All About Spike

Cotton Candy
By Circe

Thanks to my beta, cerdd_gwen

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Written for the Livejournal Flashfic-A-Thon. Set post-Innocence.

Itís only been three days since Angel lost his soul, but Buffy isnít going to cry any more.

Sheís doing something else, something productive, something that she should have done long before this, though itís only been three days.

Buffy strides purposefully down the empty streets. Thereís no one around, not ghost or ghoul or simple pedestrian. Maybe they see her coming, a pretty little blonde with fuck-me boots and a fuck-off scowl. Maybe they understand that today is not the time to mess the Slayer. Itís only been three days, you see.

She crosses Montrose and heads south on McLaren Avenue. This is the way to the factory. She knows this because once, not too long ago, she walked this route with her boyfriend. Of course, she didnít pay much attention, then. When she was with her boyfriend everything else faded away and there was only him, gentle and tender and intense. But her boyfriendís left town forever and the guy who packed his bags has gone to live with his old pals. He thinks heís too cool to hang out with a bunch of teenagers; heís got different interests now. The factory is where Spike and Drusilla hole up. This is where sheíll find Angelus.

Three days ago she turned seventeen. Seventeen years. She wonders if she should define her life by this measure, or by the day a stranger found her on the steps outside her high school. Or even by the move to Sunnydale, the baptism by fire that was being a Slayer on the Hellmouth.

She knows that Angel defined his life by this last. He gasped this truth into the underside of her breasts and the curve of her belly that night three days ago. ďI live for you,Ē he told her. ďAll that I am, you make me. You give my soul meaning. You take away the curse so thereís only love.Ē

You take away the curse. She wants to cry, but sheís busy. She has places to go, people to kill. Vampires to slay.

The factory looks quiet. Itís daylight, of course, which means the minions are abed and their masters canít leave. Buffy scales the chain link fence and makes her silent way across the deserted parking lot. Once this was a place of industry, now itís a morgue. The things inside are dead. They pretend differently, but she knows better. Sheís coming to finish this farce once and for all.

See her resolve face. See it?

Itís not as impenetrable as it may seem. The tears in her eyes give this away. Because sheís come up to a window now and sheís looking in and first time lucky, thereís Angel. Thereís Spike. On the bed. In each other.

Itís like being drawn to a traffic accident, like the feeling in the pit of her stomach when Xander looks at her that way. Repelled, yet secretly, unwillingly, attracted.

Because Spike, though thin and obviously still in pain, is lying supine on the bed while her boyfriendóno, another manófucks him. Itís all pale skin and blood-tinged lips and sharp hissing intakes of breath, which she canít really hear through the thick panes of glass, but can only imagine by the shape of their mouths, the arch of their necks. Itís all silky sliding of rippling muscles and fingers pinching nipples and purplish love bites in intimate places.

Itís the sight of Spikeís never-before-seen naked body, all deadly symmetry and feral grace. With his cutglass cheekbones, the slant of his blue fire eyes, the deliciousness of his taut belly, the feminine pout of his lips.

Itís the sight of Angelís naked body, familiar yet strange outside the safe cocoon of cotton sheets and candles that marked their time together.

Was it only three days ago?

And itís crazy, but she sees a look on Spikeís face that makes her draw in a quick breath and press her hand over her heart, because it hurts hurts hurts to see anyone look at her Angel that way. But this is his Angelus, and Spikeís staring at him like he did Drusilla that day of Fordís betrayal. Thereís darkness in his eyes; something warm, rich, and velvety. And whatís that on Angelís face? Whatís that in the way he holds Spikeís slight body against his own, the way he fists his cock, and devours his mouth?

Itís primal possession, and in that instant Buffy knows that this passion is one of those parts of Angel that sheíll never have, can never understand, even if time could roll back and mistakes could be undone. Even if heíd never lost his soul.

His lovemaking was simple, deliberate, careful, sweet. This is bubbling fury and raw sex, two male creatures writhing against each other, dark and light, heavy and lithe, blood calling to blood.

Buffy drops the stake to the ground. Angel whispered, you see, as he moved against her, moaning, that she tasted like cotton candy. And though she didnít at the time, she knows now what he meant. To him, she tasted of lazy summer afternoons in the garden; of powder-soft newborns cuddled in their motherís arms; of caramel apples and laughing kisses and rides on the carousel at the local fair; of love, free and easy and without despair.

Things heíll never have, never savour, not then and certainly not now.

She watches Angel as he rides Spike, his head buried in the crook of the blond vampireís neck, his lips working feverishly against cool skin. And she wonders what Spike tastes like.

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