was different. They'd torn a bloody path across continents, he and Dru; he'd had the world at his feet for nearly a century.
And yet, here he was.
Angelus' fingers were slick with, what, blood? sweat? and Spike's muscles spasmed against them again and again. He felt sick, he was going to *be* sick--
And then Angelus' left hand wrapping slickly around his cock, pumping once, twice, and the world seemed to turn inside-out.
Because the mere show of power wasn't enough, not for Angelus. He had to get inside your head. Poison your blood. Own you completely. Peel away all your all your secrets, all the little lies you told yourself, pick apart the careful web of who you thought you were until there was nothing left in your head but Angelus, and you were his.
Spike grit his teeth, strained until the cords in his neck ached. Angelus' hand curled and relaxed, sliding and squeezing inexorably. His knee ground into the small of Spike's back. His palm was slick and slow, the skin slightly rough. The friction was exquisite. Spike closed his eyes, bit his tongue until it bled because goddamn it, he would *not* let go; he wouldn't give the bloody *pillock* the satisfaction--
There was a throbbing in his ears, through his sinuses, between his ribs and along the line of his jaw; everywhere that Angelus' fists and Angelus' strength had broken him. He was making little sounds; Angelus was pulling tiny gasps and whines from between his clenched teeth, pleasure and pain, screeching together like metal on metal, flashing bright and dark in his brain and he was slipping--
Spike, goddamn it, he was *Spike*; he had killed two slayers and was working on a third; Dru belonged to him and he wasn't that sniveling boy anymore--
And then Angelus' right hand withdrew in a rush, slid up his spine and came to rest on the back of his neck, heavy, relaxed and cool. A simple thing. Just a touch. Absent, almost gentle, utterly incongruous.
And something broke.
His body knew it before his mind did. His hips thrust forward, cock sliding once, deliciously, through Angelus' fist. Angelus laughed softly and squeezed hard, harder until Spike cried out, *harder*, until the cry gave way to a low growl. Fangs were scraping the nape of his neck, fingers rubbing the spot behind his balls, pain sliding into pleasure and back into pain until it was all just cresting and sliding sensation, a molten ache with no source. He was shouting now, streams of expletives and insults, shouting and crying and just plain begging.
And underneath it all was the heavy, sinking knowledge of defeat, the slightly sick feeling of Angelus' fingers prying off another piece of him and tossing it carelessly aside.
Angelus' weight was hard on his back. The blunt head of Angelus' cock, pressing forward, and the sensation was like something tearing, like nausea, his muscles spasming and heaving to expel Angelus' blunt weight, thrusting forward and *sliding* and then the sensation was just too fucking much. The demon was loose and roaring and Spike was pushing back onto Angel, and Angelus was bracing both hands on Spike's hips. He reached down to touch himself--that was the ultimate humiliation, wasn't it--and Angelus' hand closed around his wrist, jerked his arm behind his back and *twisted*. His cock felt like it was going to fucking explode and Angelus was driving in behind him, wrenching his arm; he overbalanced and fell face-down onto the wall, crushed into the stone with each thrust, pain and anger and sick, sweet, rushing pleasure building and spinning until finally he was coming hard, slick between his stomach and the stone; Angelus was twisting his arm so fucking hard, pain flashing white gold in his head.
The aftershocks seemed to go on for minutes, hours, days. He was drifting, melting, floating somewhere dark and cool and quiet. His body seemed to be very far away.
He came back to himself slowly. Angelus was still pounding away behind him. His muscles were soft as jelly, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Angelus was grunting, raking his back with blunt nails, and in a way seeing Angelus lose control was satisfying, a sort of underhanded way of having Angelus at his mercy.
Angelus gave a final, bestial grunt. A flood of cool semen, stinging, dripping down Spike's thighs, the sudden weight of Angelus' body collapsing above him, cock softening, sliding wetly out of his body. The ache in his gut subsided slowly and the burn faded to an unpleasant tingle, until there was only the heat of friction. There were advantages to healing quickly.
Angelus rolled over and leaned against the wall beside Spike, panting.
"Aren't you going to thank me?"
Spike was too spent even to laugh, which was probably for the best. After a moment Angelus shrugged and slammed his face into the stone once more, for good measure. Spike felt more than heard him leave.
He ached. Oh god, he ached. But he could live with aching. He slid backwards onto his knees, facing the wall, then shifted and turned to lean against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him. He took a quick inventory of his body. Nothing seemed to be damaged irreparably. He could already feel his nose knitting back together. He wiggled his toes anxiously--and, yes, his boots flexed slightly. Best not to try to move his knees, in case Angelus or Dru was watching.
She floated out of the house in the long red dress with the empire waist, her hair a dark cloud, her eyes wild, her hands tangled in her skirt. Spike shook his head and lost the game face.
"Dru, love." He cleared his throat. "Nice night, isn't it?"
"The stars are crying." She flexed her hands in front of her face, turned them over, inspecting them with fierce concentration. "They fell through my fingers and onto the floor."
Slowly, painfully, Spike leaned forward to retrieve his cigarettes from his hip pocket. Which was now around his knees. The pack was crushed and one corner was soaked in blood, but most of the cigarettes were still intact. He struck a match against the wall.
Dru glided forward, like a wraith or a dream, and sank to her knees beside him. She dragged a finger across his cheekbone, around his jaw, lingering on his lips. It came away red and slick, and she sucked the blood thoughtfully from her finger.
"You've gone and got yourself all wet. Mummy is very cross." She rested a cool palm lightly on his forehead, stroked up and over his head to the nape of his neck, moving closer, into the light, so that he finally got a clear look at her face. Her cheek was bruised, and a spot of rust-colored blood had congealed in the crevice of her earlobe.
His fist tightened convulsively around the pack of cigarettes, and he felt them crumble. Angelus was going to pay for this. A hundred years of guilt and pain going to feel like a bloody cakewalk compared to what Spike was going to do to him.
"He hurt you."
She looked him up and down slowly, and then giggled, pressing four perfectly manicured fingers to her slightly swollen lips. He rolled his eyes. But he saw her point.
"Right, then," he said. "Fetch my chair, love, will you?" But her eyes had already glassed over again. She smiled suddenly, that smile that was so wholly *Dru*, pure and wicked, full of childish joy and secret knowledge.
"There was a little girl in the park today. She lost her way. I took her home with me." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "She ruined her party dress."
"Wonderful, pet." He propped himself onto his elbows. "Now, be a dear and bring me my chair."
She turned back to him, and somehow, subtly, her face changed. Perhaps her eyes cleared a little, or her lips softened.
Their bond went beyond blood. She was part of him, and he was part of her. When he looked into her eyes he knew exactly who he was.
He was going to take her away from Angelus if it meant ripping the git apart bit by bit by bit. And he really hoped that it would. Whatever it took. He'd make a deal with the bloody Devil if he had to.