Rating: mild R
Summary: "Really funny thing is - I asked for it."/"You usually did." Souled Spike/Angel in 1000 words. Flashficathon challenge fic.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Spoilers: Set early season 4/7, but pretty vague, no specific spoilers.
Notes: Written for Spikeyvamp as part of Marguerite's LJ flashficathon. Many thanks to Mad Poetess and Lilacgirl for beta comments.
Angel swore and fought his way back through the throng. A body with female curves pressed into his. A face looked up in the pulsing light, lips moved with words inaudible beneath the music. He pushed past, reached out through close-pressed bodies to grasp a leather-clad shoulder in retreat, pressured it towards the quieter quarter of the club that housed tables, seats and a bar.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, as Spike broke his grip and turned, on the edge of the dance floor.
"I was gonna get a beer--"
"You're following me."
"Nah. It's just a real big coincidence. Me and you, here. Me and you and her and this--" A hand waved in the vicinity of his ear. Angel sighed. Buffy... no, Willow had told him about Spike. He and Buffy didn't often do speaking any more. His eyes followed Spike's cigarette, tripping up and down in a rhythm from a beating tongue. "I guess we're alike now, huh? Me and you?" Bitterness destroyed the taunt.
Darla's voice in his head said, "There isn't anything like you," and he snatched the cigarette, buried it under his heel. "I doubt it."
"Fucking soul." Spike, moving to light another, punched Angel's hands away in an ungainly, almost drunken move. "Feels like shit." The small violence seemed to light something else in him. He crushed the new cigarette between his lips and launched at Angel.
A punch to his ribs, one to his jaw. Hands on his neck. Angel shoved Spike back. "So you got a soul and you came here to annoy me. I guess the Romany put surprise addenda into their curses."
"Your bad karma? Or mine?" Spike snickered. "Really funny thing is - I asked for it." Drunk or insane. Angel remembered foraging in garbage with half his wits gone. He eased his grip on Spike.
"You usually did."
Spike swayed closer even as he backed off. "'Nother dance? --Second thoughts, scratch that. I've seen you dance."
"You came here for help." It was asking too much to suppress his smirk. He didn't try.
Spike sneered. "I don't need your help."
"No." Of course not. "Why did you come here, Spike?"
"How 'bout natural interest? This thing in me now is in you as well. 'Course I want to do some re-evaluating. Except it turns out you're still the same asshole I always figured you for. Curiosity fucking satisfied, mate. Now get off me. I got a Slayer to get back to, unlike some."
"You enjoy twisting that knife?" Angel watched Spike take shambling steps toward the exit.
"Yeah. 'S nice," floated back, under the noise of the club.
Watching the swish of the coat leave illusory phantom neon trails in the air, Angel's - patience...? nerves...? resistance...? - snapped. His feet punched the floor in the three beats it took to catch up. He held Spike around the shoulders, fingers digging into a leather-clad arm, meaning to hurt, thoughts angry and a whole lot of things he wouldn't even start to identify. He propelled Spike out of the club's back door, emerging onto the alley outside.
"Take a hike," he said to the couple already there. They saw his face; they hiked. He plucked the girl's blouse from the ground and flung it after them.
"Get off." Spike smacked him across the jaw and reeled free. "I guess a soul doesn't change much. Still got to play the Alpha Male. Even when Darla was keepin' you on that nice leash of hers--"
"Shut up, Spike."
Spike glowered silent and sullen; but it was probably because he hadn't yet thought of the next smartass remark. That was Spike. Angel had lived at pretty damn close quarters with Spike for more time than anyone should have to live at close quarters with Spike. And they said at least vampires could choose their family. Drusilla had to be mad. And Buffy--
Thought froze. He unfroze it angrily.
An alley like this, another century, another Spike. Drunk Spike, and himself high on something some idiot member of the gentry had imbibed shortly before death--
Shit. "So you came here, Spike. To bug me? Entertain me?" He pinned Spike against the wall with the length of his body. Spike didn't struggle much, and he felt Spike grow hard from the contact. "Going to tell me to fuck off afterwards, this time?"
"I dunno. Since we're soulmates and all..."
"Shut up, Spike." He mushed Spike's face into the wall.
"Why should I?" Pleasingly muffled.
"'Cause then I can pretend you're Buffy, moron." Angel dug his fingers into the bleached hair, yanked the head back, sniffed theatrically up the length of a slim neck into a soft hairline. "You smell like her. Ah, peroxide."
"Jesus fucking Christ." Spike's struggles were half-hearted, the shock real, and Angel was obscurely pleased. "You perverted... well, it's a hell of a leap of the imagination, but if I close my eyes I--"
Angel fist impacted a skinny rib cage. Red fury. He'd had once, and Spike, Spike... how many?
"Maybe not that much of a leap, after all," Spike choked. "Oh, darling? When you gonna stop mucking around with the foreplay?"
Angel thrust backwards with the short sword drawn from under his coat.
...Spike, blinking, leaned against the wall, legs shivering, staring at the decapitated demon, dead before it hit the ground.
"Qtock demon," Angel said. "Feeds on sexual energy. Club owner gave us a call... all those pesky shrivelled corpses... what did you think I'd come to a place like this for? Thanks for the help, by the way."
"...you fucking wanker."
Angel waited a beat before he allowed his smile to break through. "Yeah," he said "--Now, where were we?"