By Kita (Donna M.)
RATING: R for
violence and M/M slash
Set in S2. Primarily Angel POV.
Joss owns them both. But he never lets them do *this*.
A long time ago I wrote this little thing called Closer To Sex which was
inspired by a Nine Inch Nails song with a similar title. It never felt
finished. Now it`s a big thing with a different name and a similar theme,
and I`m still not sure it feels finished. But Lar and Lillith assured me
that at least it doesn`t suck, and Jess beta`d its ass off. Much love to
the Improv list`s #2 word challenge: Indigo, Ice, Tremble, Faith (not the
Ok to archive to lists. Others, ask and I`ll say yes.
what the heck.
It starts as
an itch on his palms. Strange, for it to begin there of all places. One
would think his gums would itch or his teeth would hurt, the way they do
before the fangs descend. Perhaps there would be a dull ache in the center
of his chest where the heart sits, silent and still. Maybe his dick would
just stand up and point due North. But no, it`s in his palms, and it`s
always been that way. When he is called his hands begin to sweat, then
they itch, finally they turn an angry red and the skin just peels away.
Invariably it makes him wonder if his demon resides somehow in his hands.
The three hour
drive is just long enough to ponder all manner of such stupidities. What
would have happened to Angel's hands had he be called this way in those
hundred years lost? Of course maybe he actually had been called, and Angel
was just too deep in his own misery to hear. Too deep in the bramble for
his palms to even sweat.
He pulls onto
the interstate and wonders why the false lights on this side of town always
seem to sputter like dying stars. Hundreds of rendezvous joints between
Sunnydale and L.A Places covered in hideous pastel, cheap paint chipping
off stucco walls and poorly tiled roofs. Neon signs with one letter missing
` OTEL! VA NCIES!` By some peculiar design, the exclamation points always
When he finds
the correct one, he will loosen the grip on the leather steering wheel
and wonder for the millionth time how his hands always know exactly where
Pulls into the
darkened lot, the wonder gone with the slam of a door. Turns the key in
the lock and steps into the dimly lit room. Flips off the lamp, strips
out of his clothes.
in the darkness. No flash of gold eyes. Silouhette of bare back beneath
tattered velour covers, as white shoulders rise easily with the words,
``Late from saving the world again, Peaches?``
of clothing hitting the floor. ``Yeah.``
Flicks on the
ceiling fan, listens to the motor sputter and start, the whirp whirp twisting
the stale air inside the room. Half a dozen cigarettes half smoked on the
bedside table. Blue smoke sucked toward the whir of fan, disincarnate ghosts
spinning in the pitch.
And he can shed
humanity at the door like snakeskin. Layers and layers of too many skins
finally, but the man in the bed only wants one. Wants to peel away the
one closest to the bone, closest to the pit inside; wants to tear it back
and let the juices flow from the cracks. Tear it back and swallow it whole,
lick the dribbles of juice from his chin, and choke on the smallest of
Sheets cool and
wrinkled, blanket of red, rough wool. Naked skin beneath them crafted from
hail and cotton. Smooth, chilled flesh of cheek and thigh and chest to
quiet angry palms. Kisses with eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open. Here,
taste it, taste me from the inside.
Drink here and
The demon is
in every cell, isn`t it? It must be, to keep the corpse walking. To keep
it unchanged, unmarred and beautiful despite the passage of so much time.
It animates blood, muscles and sinew; it sits, eternal and merciless in
his every pore. The demon regenerates him, it animates him, but it cannot
create. It cannot make him into something which was not present before.
Some little seed of anger and rage which had always been thus. Had always
to lower lip, draw First Bloode.
Grab for a length
of hair that is no longer there, a sable braid, a chestnut tail, and growl
at its lack. Grab a fistful of short blond locks instead, and pull...pull
the head back and drink the absence of the past.
Dru used to say
that Spike`s blood tasted of wild horses. Sweat and running. Chase and
thrill. And even though Angel could never taste that, it saddens him now.
Unable to race. At least horses get put out of their misery.
So take it, take
it all, Swallow the feast, but know this: There is no fountain of misspent
youth here. This is no chalice of forgetfulness.
It`s just blood.
Familiar blood, sweet and cool and thick as maple syrup, but just blood.
It has no inherent meaning, it changes nothing. It isn`t sacrament. Oh
he wishes it was, wishes it was ritual and holy and full of ancient intent.
Wishes the sacrifice would alter some grand design. Wishes it would soothe
his soul and his heart. But all that is soothed here is the Hunger and
the burn in his hands. And even that lasts only a moon.
Still, if he
breathes deep and swallows fast, he can almost catch it. Almost smell sunshowers
and fire on the man beneath him, because Spike has had only half as much
time to acquire the scent of the dead.
He will remember
this, much later. He will forget the name of this motel, and the scratch
of dirty coverlets on his back, and the sound of the headboard banging
against the wall. But some night, when he conjures the image of fair hair
and gray eyes, if he holds his breath and sinks his fangs into his own
tongue, he will smell blue flames and Communion Wafers.
Lying on his
back now, arms tied above his head, leather belts digging into his flesh.
Watching dispassionately as the white hand produces a sliver of silver.
In the darkness; hair, eyes, teeth, razorblade. All smiling.
Short gasp and
he is cut. Careful, neat lines slicing skin and skin and skin...creating
a pattern of pain, and flash of light and blood.
and smiling, and Angel wishing he bled in colors. Yellow joy and orange
disgust, golden rage and indigo lust. All the colors swirling onto the
dingy gray sheets, a palette of his existence, his becoming, his creation.
Let it all pour out, bleed it all, give it all.
or passion disappears into the ether with this cut? What small part of
him is leaked out through the skin and the pain, never to be reclaimed?
His faith in humanity? Wesley`s shirt size? The way Doyle tasted? Or a
memory of childhood so distant it appears only in stilted pictures, an
ancient reel of video dancing unevenly in black and white and dust. Small
particles of decay swirling in the light, and he can`t recapture them,
he can never call them back. Once they are gone he can`t grab hold anymore,
lest that damned light burn the tips of his outstretched fingers.
eyes shut and surfs the pain. Skims along the waves of it, toes and curls
of dark hair in the water. Waits for it to tell him something. But the
pain is silent, an ivory haired phantom, and it teaches him nothing he
did not already know.
That his body
will respond to pain the same as pleasure, that his nails will clench around
the leather straps and his heels will dig into the mattress. That his throat
will close and his thighs will tighten. That he will give in to breathing,
and panting, and moaning finally, calling his offering to some god who
never hears. That his cock will swell and quiver in the cool grip of one
hand, while the other brands him with mystical symbols that have no meaning
at all. Slashes and backwards crosses, letters and numbers and nonsense.
Until his arms, legs, chest, neck and belly are covered in blood, and sweat
Until every drop
of what has been spilt here is gone. Never speak it aloud, this hidden
design. Never even whisper of what it brings close...
Until he kisses
him, mouth open and tongue inside, and Angel tastes it on those lips...orange...vanilla..a
creamsicle of girl and death and Illneverforget. A groan deep in his chest
where Spike`s fingers play, pulling open the wound above the heart and
pressing black tips inside.
the wounds now. Makes him grind his hips up into the sharp curve of bone
and inhale... makes him hear the whisper of skin drums in the distance.
Slippery fingers around his cock, and arch again...but not yet...not yet...
He wants to see
what it looks like, all of it, the decadent pattern of blood and cut, of
hate and fear and demon`s lust. But tilting his head down he can see it
only from an angle, only from the top. And that`s not right, he needs to
see it as it was made, the view from the other side. What does he look
like, he wonders, and it seems so long since he last wondered, so long
since he even cared. What does the tattoo do to his neck, chest and arms
that he cannot see, here, from the inside.
Spike lays against
him, presses skin to skin, rough friction against all the open cuts and
wounds making him cry out and struggle against the leather bonds, until
suddenly he does not. He lets the blond lay there, smoothing, constraining,
perfectly still. And when Spike gets up at last, it is there, on his skin
as well; the tattoo, the mark, in an opposing pattern on his own body.
As a mirror would show him. It is there.
feed, implanted souls-implanted hardware, shadow- platinum, Sires and Slayers..
and it`s all the same. Reach your hand into the looking glass, come here,
and feel it from the inside.
torn and the lean body is thrown onto a dresser, the mirror above shattering
like an ice sculpture and tinkling like metal bells. No reflection in that
glass, nothing to preface its breaking. An unseen hand. Oh, he wishes that
he could see it, that the glass would bear silent witness to his tantrum,
that Spike and the room and the *world* would know he did it.
Arms hooked under
knees, fair head in the shattered remnants of reflection, back against
wood and glass and the wall. Find the rhythm, do it, do it harder, make
it mean whatever you want. Yellow eyes in darkness speak only in dares
now. Create something from chaos. I. Dare.You.
he does. There is beauty in the gold eyes rolling back, there is order
in the long fingers loosing the blood-soaked blade, there is *meaning*
in the taking, in the rutting, in the claiming, in the coming.
It`s being mounted
by the spirit, finally, it`s riding and being ridden; the bit chafes his
tongue, but it`s good to bleed. And around the howling and the keening
and the wails he paid in cash to have ignored, listen. Listen to the crumpling
of rice paper, it`s the angels crackling on the ceiling.
pulls the slivers of silver mirror out of Spike`s back, licks the wounds
clean, feels him tremble. Spike doesn`t bleed in multi-color. It`s all
red. Red for anger. Red for love. Red for rage. Red for hate. Red for death.
And it`s kind of Zen, really. Ever the same. Now is the time for red. Not
sacred but certainly pure. He is simple and absolute and it is only right
that Angel should suffer like a child to come unto him.
he awakens on the cusp of evening, knows by smell and by memory that he
is alone. Reaches under the empty pillow and pulls out a splinter of mirror,
still coated with Spike`s insides. And it seems to him that there must
be some way to *make* the thing work..if he could turn it just so, could
force it to refract the light and send him a glimmer, just the faintest
hint of himself.
But there is
only blue and silver and dark. The broken headboard. The peeling wallpaper.
A spider the size of a man`s fist.
the world; they are always changing, growing, breeding, making more. He
makes no more, there is no more. Just bloodied sheets, healing skin and
a handful of people who will miss him, will be wondering where he is gone.
So he will make up something pretty for them, tie it up with bows and with
tinsel. He will hide his chest from their eyes until it is smooth again.
He will keep
walking. Keep waiting for the next evening when his palms itch to distraction.
Keep the bit of crimson covered broken glass in his pocket until then.