All About Spike - Print Version
Nothing Else Matters
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Sequel to Stranger Things Have Happened
Spoilers for BtVS
S6. Set after “Dead Things”; Spoilers for A:tS S3. Set before “Waiting in the
Wings”; Sequel to my story “Stranger Things Have Happened”
been beaten up by Buffy Spike drives to L.A.
Many thanks to VampRapunzel, Cimmerdeux
Also many thanks to my reviewers. You are
the ones who convinced me to write more Spike/Angel.
Many more thanks to Xanpet who did the
“How’s my little
boy,” I coo, tickling Connor’s tummy. He makes gurgling noises of delight. I
roll the soiled diaper into a tight ball.
cupcake,” Lorne complains, holding out his hand, “When I said friendship’s all
about sharing, I wasn’t jonesing for diaper removal duty.”
“In for a penny,
in for a pound,” I reply. I give him the smelly bundle. Lorne holds it like
it’s a bomb about to explode.
“Well,” he says
with disdain. “At least we don’t have to pay for an exterminator. I’m sure all
resident rats and cockroaches have relocated to the sewers for some fresh air.”
And with that he
rushes outside to get rid of the offending object.
The right man
for the right job; that’s what I like about working in a team.
I change Connor
into clean clothes, struggling briefly with the tiny buttons. Then I put him
into his cot. He starts playing with his own fingers.
If anyone had
told me a few months ago I’d add changing diapers to my otherwise ignominious
list of skills, or read myself through a pile of parenting books to learn
everything about ‘potty training’ and the ‘phase of defiance’ I would have
filed that comment under ‘bad joke’. And if anyone had told me I’d be having
sex with Spike… Nah, nobody would have even dared suggest such a thing.
And yet, it
It’s been six weeks
now since... since we ‘shagged’ – to use one of Spike’s expressions – and there
hasn’t been a single phone call from him.
I don’t know if
he’s deliberately punishing me for the century I didn’t get in touch with them
(or him), or if the thought that I might like to hear from him just never
occurred to him.
This train of
thought? Not good!
concentrate on something a little less spikecentric. Like singing.
“On the first
day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…” I sing. Okay, I know I’m a bad
singer, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind. And, I know Christmas was six weeks
ago, but it was the first song that came to mind, okay?
“… a partridge
in a pear tree…”
Lorne’s back and
he gives me a funny look. I stop in mid-verse. I don’t want him to read me, not
now. He already knows how I feel about Cordy. He doesn’t need to know what
happened between Spike and myself.
What is it with
his nicknames for me, anyway? They beat ‘deadboy’ any time, to be sure, not to
mention ‘peaches’ or ‘poofter’, but couldn’t he pick something less… sugar-y?
“It’s just a
song,” I say, knowing I can’t fool him but pretending to, anyway. “Also, Cordy
made me swear never to massacre Barry Manilow again.”
worse,” he lies.
I’m glad you’re here. Can you look after Connor? I think I need to work out.
Now.” Just cause I’m dead it doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement… and
I really need to clear my mind of certain images. Images of Spike’s lean body,
his erect… I guiltily wrench my thoughts off that particular track.
swoons, full of mischief, “I’d love to watch you pump those irons, pumpkin, all
those rippling muscles. But,” he proclaims in a silly voice, bending down to
offer the baby a green skinned finger to play with, “if daddy needs someone to
look after you, then your Uncle Lorne says yes, yes, yes.”
downstairs to the basement where I have my training room. Training is good. Training
should keep my mind off a certain blond vampire who hasn’t called.
Maybe he expects
me to call him. I can’t do that, of course. Seniority. I’m the sire of
his sire. Also, he doesn’t have a phone. I checked. (And no, I didn’t check
telephone directory for ‘Bloody, William the’ – I used some of my old contacts
I take off my
shoes and the socks.
Why doesn’t he
have a cell phone? Even I’ve got one of those damn things. I find them much too
small. They make me feel clumsy. But if I stick to the numbers Cordy has
programmed into it, then I can manage. Unless of course I forget to charge it
or I leave it in the wrong pocket.
I take off my
shirt and hang it tidily over the backrest of a chair.
So, why hasn’t
Spike got one? I’d have thought he’d cope with them better than I do. He always
took a shine to new things. Unlike many of our kind he was flowing with the
times rather than resisting them. I only knew him for twenty years, but in that
time he eagerly embraced new inventions, fashions, countries, languages even
I begin my
training with a few introductory Tai Chi exercises. Slow controlled movements
requiring concentration and precision.
I succeed for a
while, but then my mind starts wandering again.
forget how we stepped off the boat in Shanghai during our trip to China in
1900. The first thing Spike did was eat some noodles from a street vendor. The
first thing Darla and Dru did, was share the vendor.
What was the
first thing I ate? Rat. Raw. Now people, they taste different if you
travel. What they eat affects their scent and even to some extent the flavor of
their blood. But wherever you go, the rats taste the same, strange isn’t it?
I know I told
Buffy that I left Darla and the others after those gypsies cursed me. But in
truth I left them two years later, when we were in China. And I’m not sure I’d
have left them if Darla hadn’t disowned me.
I slowly lift my
left leg to achieve the Crane Stance. For several minutes I hold that position,
trying hard to clear my mind of all thoughts of Spike. It’s no good. I give up
and bring the exercise to an end.
Maybe a round
with the sand bag will help.
I didn’t keep tabs
on Spike, after I was cursed with a soul; or on any of the others. James, Penn,
Drusilla and William the Bloody - in some perverted way they were like my
children. The knowledge that that they went on killing, while my own murders
weighed heavily on my conscience - well, let’s just say I shied away from the
reminder. I severed all links and banished the memories of my creations as far
from my mind as I could. Hoping I’d never have to set eyes on them again.
But you know
what it’s like, nothing will stay buried forever. The past isn’t gone. It’s
just hidden, waiting to catch up. The planet is just not big enough to run from
it. And like flotsam and jetsam Darla, Spike and Drusilla ended up at the
Hellmouth, a place with its own kind of evil gravity, and we met again.
punch. My blows become a staccato. My knuckles are beginning to hurt. I keep on
pounding just the same.
James and Penn
are both dead. I’ve seen them turn to dust before my eyes. Punchpunchpunch.
I’ve set fire to Drusilla who is probably the most painful walking memento of
what Angelus was capable of, a reminder of what I’ve been. Punchpunchpunch.
I’ve witnessed Darla sacrificing herself for our child and I have once again
shared a bed with William the Bloody.
I hit the
sandbag so hard it swings erratically, like a pendulum.
And it was
unlike anything I could have imagined.
The mere memory
sends shivers down my spine. It fills me with hunger and yearning. It also
gives me an almost painful erection, no matter how hard I will it to go away.
All those meditation techniques I studied to keep the hunger in check, and
those other… desires – not working. Not this time. I think back to Christmas
morning and I am way past what a cold shower can cure.
I stop. The
sandbag swings back and hits me against the chest. I wrap my arms around it, in
a parody of an embrace, stopping its momentum.
Brutality. Vindictiveness. All those I would have understood, maybe even
welcomed. Not because I yearn for pain. I don’t. But sometimes I wish it were
the currency in which to pay for what I’ve done. Pain is easy; it’s the fear of
failure that’s hard to endure.
I let go of the
sandbag and look at my knuckles. They’re bleeding. They’re hurting. But they’ll
I pick up my
shirt and my shoes and go back upstairs.
On my way to the
shower I check on Lorne and Connor. They look happy; untroubled.
I move to the bedroom and pour myself a
whiskey, from the bottle I keep hidden in my wardrobe. The bottle Spike gave me
for Christmas. Irish Whiskey. Pretty old, too. I sip it slowly, almost guiltily
enjoying the mellow flavor.
I chose a new
set of clothes and carefully lay them out on the bed, and then I strip. My arousal
has dulled a bit. I eye the shower and ponder my options. Hot or cold, what’s
it gonna be?
It’s not like it
matters. I can’t put it off indefinitely, anyway. Sooner or later I’ll do it;
might just as well do it now, matter-of-factly – not desperately.
How can it be,
that after a hundred years - with both of us utterly changed – one thing has
remained the same? How can it be that I still want him? How can it be that I
want to feel him inside of me, or surrounding me?
I step into the
shower and turn the faucets. Hot water cascades down my body.
Sometimes I wish
I’d never seen him again. Never poured my cappuccino over his T-shirt. Never
seen him change in the middle of that shopping mall. Never noticed…
The amount of
time I spend obsessing over what happened is humiliating.
For him it was
obviously just a one-night stand.
I mean, what
else could it have been?
I guess we’ll be
trading blows again real soon.
I can almost
hear Cordy say ‘Gee, broody much? Get a life.’ Except that this is not brooding,
this is… reminiscing.
I close my eyes
and rest my forehead against the cool tiles of the wall. It doesn’t take much
to evoke the memory how Spike touched my cock, how one-by-one he slipped his
well-oiled fingers into me to prepare me, oh, so carefully, stretching me. I
remember the slick head of his hard cock prodding my opening. And then the
burning sensation as he slowly pushed inside of me, his eyes widening in
wonder, blue, not a spark of yellow in them… the way he panted as he began to
thrust… oh yes…. thrusting faster and faster, as the passion overwhelmed us
My hips undulate
faster against my fist. I’m not a monk. And I don’t want to be a monster. All I
have is this, a memory and my own hands…
When I spurt my
come over the tiles the water washes it down the drain faster than you can
blink. There’s no evidence of my weakness.
A few minutes
later I step outside the shower and begin to towel myself dry. Then I slip into
I’m still her
That’s all I’ll
I wonder what part
of me decided it was good enough to feed on scraps. Cause it just isn’t. Being
a vampire is about being voracious. It’s about drinking, and shagging, and
fighting and obsessing. About wanting. And taking.
It’s never about
everything’s happenin’ to me in slomo. I don’t know if it’s the chip or my love
for Buffy that has slowed my life to an agonizing crawl. Seems like I’m always
waiting for something. Like waiting for a shag, waiting to be needed or waiting
to be just talked to.
The only time I
ever feel like I’m picking up speed is when I’m with her.
Outside, the sun
I get out of my
chair. My body protests, aching all over. I shrug. There’s pain and there’s
injury. I’ll heal.
I sip a pint of
pig’s blood, straight from the fridge. It’s cold and disgusting. Much like me,
She’s right, you
know. I AM evil. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like anyone cares either way.
It’s been 18 hours
since Buffy left me lying in that alley, outside the police precinct. I know
she’s not in the slammer cause I still have connections. She never came back to
tell me she was off the hook or to… Well, I managed to get up and drag myself back
to my crypt without her help, thank you very much.
Since then I’ve
listened for the sounds of her foot steps. All day, in fact.
I’m through with
waiting. I get my bike out of its hiding place, hop on and I drive. As fast as
I can. I don’t have a plan. I just need to unfreeze. It works, too. By the time
I reach L.A. I’m seething with rage.
Why I end up in
front of the Hyperion? God knows.
One good kick
crashes the door wide open. With a roar I drive my bike inside, down the stairs and round the red settee
before I kill the engine. I jack up my bike but remain seated.
One by one they
appear in the lobby: The Ex-Watcher’s first. I recognize him from some of the
photos Angel showed me at Christmas. He steps out of the office, looking grim
and aiming a crossbow at my heart. Then there’s a black guy, brandishing a mean
There’s a nervous
looking girl, big with the whole ‘please-don’t-notice-me’ vibe. So, I don’t.
And then there’s
Cordelia herself. Still a hottie. I can see why the poof pines for her. The
prom queen got her hair cut. Must be contagious. She, too, has a loaded
look absolutely…” I give her an appraising look and am rewarded with the
involuntary beginnings of a smile, “tense! Celibacy’s a bitch, innit. No wait,
you are. When was the last time you had a nice shag?”
Score. But I give
her that, she hides it well.
I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder! No wait, it’s in you head, isn’t it. You look
absolutely trashed,” she replies almost cheerfully. “Jeez, looks like Buffy and her groupies finally
got fed up with Mr. Ex-Big Bad and sent you packing,” Cordelia observes. ”Did
Buffy run out of stakes?”
Not bad. Hurts in
all the right places. But I think I can top that.
“Rumour has it
you’re saving yourself for a nice office romance. Let me remind you, shagging
the boss is a no-no, unless you all want to bend over. Angelus unleashed is
more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”
There is a
From the look on her
face I am a hair’s breadth from being shot to dust.
There he is,
barefoot, wearing pants and undershirt, hair wet, holding a towel, and boy, he
looks royally pissed off. He tosses the towel away and marches down the stairs.
There’s a green-skinned fellow in a camp suit following him.
“I’ll have you
know that I am the boss here now,” the ex-Watcher pipes in. As if I didn’t
know. I give him a once over, with all the brazen sexuality I can muster. He
blushes. And then I turn it off dismissively. “Does it help you get laid? Guess
not. Yeah, well we all know what Watchers have instead of--“
Angel has reached
Cordelia and puts a reassuring hand on her arm. He gives me one of his
mooglies, the Dark Avenger has spoken! It’s good to see you, too.”
“Who is he?” the
nervous girl asks no one in particular.
“Whoever he is,”
the green skinned bloke says, sounding a right nancy boy, “he’s quite
delicious, at least he would be, if the goods were undamaged. You just gotto
love the bad boy vibe.”
“Spike’s a vampire. One of Angel’s… “ Wyndham-Pryce hesitates,
momentarily unsure how to continue, “… an old enemy.”
“He hired another
vampire to stick hot pokers into Angel.” Cordelia informs everybody succinctly.
“Best fun I had
for ages,” I smirk, lighting myself a cigarette.
If looks could
kill… They all glare at me collectively. Angel’s got himself quite a large
bunch of friends, there.
I feel cold. I
resist the urge to draw my duster tighter around me.
“What makes you
think you can just barge in here?” The Watcher asks me.
“What?” I exclaim
in mock surprise. “You mean, peaches didn’t tell you guys? Got an invite to the
batcave from Mr. ‘tall, dark and lonesome’ himself.” There. The seeds of strife
and all that rot.
I’m evil, right?
Got to live up to everybody’s expectation, don’t I.
God, I wish
someone would put me out of my misery, already.
* * *
Here we go
He’s driven a
motorcycle inside my hotel! And he’s insulting my friends. And he’s back to
insulting me. This is so typical. I mean, what did I expect? That Christmas
So, is this the
big moment where he tells everybody that he and I ‘shagged’? They’re all here,
for maximum impact. Was that his plan all along: to humiliate me in front of my
Those are my
thoughts until I get a proper look at him.
Spike is a right
mess. Someone gave him a proper beating. His left eye is black and blue,
partially closed, and his lip is split. There are bruises on his cheeks and his
He’s sitting on
his bike, obnoxious smirk in place. But he’s nervously picking at his nail
polish. Like he’s itching for a fight. Or maybe like he’s embarrassed. I can’t
quite tell. But as he’s not wearing his injuries like a badge of honor, I’m
beginning to suspect that the hurt isn’t just physical.
“You invited him
in?” Cordy asks in a ‘have-you-lost-your-mind’ tone. “What for?”
I have no answer
to that. The connection between Spike and myself is hard to explain, so I don’t
“If he’s a vamp
and an enemy as well, how come we aren’t dusting him?” Gunn asks.
family? Like Darla? I mean, not everybody gets on with his relatives, right?”
I notice that Cordelia’s
crossbow is still aimed at Spike’s heart as if she expects Spike to attack me
any second now.
I realize they
are all waiting for me to say something. To explain this.
I stare at him.
Spike stares back.
He doesn’t say
anything. That in itself is totally out of character. I mean, normally, he
never keeps his goddamn mouth shut. He has that wounded look. The same
expression of pride and hurt he wore whenever Angelus tried to break him. Just
without his usual obstinacy.
And why can I
say ,“I killed so many people and I’m sorry,” but when I want to even think “I
treated Spike worse than an animal, and I’m sorry” it comes out as “Angelus
tried to break him”?
Never mind. He’s
family. He needs help. And he’s come to me. Nothing else matters.
helping the helpless is what I do.
I gesture to my
friends to stand down. They do so reluctantly.
I ask and walk towards him. He relaxes, minutely. He gets off his bike and
stands before me. His eyes flicker to my hands, noticing the bruised knuckles,
then up again.
moment to spare, mate?” Spike says,
Both Wes and
Gunn seem uncertain what to make of this. Fred looks on in fascination. And
Lorne is practically oozing curiosity. It seems like Spike and I have a big
“Angel, I don’t
think it is…” Wesley starts.
“I’ll talk to
him.” I interrupt him.
Spike drops his
cigarette and crushes it under his boot.
suggest and vaguely point upwards. I have a brief but extremely visual
flashback of Spike crawling up the stairs half naked, singing. He’d been so
funny, vibrant and – okay, I’ll admit it – drop dead sexy…
before me is dull by comparison. I really want to know who did this to him and
why. Maybe I can help.
“Not here,” he
says, meaning the hotel.
I make a
decision. “Wes, can I borrow your bike?”
confused. “Why, yes, but…”
not leaving with him,” Cordy says resolutely.
“Yes, I am. Look
after Connor for me. I won’t be long. I think. Wes?”
He takes the
keys out of his pocket and tosses them to me.
gets back on his bike and starts the motor. Its roar is deafening in the
confines of the lobby. He turns the bike with a spin that leaves a black smudge
of rubber on the floor and drives up the stairs. A moment later he’s gone.
“Are you sure
this is such a great idea, man?” Gunn asks me.
can’t possibly think of driving somewhere with him,” Cordelia complains.
“Have you forgotten what he did to you the last time you two met? He made you
The last time
Spike and I met we drank, ate, talked and slept together. Only, I can’t tell
Okay, I know, I
shouldn’t play the Lone Ranger all the time. I’m supposed to connect, let them
in, strengthen my ties to humanity, but how can I tell them what happened last
Christmas? Well, I can’t. Even if I wanted to. Plus I don’t think Spike would
like me to fill them in. But I can’t let them worry about my safety, either.
Cordy always berates me for keeping things to myself and perhaps she’s right.
“Spike and I, we...
“You what? When
was that?” She asks sharply. I can’t blame her for being angry at being left
out of the loop on this.
Gunn and Wesley follow
our exchange like a tennis match, turning their heads alternately at her and
then at me.
reply. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
They turn to
look at Cordelia.
“Sure, and now
you’re going to tell me he doesn’t want you dead anymore? And you expect me to
Cordy’s a great
friend, honest, funny, astute - I already mentioned ‘honest’, didn’t I – and
also fiercely loyal. Even so, there are things I can’t tell her. I can’t tell
her how I feel about her and that my feelings for her scare me. And I can’t
tell her how I feel about Spike, because I don’t quite understand it myself.
“Look at it like
this,” I say, “if he skewers me again, you can all go ‘I told you so.’”
It doesn’t take
me long to get dressed. I grab a few things, put them in a duffle bag and walk
to the hotel garage where Wes’s bike is parked. Where Lorne is waiting.
He watches me
while I fasten my bag on the bike.
“Be careful,” he
finally warns me, with great sincerity. “I don’t need him to sing to see that
“I can take care
of myself,” I say as I insert the ignition key.
“I know you can,
muffin. It’s not you I’m worried about,” the Pylean says gently.
I may not be
good with people but there must be something I’m doing right, cause I couldn’t
ask for better friends. I give him a grateful pat on the back and then I’m off.
I pull up next
me.” He flicks his half-smoked cigarette away and steps on it.
So, that’s what I
the night on our bikes, we break every speed limit. Spike’s an idiot to flirt
with disaster like that, but I do my best to keep up with him, so I guess that
makes me an idiot as well. Eventually he leaves the PCH and I follow him along
a winding trail. We end up on a nice secluded beach, of all the places.
I wonder how he
found this place. He must have been here before, probably with Drusilla. I
remember that she was fond of the sea.
We jack up our
bikes. Spike lights up while I untie my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
We walk quietly
for a minute or two, heading towards the water. I’ve got sand in my $300$
shoes, and I worry about what salt, tar and sand will do to the leather. Maybe
I should take them off.
He flicks his
glowing cigarette butt away, causing sparks to fly. It lands several feet away
from us on a patch of wet sand and winks out.
“You look like
you’ve been hit by a truck,” I finally say, slightly unnerved by the fact that
he’s so uncharacteristically quiet. “Do you want to talk about it?” I wince at
my own words and the ‘Vampires Anonymous’ vibe they evoke.
he says in an uncertain tone that sounds more like ‘maybe.’
I turn towards
him. “Whose handiwork is that?” I point at his black eye.
He shrugs. “No
one you know.”
I know he’s lying.
And he’s not even remotely convincing. Wesley’s a better liar than Spike and
he’s not even evil. What is this? What’s he keeping from me?
Suddenly, I get
it. “Buffy? Why, what did you do to her?” I blurt out, still feeling that
protective surge in my belly. I’ve moved on, I had to, for her sake. That
doesn’t mean I don’t care anymore.
think?” Spike smirks nastily.
I grab him by
the lapels of his coat, and growl at him. “What did you do to her?” Suddenly
I’m scared that the behavior modification chip in his brain malfunctioned. That
he killed Buffy and that he dragged me here to brag about it, to tell me that
he ‘bagged’ himself his third Slayer.
“Oi! Sod off!”
he snarls back. “You’re tearing my coat, you dimwit poof.”
I’m going to tear
him a new one in a minute! I feel rage building inside of me. It’s as if
something cold and scaly slowly uncoils deep inside me.
“What. Did. You.
Do?” I hit him without letting go of his coat. The blows open the cut on his
lip. The smell of his blood spurs me on.
Slayer’s all safe and sound, if that’s what you’re wondering about. She’s
probably selling greasy burgers to fat junk food addicts, as we speak.” He
snickers and runs his tongue over the cut, ever so teasingly, tasting his own
He hasn’t denied
that it was Buffy who beat him up. I’m getting tired of his games and shove him
away, hard enough for him to fly several yards before he crashes to the ground.
He rolls on his
“Look at you!”
he laughs, propping himself up on his elbows, “Three years, and she’s still in
I study him
puppy,” he taunts me. He jumps to his feet and starts circling me. While he’s
prancing around me he never stops talking.
“Come on, Angel,
tell me: what is it that made you her lapdog?” he asks, his voice dripping with
venom. “Her hair? Her tits? Her Slayer strength? Her scent? She smells nice,
doesn’t she? All the pheromones leakin’ all over the place when she’s
I turn to keep
my eyes on him. I wish he’d stop yapping. It’s getting harder to control the
rage. I could let it all out! Lay it on him. It’s tempting. He’s evil, he’s a
vampire and whatever I do to him will heal, anyway.
Unless of course
stops. He stands before me, his head tilted sideways, giving the impression
that he’s looking down on me even though he’s smaller than me, smirking
“When you close
your eyes to go to sleep,” he says, “do you think of her, of her sweet and hot
That does it! My
fangs slide down, a growl rises in my throat and I backhand him with all I’ve
got. He doesn’t even pretend to duck. My blow sends him flying backwards.
He slowly picks
himself up. But he’s laughing.
It’s a sound so
tinged with despair that it stops me in my tracks.
really slow on the uptake. This must be one of those cases. He’s pushing my
buttons, but I don’t know why. Is this what he’s been aiming at all along? For
me to get so mad that I finish what Buffy started? Does he even know?
sometimes wish,” he pants, swaying unsteadily, “that love had an on and an off
switch, so you can just turn it off when it hurts too much?”
And suddenly I
understand. Light bulbs and everything. He’s not going to tell me what’s going
on until I force him to. He’s practically inviting me to beat the story out of
him. Part of him wants to talk but he can’t or isn’t allowed to or promised not
How screwed up
is that? I shake my head in exasperation.
Okay, I can work
A kick and a
swing later I have him knocked over, lying sprawled in the sand. He tries to
get up, but I press my advantage and catch him with a calculated punch before
he can. I quickly straddle him and pin him to the ground. He struggles
perfunctorily. If he really wanted to fight, this would have taken much longer.
Maybe I was right and he really wants to talk.
And I? I feel
myself growing hard. Because I’m lying on top of him, holding his wrists above his
head, using the weight of my body to keep him down. His resistance only serves
to increase my arousal. Our faces are mere inches apart. His lower lip is still
Having him writhing underneath me like
that brings back memories of the days when breaking William the Bloody into
tiny little pieces was like a piece of art. The memory disgusts me. But deep
inside of me something wicked stirs, almost languidly, and tries to urge me on.
I know Spike can
feel it, too.
* * *
Do I get a lecture
on how I’m soulless and evil and disgusting? With maybe a bit of pummelling
thrown in for good measure?
Or is this the
bit where he’s gonna shag me blind first, before goin’ all high and mighty? I
know he wants me, I can feel his hard-on.
I stare up into
feral eyes. Inscrutable. Appraising me. Dunno what it’s like to have a soul.
Must be like a thick blanket, smothering the demon that lurks underneath. Right
now that blanket’s pretty threadbare, I’d wager. So, maybe Angelus will come
out to play.
Feel like I’m
trapped in a pattern: Get kicked, get shagged, get hurt, not necessarily in
that order. Can’t say I care. Right now I don’t care about anything. Must’ve
been insane to drag him out here. Dunno what I was thinking. Nothing makes
Let’s just get
this over and done with.
fuck, Angel? Yeah, come on, I’ll give you a good fuck.”
thing I’m really good at.
* * *
“What?” I barely
manage to keep my face impassive.
His erratic behavior
is beginning to wear me out. I never thought Spike might be capable of such
self-loathing and despair. Was it presumptuous of me to think that those are
properties of a soul? I’m reminded of stories where a trapped animal gnawed off
its own limbs to escape. Only, this feels like I’m supposed do it for him.
you’re here with me, innit?”
God, is that
truly what he thinks?
that, wouldn’t you?” I say harshly, tapping reluctantly into my nemesis, that
dark well of deliberate cruelty that gave Angelus his reputation. “For me to
throw you around a bit and fuck you like the worthless demon you are?”
The look in his
eyes is indescribable. I feel sick in my stomach. But I think I just made
another crack in his already battered armor.
“Well, let me
tell you something, Spike,” I continue coldly, “right now I wouldn’t fuck you
even if the end of the world was near.”
nothing,” I go on relentlessly. “Tell me, what’s it like to always be second
Crack and snap.
anguished howl he resumes his struggles. He bucks and squirms and thrashes
around frantically, trying to dislodge me. “Let go, you stupid wanker! Get off
me…you and your stupid soul, you sanctimonious fuck…I don’t need you, don’t
need anyone…” An almost incoherent stream of insults and foul language issues
forth. He struggles and rants for what seems like ages, but strangely enough he
doesn’t shift to his vampiric features, not once. Eventually, his outrage is
spent and he goes limp underneath me. His gaze wavers, then he turns his face
I let go of one
wrist and cup his cheek. “William, look at me.” He complies wearily. I let my
human features reappear. “Whatever it is, just tell me,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer
right away. I wonder if he’ll ever talk to me again.
“Why does she
hate me so much?” he finally asks with a pained voice.
That one has me
stumped. I can hear the unspoken message as clearly as if he had actually said it:
‘Why doesn’t Buffy hate YOU, Angel?’
Like I’ve got
all the answers.
Like I’ve ever
known what goes on inside her head (or anybody else’s). I’ve been around for
over 250 years, but when it comes to dealing with people, I usually feel like
I’ve only just reached 25. If you count Whistler’s appearance in my life as a
coming of age that’s probably a fair assessment.
I think I’ll
just tackle this like a case I’m trying to solve. He witness, me detective. I
think professional detachment will prove helpful. “Tell me what happened,” I
say, poker face firmly in place.
And then the
story comes out. Slowly, haltingly. Some of it he told me already, six weeks
ago. But he never mentioned that he and Buffy actually have sex. I can’t
believe she actually got involved with him. What I do believe is that she kept
the whole thing secret. Obviously, that’s one of the things that are eating
away at him.
After a while I
release his wrists and get off to sit beside him. Spike sits up. He pulls a
flask out of his coat, drinks, then offers it to me. I can smell it’s bourbon.
I accept, take a sip and pass it back. He puts it back into his coat pocket and
hunts for his cigarettes.
I hear him work
his lighter and there is the crackling sound as the tip of his cigarette is
consumed by fire. I feel briefly like I’m trapped in a Marlboro commercial.
Except they don’t do beaches, they do deserts and canyons. He inhales deeply.
We sit and stare
at the waves rolling in, while he talks and I listen.
What I hear
makes me both sad and angry. He doesn’t go into great detail, for which I’m
grateful, but it’s obvious enough that their relationship makes both of them
deeply unhappy. I don’t even pretend to
understand what makes these two do the things they do to each other and to
themselves. I tell myself it is not for me to judge. After all, that mess is at
least partly of my own making. In a way, both are still licking wounds made by
After a while he
grows quiet and we haven’t even reached a point in the story that would explain
He pulls out his
flask again and offers it to me. I shake my head. I get up and fetch my bag.
When I open it he gets a good look at my favorite broadsword. But that’s not
what I’m looking for. I rummage around until I find the container of pig’s
blood. I know its healing properties are next to nil, but it’s all I have. He
makes a face but drinks it anyway. Like me, he doesn’t even go into game face
anymore, when feeding.
“Angel? Do you
know how many people you’ve killed?” he suddenly asks.
“No, I don’t.”
How can I tell
him that guilt cannot be measured in numbers? How can I tell him that I tried
to make a list once, writing down names and dates, trying to find out just how
evil I was?
He takes his
time with his next question but I can see it coming. “Do you know how many
“No, I don’t.” This time I try to explain. “It’s not
like two scales that you can even out, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”
He just laughs without
mirth. “Heaven forefend, do I look to you like I want redemption? If I do, you
need a pair of glasses, mate.”
I leave that
remark unchallenged and wait for him to continue his story.
He tells me how
Buffy thought she killed an innocent girl and how she was going to turn herself
in. This is one instance where I could have actually told him she’d behave like
that... because of that thing with Faith. Spike tried to keep her from going to
the police. Doesn’t he know Buffy is the most stubborn girl… What am I saying? Of course he does. So, she
wouldn’t let him stop her. And then Buffy beat the crap out of him.
“What did you
do?” I ask.
At first I think
he’s being evasive but then I realize it’s the truth. “And then?”
He just shrugs.
He grabs a handful of sand and watches it run through his fingers. “Sometimes I
think I know her inside out,” he muses, “And then I don’t get her at all.”
He looks up,
suddenly alarmed. “She mustn’t know I told you!”
He nods, taking
my word for it.
“Spike? I’m glad
you came to see me,” I tell him, truthfully. “But next time you need someone to
talk to, let’s just skip the fighting und cut right to the talking, okay?”
shagging?” he says, smiling faintly.
There is a long
silence. Finally, just when I think that he’s done getting all his defenses
back into place he says in a small voice: “Dru may have been crazy, but we
could talk for hours. Or just watch telly, you know, do normal things. Sometimes
I miss that.” The memory softens his face.
I’m not much for
talking. But I’m a great listener. And as for advice, well, I’ve read so many
parenting books I’ve got good advice practically coming out of my ears, but Spike
isn’t exactly in his terrible twos. There is, however, one thing I can do.
your coat off.”
mind, did you?” he says with just a touch of sarcasm. “What happened to ‘I
wouldn’t fuck you even if the end of the world was near’?”
I dig into my
duffle bag and get my first aid kit out. I show it to him. He shakes his head.
“It’s nothing. A few pints of 0 neg from the hospital will stitch me up in no
“Just let me,” I
He doesn’t make
a move. I take that as a ‘yes’ and push the duster off his shoulders. After a
moment of hesitation he helps, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves. I slowly
and carefully unbutton his shirt and push it off.
I pause. His chest
and shoulders are covered in nasty bruises. I’m pretty sure he’s in pain. I’m
also pretty sure he doesn’t want me to make a big fuss about it.
I unzip the
first aid kit and get to work. I start with his face. There’s not much I can
do. I carefully wipe off some dried
blood, cleaning minor cuts and wondering if he can actually see out of his
black eye. It’s almost swollen shut. His cheekbone is heavily bruised but the
bone seems whole.
“I’ll be honest
with you, Spike,” I say as gently as I can, while checking the rest of his body
for broken bones, “I never liked you. At least not until I got to know you
better last Christmas. I wanted you, certainly, but I didn’t like you.”
I find a
fractured rib. He winces, whether at the pain or at my words I can’t tell.
There’s a look of desolation on his face.
“You’re not exactly
making it easy to like you.” I elaborate. I start cleaning the cuts and
abrasions. “You know, Spike, you’re vindictive, selfish and spectacularly rude.
You’re a liar, a rogue and a killer – albeit on a leash. You’re also one of the
most annoying persons I’ve ever met.”
I find myself
smiling. He’s still silent. I give him a nudge and he lifts his arms a little
to allow me to bandage his ribs, so the bone will knit properly. That brings me
pretty close to him, especially whenever I reach his back, where I have to
change the bandage roll from one hand to the other.
“But I don’t
hate you.” I deliberately plant a kiss on his cheek. “Not by a mile.”
He blinks at me
in surprise. He studies my face. The look of desolation slowly fades and is
replaced by his usual smirk. “So, you want me then, do you?” he asks with a
leer that’s not quite back to its old strength. I can sense the underlying
“I would have
thought that’d be evident,” I answer, referring to the bulge in my pants.
“Poofter,” he says,
but without malice. It sounds almost affectionate.
“Spike, I wish
you’d stop calling me that. Besides, it takes two for a good… um… shag, so if
I’m a poofter, what does that make you?”
I pull back and
squint at him, giving him a once over. “Very.”
Okay, I just
paid Spike a compliment (how poof-y is that?) and the earth didn’t open and swallow
me. Well, it wasn’t really a compliment, more like the truth. He IS
irresistible and I do want him. But it’s foolish to think anything could happen
after everything I said to him. Actually, I’m amazed he hasn’t donned his old
attitude—telling me to fuck off and then driving off to Sunnydale, already. He
needed to unburden, so now that it’s happened he should be on his way. Instead
he’s still here.
“So, you think
I’m rude?” he asks.
“I can live with
that,” he says.
I stare at him
and all I can think of is that I want him. I can smell him. Leather and
tobacco, plus the scent of his blood.
He still hasn’t put his clothes back on. I want to touch him... want him to
things I said… those other things, you know, when…”
“You think too
much, Angel,” he interrupts me. The ghost of a smile appears. “And you’ve got
way too many clothes on.”
I take off my
coat, shirt and undershirt, fold them neatly and pile them up next to me. Shoes
and socks are next. I take my time, giving him every conceivable opportunity to
change his mind.
Having done that
I place my hand at the back of his neck and run my thumb over his uninjured
cheek. His eyes close, like those of a cat when it’s stroked.
“Are you sure? I
mean, you’re injured…”
“Yeah. So?” He
opens his eyes and looks at me.
I run my fingers
across his bandaged chest to his shoulders, caressing him. His gaze never
wavers. His pupils dilate. I wonder what he’s thinking behind those blue eyes.
What is this to him?
“You’re doin’ it
again, mate,” he startles me out of my musings. He unbuckles his belt. When did
he take off his docs?
thinking again,” Spike says, as he pulls down the zip of his pants, revealing
his hard shaft, “When you should just gear up for a nice shag.”
I bury my hand
in his hair. I lean towards him and kiss him, slowly. My tongue plunges into
his mouth, savoring him. He responds willingly. My hands roam over his back,
his hands roam over mine. I push
forward and he lets himself fall backward. I follow him down, our lips never
losing contact. I slip one of my knees
between his legs and grind my erection against his hip. My left arm has to
carry my weight but my right hand is free to explore his body. I use it to
slide inside his open pants to cup his buttock.
Such a nice
ass! I give it a squeeze. Then I
proceed to pull his pants off. He cooperates by lifting his hips. At last he
lies before me, totally naked. He’s totally desirable - and he knows it.
I take the time
to admire his lean limbs, the mixture of lithe grace and strength. Even bruised
and battered he still exudes a brazen sexuality. He’s like a rapier, sharp,
built for speed, lethal but smooth. Flexible, too. He bends and bends until you
think he snapped, but when you release him he springs back unharmed and is as
deadly and beautiful as ever.
Me, I’m more of
a broadsword, big, heavy, with a nasty cutting edge. Next to him I feel slow,
clumsy and rigid, in more ways than one. It took me a hundred years and a
prodding by Whistler to set me on my path. Took him a chip and two years. But
this is not some kind of contest or race. At least not to me. And this is not
the right moment to dwell on such things.
He basks in my
admiration. His cock is already hard and erect, but now that he feels my eyes
on him he undulates his hip slightly, making it bob up and down. He smirks,
folding his arms above his head and sprawling around like a large tom-cat. A
horny and rather shameless tom-cat. I stare at the way he displays himself.
I grab my duffle
bag and start rummaging around in it. He rolls over and reaches for his duster
and searches the pockets. We succeed at the same time, triumphantly holding a
little tube in the air.
“Boy scout,” he
calls me with a grin.
my fond reply.
We smile at each
other in a rare moment of rapport. He seems to come to a decision. He tosses his
tube aside. “Your turn, Angel,” he says, unceremoniously. “Do me.”
Two words that
aren’t as callous as they sound. My throat constricts. He trusts me. After
everything I did to him four years ago, when I was Angelus and he was stuck in
that wheelchair, he trusts me.
I swallow. I
take off my pants and my boxers and toss them aside. He grins. Somehow that
gets rid of some of my nervousness. He raises a questioning eyebrow.
I think he
expects me to take him on his back, but as nice as being able to look at him
is, I want both of us to be more comfortable and relaxed. I coax him until he’s
lying on his side and then I position myself behind him, spooning him.
facing the Pacific. I gently kiss his shoulders and his neck. I make sure I
have no sand on my hands before I unscrew the little tube and squeeze some lube
onto my fingers. I push my left arm underneath his waist so I can hold him
tight or reach his cock if I want to. Then I move the lubricated digits of my
right to the crease between his cheeks. I find his opening and probe it gently.
He inhales sharply.
As Angelus I
never cared about his pleasure. I just took what was mine to take. Not anymore.
I nibble on his shoulders as I slowly push a slick finger into his tight hole. Okay,
according to how this felt when we were doing it the other way round and
according to everything I’ve read on the subject since then, the magical spot
should be about … here. He bucks against my hand.
“God, yes…” he
I take my time.
I can be very patient. Also, a few hours ago I pleasured myself under the
shower, so the need isn’t quite as… pressing.
I listen to the
sounds of his breathing as I work him with my finger.
“Yes…” he says
hoarsely. And after a pause: “More.”
I kiss the nape
of his back. I withdraw and apply some more lube, then I push two fingers in.
He tenses briefly at the intrusion. I pause, giving him time to get used to it.
How can I assure
him that he’s not disgusting?
“I’d like to
draw you sometime,” I murmur. “Will you pose for me? In the nude?”
I don’t give him
an opportunity to answer. Instead I wriggle my fingers and make him gasp. I
trace the contours of his shoulder blade with my tongue and breathe on the
moistened skin. He moans. I can feel him relaxing again.
As I continue to
prepare him, I talk to him. I tell him that I’ve been thinking about him these
past six weeks. That I’ve been dreaming of this, of burying myself in him. The
fact that he’s looking the other way makes it easier to say these things.
twitches, as if to underline my words. My hips undulate against him with
growing urgency. The friction of my leaking cock rubbing against his back sends
shivers through my whole body. I leave a moist trail on his skin.
chokes out, his voice thick with desire, “Stop prattling and fuck me already!”
I smile, glad
that he’s his crude self again.
“Tsk, tsk, more
respect for your elders,” I chuckle, but I fumble for the little tube and
carefully lubricate my length. I align myself properly and coax him slightly
forward. He hitches up his right knee and leans on it. I place the swollen head
at his opening and prod him with minute little thrusts.
backwards, trying to impale himself. I clasp his hips and stop him.
“William the bloody
impatient,” I chuckle. “Relax. Trust me. Let me take care of you.”
He takes a deep
breath and some of the tension dissipates as he places himself under my
I reach for his
shaft with my left and slowly start to pump him. He pants. I position my cock
with my right hand and start pushing again, teasingly, each thrust a little bit
more insistent, until the anticipation becomes unbearable for us both. There.
With a suppressed groan I push inside. I pause halfway to give both of us a
chance to adjust.
forgotten how tight he is. How good it feels to be inside him. I always shied
away from the recollection because of everything else that memory entailed. But
tonight we’re making a new set of memories.
I sling my right
arm around his waist. And then I push until I am fully buried in him. I can
feel him tremble at the sensation. Not in pain, though, but in a good way. He
clasps my arm.
I continue to
stroke his hard length. As I start a slow rocking he throws his head back, and
moans. “Yes, oh Angel… oh my god…”
I kiss his
Then I begin to
thrust, following the soothing rhythm of the waves.
believe that tenderness is something I learned from Buffy?
* * *
wrong with a good hard fuck. And pain, well, it can become an acquired taste
and we’re vampires, for god’s sake. I can take pain. Doesn’t mean I’m in love
But he treats
me as if I’m dainty or fragile or something.
Part of me goes
wild with impatience, and wants to dispense with the niceties, but the other
half of me is almost sobbing with gratitude. How pathetic is that?
languid thrusts send waves of pleasure without pain through my body, making me
shiver. Making me gasp. Meanwhile he’s also jerking me off. If he goes on like
that I’m gonna… yes…oh yes… oh bloody hell! He pauses. I can feel him shudder
with the effort to control himself. I try not to move, not wanting to push
either of us over the edge. Cause I don’t want this to end. Ever.
Cause it will.
And tomorrow we’ll be what? Back to normal?
I stare at the
waves in front of me, just a few yards away. Listen to their sound and to our
God I never
thought this could be THAT good. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be filled like
that. For a whole minute he just holds me tight, burying his face in my
shoulder, then he’s moving again. Again those long deep thrusts, almost
torturously slow. He’s groaning, as his movements become more erratic, and
then, as we’re nearing release he finally picks up speed.
“Yes… oh… yes… Angel,
fuck… yeah…“ I know I’m
babbling but I don’t care.
He pounds into
me, Angel, not Angelus, and it’s what I need, everything else is far away,
there’s just him and me and the waves, and only the stars are watching as I
thrash around under his thrusts, coming forcefully all over his fist. My spasms
are enough to send him over the edge, too. Two or three more thrusts and he
spills his seed into me, calling my name.
I’ve done lots
of things in my time. Me and Dru, we tried out everything; not to mention the
stuff that went on when Angelus was around; shagged Harmony with her unicorn
obsession and her Barbie doll brain; even did a robot. And passionately and
wildly made love to Buffy.
But the one
person to actually make love to ME is Angel, who I hated for most of my undead
We’re lying in the
sand, spent, relaxed. We’re both sticky and sand is clinging to us in several
places. I’m still spooning Spike. I guess one could call it cuddling. Not that
I have any experience in that area. Spike hasn’t moved in over five minutes.
Not even to grab his cigarettes. He hasn’t said anything either. It’s not like
him to be so still. He’s not asleep, is he? If he doesn’t say anything soon, I
I wish I could
see his face. I wonder what’s going on inside him. Having second thoughts, maybe?
I know it was good for him. He’s a talker and nothing if not uninhibited.
As for myself, I
can’t help thinking that sleeping with William the Bloody – again – was not the
smartest of moves. No matter how good and right it felt, we’re rivals - with plenty
of history. Plus we’re playing on different teams. What happened tonight and at
Christmas was just a time-out that’s all. The way I see it, he’s currently on
his team’s substitutes’ bench, but sooner or later that chip will come out. I
used to think he’d go right back to being a killer, now I think he might not
want to. Maybe not at first. But I have no reason to expect that he’d get a
chance to change. This is not a nice world we walk in.
There’s Connor. He’s like my light at the end of the tunnel. If there’s hope
for me, maybe there’s hope for Spike as well?
I wish he’d say
I try to think
of something to say - anything. Nothing ‘poofy’ though. And nothing to do with
chips and souls. Or the past, or…
“So,” I finally
blurt out. “How did Buffy and the others like their Christmas presents?” I’m
such a dork. We just had great sex and I’m making stupid conversation. I think
I just killed the moment. But I can’t think of anything more appropriate to
say, so I plod on relentlessly. “Did you give them the stuff you bought?”
“No.” He sounds
like he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Apparently I hit
a sore spot. Which means I’m not going to leave it at that, not tonight. “Why
mind, is all.”
“How are you
getting along with Willow and the others?”
“If it wasn’t
for that friggin’ chip I’d rip their heads off and eat ‘em for supper,” he
answers, sounding bitter. I can feel his body tense with anger. “Except for
Harris. Stupid sod’s gotten so fat lately, he’d probably give me indigestion.”
funny, William” I say indignantly. He IS joking, right?
“Damn right, it
isn’t. Seriously? So so. We don’t rub shoulders much. Not since Buffy came
back. She doesn’t want me around her friends. Or Dawn.”
I touch Spike’s
shoulder, but he shrugs me off. I can feel us drifting apart. I’d like to
tighten my grip round his waist, but I don’t. He’d laugh at me, or get up and
My life has
changed over the past few years. I’m not the same person who helped Buffy from
out of the shadows. I have ties now. A home and more importantly, a son. But
most of all I have friends. Friends who put their lives on the line to help
both my cause and me, who know me and still chose to fight at my side. Where
would I be without Cordy’s honesty, Wesley’s loyalty and Gunn’s enthusiasm? And
now that I think of it, I realize how much I’ve come to depend on Fred’s trust
and Lorne’s tolerance, too. That is more luck than I deserve.
“It takes time,”
is the incredibly clichéd response I come up with. “Making friends. When I got
my soul back, I spent almost a hundred years alone. I just drifted around. No
aim, no purpose. Indifferent to anything and anyone. Wrapped up in my own
misery,” I say, not quite sure if I should continue.
“So, is this the
part where Angel imparts his soulful wisdom?” he mocks.
I hate it when
he makes fun of my soul. Also what he says is not true, because my soul has
given me all kind of things, suffering, misery, guilt, self-loathing, and a
nightmarish fear of failure, but never wisdom.
that.” It’s not like I really want to talk about this. Maybe I shouldn’t.
away, out of my arms. He gets up and walks over to where his clothes and mine
form an untidy pile. I hide my disappointment and sit up. Maybe he’s right, and
it’s time to get dressed.
But he just
picks up his duster and goes through the pockets until he comes up with his
cigarettes. He drops the coat again and sits down cross-legged. “Right,” he
says, affecting an exaggerated sigh as he lights up. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Right,” I echo,
thoughtfully rubbing my hands that are still sticky with come, lube and sand,
lots of sand. “I didn’t find Buffy by chance. Someone pointed me her way.”
“Oh?” He tries
to sound bored. Having a whole 360 degrees of beach to chose from, the smoke
from his cigarette naturally drifts in my direction.
“A demon named
Whistler told me to do something useful. Help the Slayer. That’s how I ended up
in Sunnydale. I just followed her there from L.A. And then I started helping.”
“Yeah, we all
know how that ended… Are you quite done with the Grimm’s tales?”
definitely the most annoying person I’ve ever met. No mean feat, considering my
“Cause if you’re
finished,” he continues with a leer, “Maybe we can do something more useful
with our time. I’d say we have at least another three hours before we have to
head back. We could… um…” He nods at his growing erection.
Spike,” I interrupt him, managing to sound authoritative and perfectly in
control. “This is important.”
The trouble is,
when you’re naked it’s real hard to hide certain bodily reactions. And it’s not
like I haven’t thought about ‘…um…’ myself…
“Yeah? What can be
more important than shagging?”
The fact that
he’s checking out at my private parts isn’t helping.
I don’t answer
him. Instead I turn away to look at the waves, the stars, the sand, my hands,
the waves again – anywhere but that pale hard body next to me. The silence soon
turns into a contest. If Spike thinks he can out-brood me he has another thing
coming. Patience? Oh, I can wait. I’m good at waiting.
He tosses his
cigarette butt away and makes a great fuss lighting himself a new one.
“Alright,” he finally concedes. “Go on then. Tell your little story. What
happened when you came to Sunnyhell?”
“I screwed up.
The way I did things? It was all wrong, I’d turn up at the Bronze or the
library, give Buffy and her Watcher some info and then disappear again.”
“It was. At
first, they didn’t even know I was a vampire…”
“You mean, you
didn’t tell her?”
“What did it
matter? I didn’t plan on mingling with Buffy and her friends,” I say
defensively. “I used to watch them. At the Bronze, on patrol - they all
appeared so young and superficial. School. Shopping. Dating. How was I to know
I’d fall in love with her? Or she with me?”
He chuckles. I
knew he’d see the irony.
“We were in love
but most of the time we weren’t happy. There were always secrets,” I explain,
knowing that he of all people will understand. “Things we didn’t tell her
friends, her Mom or Giles, even each other. Also, I never had a connection with her friends. But then I
never fully realized how much they are part of her.”
“And the moral
of the story is what?”
“The moral is:
If you really want to walk in Buffy’s
world, connect with her friends.”
I can’t believe
I am giving Spike advice concerning his love life.
* * *
I can’t believe
Angel’s giving me advice concerning my love life. Isn’t the world full of
surprises! What a laugh!
“Let me get
this straight: You’re telling me I’m supposed to befriend her chums?” I ask.
“And you’re telling me this because…?”
someone once told me that I should let people into my heart. Reach out to
people, he said. Don’t get cut off from the people you’re trying to help. Get
I open my mouth
to object but he silences my protest and continues. “I know. Helping people -
not your agenda.”
“Damn right it
isn’t.” Who does he think I am? Does he think that sentimental bullshit is
going to have any effect on me?
“But it could
be. Think about it.”
“Who told you?”
I ask after a moment.
“You met him.”
Angel’s face is impassive but there’s something in his voice…
“His name was
Doyle.” Angel says sharply.
“‘Was?’ So the
little weasel’s snuffed it? I’d wondered where he’d gotten to.” Shit, I said
that out loud, didn’t I? Shit! Now Angel’s getting up. He turns his back on me
and starts getting dressed. His movements are stiff from barely concealed
anger. Shit. When will I ever learn?
I scramble to
my feet as well. “How did it happen? Did he go down fighting?” I hasten to ask,
because I’m suddenly desperate for him to stay. And also, because I really want
to know. God knows why.
Angel pulls up
his zipper and turns around. “Yes,” He finally says. “Yes he did. He saved many
lives, including mine.”
“Sounds like a
good way to go.”
He studies my face.
I hold his gaze. Something gives. And there it is again, that rapport. Thank
God. “Yes,” is all he says. Like me, he’s thinking about how we’re gonna go
once our number’s up. I pick up my duster, dig out the flask and offer it to
him. He lifts it in a silent salute and drinks. When he hands it back. I follow
“You know, I
got an invite to Harris’s wedding,” I tell him, trying to change the subject.
“Wasn’t going to go, but maybe I should.” I sit down again, hoping he’ll join
“How are things
between you two?” After a moment’s hesitation he sits down beside me.
the sanctimonious twit. T’is mutual, too. We got on well enough last summer,
but not since Buffy came back. You know what the tosser said to me? Only a
complete nutcase like Dru or a total loser like Harm would ever consider
‘hooking up’ with me. Nutcase or loser - what are you Angel?”
in Xander Harris’s opinion, that’s what.”
Oh look who
doesn’t like monkey boy, either! I grin. And you know what, Angel does, too.
The subject of
Xander Harris is soon exhausted: According to Spike he’s a self-righteous sanctimonious
nerd of the first water with an inferiority complex the size of California,
who’s not even funny anymore. That pretty much sums up my own impressions.
Except, for one thing: Whoever said Xander Harris was funny?
“An’ I do wish
him and Anya would stop yapping about that damn wedding,” Spike adds as an
afterthought, dismissively tossing a handful of sand into the dark. “They
should do the deed in Vegas and blow the whole dough at the poker table instead
of that stupid reception thing. Or go on a cruise or something. Have fun.”
Does he even
know what he just said? William the Bloody, who once told me that killing and
eating people is our raison d’être, talks like he’s actually given thought to the
question of how a bunch of humans should go about their wedding. There’s a
We sit, side by
side, gazing at the waves, the moon’s thin sickle and a pitch-black,
star-dotted sky that is unblemished by city lights. Occasionally, I steal a
glance in his direction, acutely aware of the fact that he’s still very naked.
I feel like a right poof. We share the last drops of his bourbon. Somehow,
neither of us is making a move to leave. Maybe we’re both trying to hold on to
this strange, fragile feeling of kinship that has sprung up between us since
“Do your pet
humans ever forget you’re a vampire?” Spike suddenly asks.
pets,” I say automatically. And then, “Damn!”
“I better call
them.” Connor! The first night I’m away from him and I forget to check on him!
Okay, I didn’t plan for this ‘excursion’ to take so long. But that’s no excuse.
Cordy and the others are probably extremely worried right now. I pull my coat
towards me and go through the pockets. Just like I thought. I forgot to turn my
mobile phone on. I do so now. Six messages! I hope to God that Connor’s okay.
Raw panic surges through me. While I listen to my messages, Spike turns away,
but I know he’s eavesdropping.
“Angel, it’s me.
You forgot to turn your cell phone on. Again. And guess where we found your
beeper. When will you ever learn? Gimme a call.” Cordelia.
“Angel? Cordy. Where are you? What are you doing? Is the
bleached menace behaving himself? Call me.”
“Angel, are you still
un-chained and un-skewered? Spike knows you smashed the Ring of Amara, right?
Call me, so I know you’re okay.” Again Cordelia. Sounding slightly more
I ignore Spike’s
outcry (“You smashed it? You smashed my ring? You stupid twit!”) and move on to
the next message:
“Angel? This is
Wesley. In the interest of everybody’s sanity here, please confirm that William
the Bloody is not currently using his railroad spikes on you.”
“Angel? It’s me, Fred. If you listen to this,
can you please call us back? Don’t worry, Connor is safe and so is everybody
else, it’s just… Cordelia. She is kinda nervous and she told me all about how
you and Spike hate each other and how Spike tortured you, and it’s really none
of my business, but I can’t help being worried. I mean, I know of course that
you can take care of yourself, and Lorne said he doesn’t think Spike was out to
kill you or anything, but I’d feel a lot better if you’d just call and let us
know that you’re alive and well, you know, figuratively speaking.”
Connor is okay. I’d have never forgiven myself if anything had happened to him.
While my panic slowly subsides into the normal worry that’s always present in
the back of my head, I listen to the last message, another one from Cordelia.
“Angel! If I
don’t hear from you within the next few minutes I’m going to assume that Spike
lured you into some kind of trap to torture you again. And I will alert the
cavalry, the National Guard, the Powers That Be, you name it.”
“My, you’re on a short leash, aren’t ya?”
Spike mocks. He appears fidgety and restless.
I don’t answer
him. Instead, I press speed dial. “Cordy? Hold the horses, keep the helicopters
grounded and don’t bother the powers.”
sounds relieved. “We were worried about you.”
Lorne just gave him a bottle. Now he’s sleeping again.”
“Okay, if he
wakes again, tell him his daddy loves him bunches.”
“Sure will. How
about you? You okay?”
forcing you to say that? I mean he’s not sticking things into you like hot
pokers or something?”
intently, a sullen look on his face. I’m beginning to find his mood swings
“No sticking.” I
Spike raises one
eyebrow insolently and silently voices ‘Yet.’ He places his hand on my knee,
proving just how irritating he can be. Cause this is obviously not a good time!
Nevertheless, I feel a tingle race through my body. Why can’t he just wait? I’m
on the phone! Talking to Cordelia. This is important. Consequently, I ignore
him and his touch.
Spike’s behaving himself,” I say. Naturally, that’s Spike’s cue to misbehave.
His hand glides to the inside of my thigh. Okay. No more ignoring. I frown and
shake my head at Spike. I really don’t need him to distract me right now.
Spike gives me
an evil stare that clearly says ‘If you want me to stop – make me!’ Then his
hand wanders upwards. To where my body betrays me. He smirks. I should have
known. If there’s one thing William always hated with a passion it’s being
ignored or passed over. Some things never change. His fingers close around my
erection, stroking and squeezing it through the fabric of my slacks. For a
fraction of a second my mind goes blank. Cordelia is lecturing me on our
always-keep-your-mobile-on policy, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on
what she’s saying, with Spike touching me like that. Which is why this has to
My hand shoots
out and I catch his wrist. With more force than strictly necessary I pull his
hand away from me. What’s gotten into him?
We stare at each
other. Something flickers across his face.
* * *
sickening feeling chokes me, churns in my stomach like a clenched fist.
Six messages in
just a few hours!
I could disappear
for weeks and not one of the soddin’ Scoobies would notice, let alone give a
rat’s arse. Not unless it’s the end of the world. That’s the only time I’m good
enough for ‘em, when the shit hits the fan. Then it’s all ‘Spike, we need you,’
or ‘Spike, guard my back’ or ‘Spike, look after Dawn for me.’
But, if I
caught fire not one of ‘em would even piss on me to put it out. Cause I’m an
evil disgusting thing. Why I keep tryin’ to be something else, something I’m
not, is beyond me. The soul’s the thing. Makes all the difference. It’s the big
things rush through my mind as we stare at each other. Suddenly the sobering
realization hits: I’m brooding and
what’s more, part of me wishes I was in the poof’s place.
Spike. You’ve reached an all-time low!
* * *
Suddenly, he’s laughing. What’s so
funny? I let go of his hand. He just shakes his head. I realize there’s no real
mirth in the sound.
“Angel? Are you
still there? Is everything okay?” Cordelia’s raised voice can be heard.
hasten to say. “Everything’s fine.”
the phone out of my grasp. “Yeah, everything’s just peachy,” he tells her with
fake cheer. He ducks my attempt to retrieve the phone. “Look here, cutie, we’re
kind of in the middle of somethin’, family business and whatnot. So, be a good
girl, an’ leave us to it, right?”
I make another
lunge for the cell phone. This time he allows me to wrench it out of his hand.
I catch the last words of Cordelia’s threat: “…you’ll wish you’d never been
Spike’s right, we’re kinda tied up right now, so don’t wait up. I’ll leave the
phone on, so if there’s any problem, give me a call.” It takes every ounce of
self-control I have to keep talking like everything’s normal. Cause suddenly
Spike is all over me, hugging me from behind and groping possessively. He’s
licking my right shoulder blade, tracing the tattoo with the tip of his tongue.
My fake indifference only spurs him on. He sneaks his hand round my waist, tugs
down my zipper and reaches inside my pants. This time I don’t stop him. His
fingers close firmly around my engorged shaft. I suppress a shudder when he
pulls me out.
can’t talk now. I’ll be back by sunrise.” I refrain from cutting her off in
mid-sentence and pretend I’m listening to what she’s saying. At last she says
her bye byes. I slowly put the phone down, making sure it doesn’t get to lie in
the sand but on the nearest piece of clothing, which happens to be Spike’s
“You done talking?” Spike asks. There’s
a wicked edge to his voice. He’s slowly jerking me off. “Cause if you are,” he
murmurs while nuzzling my neck, seductive powers on full wattage, “Maybe we can
get to the fun part where I lick and bite you, till you beg me to fuck your
His words bypass
my brain, tingle down my spine and shoot straight to my groin, causing my shaft
to swell even more at the threat. Promise. Whatever. He presses his mouth on
mine and forces his tongue between my lips. He’s possessive, rough, almost
feral, the way the thrusts his tongue into my mouth. The cut in his half-healed
lip opens again and I can taste his blood. Much more potent than pig’s blood it
sends a wave of ferocious, undiluted arousal through my entire body. My fangs
itch to come out and rip into his neck, but my barriers are holding. My senses
are heightened and I am momentarily lost in a barrage of sensations: the
incessant murmur of the waves; the tingle of sea shells unsettled by the tide;
the fresh salty smell of the Pacific; the feel of Will’s skin on mine; his
hands touching me; his scent of bourbon, tobacco and leather, spiked with a
heavy dose of arousal. I can also smell my come on him.
intoxication though, his words finally register in my foggy brain. Beg? Who,
me? He must be joking! Over my dead body! ‘Shagging’ is one thing, but begging?
This is so like him. Always pushing the envelope. Angelus would have flayed him
for even suggesting such a thing. “No!” I pull back with a start and
disentangle myself with as much dignity as possible.
to let me go, but opens his arms wide. “What?”
The licking, the biting or the fucking?”
He knows exactly
what I mean. I just give him one of my ‘don’t-be-stupid’ stares.
“Why not?” Spike
finally asks, somewhere between amiable and petulant. “It’s easy enough. Two
small words, Angel. Three, if you count my name. Go on - try it on for size.
Want me to spell it for you? F-U-C-K. Fuck. Say it a few times an’ it’ll feel
real comfy. Come now, if you can do it, you should be able to say it. ‘Sides,
it’s not like I want you to say something you don’t mean.”
Spike.” Okay. That sounded controlled and reasonable. Now, try again without
“Two out of
three. Not bad, Angel.” He grins, apparently not offended. “Relax. Trust me.
Let your old pal Spike take care of you,” he says, echoing what I said to him
earlier tonight, adding, “It’ll be fun.”
He puts his hand
on my chest and gives me a nudge that’s supposed to coax me on my back. Except,
I don’t budge. I let him ‘shag’ me before. ‘Reminisced’ a few times, too. But
that was different. I was in control then. Desperate maybe, but always in
command of my actions. I have no desire to let go. Or shag for fun. Only for
love. Or comfort. Relief, even. But not for kicks. Fun’s overrated, anyway.
And Spike’s idea
of fun? Scary. The memory of hot pokers searing my flesh comes to mind.
“You don’t trust
me, do you?” Spike asks, trying very hard to make it sound casual and almost
No. I don’t.
Cordelia. Wes. Gunn. Lorne. Fred. And of course, Buffy. These are the people I
trust - as far as I am prepared to trust anyone. They’re… well they’re
He nods slowly.
Like he’s read my thoughts. A look of hurt crosses his bruised and battered
face before he tries to hide it under his trademark smirk. That’s when I decide
“Yeah. I trust
you, Will.” I say slowly. “Don’t ask me why. I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t. But I
He smiles and
opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead, he kisses me,
hard and hungry. I run a hand through his coarse hair, secretly wishing he
hadn’t murdered it by bleaching it to death. I always liked William’s natural
I’m lying flat on my back. Straddling me he reaches for my hands and very
firmly pins them over my head, wrists crossed. There’s nothing to tie me down.
No chains, no cuffs, nothing to coerce me into acquiescence or submission. I’m
not sure why I’m agreeing to this. Certainly not because I think being tied up
is fun. But I comply, nervous, curious and surprised at the intensity of my
he’s pulled my pants down. After that he starts torturing me.
my fingers he licks, nips and bites his way slowly from my wrists to the
ticklish insides of my elbows to my shoulders and neck. He rubs his cock
against my thigh, while my own straining erection has nothing to rub against.
He strokes my chest and starts tracing my muscles with his tongue. A moan escapes
me. It requires considerable effort to leave my hands where he put them.
It takes my
brain a moment to shake off the pleasurable daze and identify the sound. The
phone! I sit up.
“Oh for cryin’ out
loud!” Spike growls, his eyes flashing golden. He picks up the phone and looks
at it with loathing.
“It could be
important.” I say, holding out my hand, trying to sound both firm and
He keeps it out
of my reach. “Let me put it to you like this: how far do you think I can throw
Answer it,” he says with an exaggerated sigh and hands it over.
“Angel?” It’s Lorne. There are sounds of breakage coming from the other
going on? Connor? Is he---?”
Listen, we’ve got kind of a situation here,” a loud crash can be heard, “You
wouldn’t be able to identify a few demons for us, would you? They’re scaly,
look like giant roaches, except with more arms, dark green and pretty tough.”
Another crash punctuates Lorne’s words. “Plus they’re trashing the lobby.
Sword’s aren’t helping much, so we were wondering…”
interrupts loudly. “Tell ’em to torch the blighters.”
Spike?” Lorne asks, then adds: “Never mind. Gotcha. Gunn! Wes!…”
nervously, as he hurriedly passes on the information. There are more sounds of
fighting, voices shouting at each other. Even Spike seems to listen intently. I
search frantically for my pants. Spike shakes his head. “You won’t get there in
time, anyway. Wait for it. Your mates will fry the critters extra crispy.”
There’s nothing I can do. Except work out from the sounds what’s happening. A
few agonizing minutes later, I can hear several people coughing and the phone
is picked up again.
“Yeah, it’s me,
Is everybody okay?”
“Tell Spike it
worked a treat. We touched them with a torch and they went ‘foomp,’ burnt up in
seconds. But boy, they stink! We’re airing the lobby now. Don’t worry,
Once I’ve talked
to Cordy and heard that Connor slept through the whole ruckus I kill the
connection and put the phone down. “Thanks,” I say sincerely. Spike just waves
his hand dismissively. “There’s nothin’ like a good bonfire. Shame we missed
out on it. Now, where were we?” he asks with a leer.
“Right here.” I
slump back into the sand and lift my arms over my head.
drawls, smiling roguishly. He trails a teasing, feather light fingertip from my
chin, along my throat, over my sternum and abs, past the bellybutton, lower,
down to my groin, and along the length of my straining cock all the way to its
tip. That’s all it takes and I’m hard again.
He doesn’t continue
where we left off. Instead, he starts all over again: arms, neck and shoulders.
Then he reaches my chest, licking and blowing streams of cool air over
moistened skin. He takes his time, sucking on one nipple while pinching the
other. When they’re both swollen and sensitive he scrapes over them with blunt
teeth, stimulating them almost painfully. By the time he moves on to my belly
and then southwards I’m moaning and arching into his touch.
I’m getting more
and more desperate to touch myself - or him. I’m not accustomed to being at the
receiving end of torture, however pleasant. Not used to being at someone else’s
mercy. Spike studies me. My reactions. I’m not sure I like that kind of
attention. I feel exposed, more naked than ever. I know there are no chains. I
can stop this any time I want to. I can – and I want to. Except, what I really
want is – more! I’m vaguely aware that my hips are moving as my cock becomes
more and more desperate for any kind of friction. All I can think is that I
want him to touch me, there.
doesn’t. He touches me everywhere, just not where I want it – need it – most.
I’m caught between ecstasy and despair.
He moves down,
giving my knees a friendly nudge. I comply and spread my legs for him. He
kneels between my thighs and pays attention to my belly, the crease between my
hips and my thighs, before brushing away some sand that’s clinging to my skin
and starting to work on the insides of my thighs. Where he scrapes the
sensitive skin with his nails, my body feels like it’s on fire. I hope I’m not
he snickers, his voice deep and silky. However, his rapid breathing gives away
his own arousal. I feel his fingertips brushing against my cock. I gasp,
straining into his touch, but he just uh-uhs and lightly touches the leaking
tip, spreading pre-cum over the swollen head. He keeps his stokes light and
I buck and moan.
All conscious thoughts and concerns, even those regarding Connor, are rapidly spiraling
out of my consciousness as his hands and lips set me on fire. My arousal
borders on painful. Part of me craves relief, part of me just craves more. It’s
a hunger so acute and savage, it frightens me to give in to it.
wonderful torturous hand is gone. “Having fun, pet?” Spike asks me amiably.
Fun? What’s fun
got to do with this? I’m nodding and shaking my head at the same time. I don’t
really trust myself to speak.
Spike looks at
me in deep concentration. His eyes are dark with desire and the tip of his
tongue flits out to moisten his lips. He’s slowly pumping his erection with his
left hand. His other hand is lightly resting on my hip. “Is there something you
want? You can talk, you know.”
I just glare at
then? Well, now... want me to stop?”
shake my head.
“I can’t hear
“Don’t stop,” I
choke out, trying to make it sound like a command rather than a plea.
He searches my
face, then nods once. He drops to all fours, covering me and prowls upwards,
like a cat. Then he lowers himself fully on me, trapping our erections between
our bodies. Our bodies grind against each other, as his hands brush over my
arms and crossed wrists. He presses his lips on mine for a long hard kiss then
slithers backwards until he’s kneeling between my thighs again. He gives me
another long stare then stands up. Hey!
He comes back
with my coat. Hey?
“We better get
this underneath you,” he explains. “Unless you have a blanket in your bag?”
Head shake. But. “My coat. My $600 coat!” I protest.
“Is that a no?
You might wanna reconsider. Soddin’ sand gets everywhere.”
Oh? Oh. I sigh
and allow him to put the coat into place.
Spike smirks. He’s
enjoying himself. What’s he waiting for? I’d have thought he’d run out of
patience long before this. There. He’s reaching for the lubricant…
I close my eyes
in relief when a slick finger teases my entrance and then forges inside. More!
Spike adds a second digit. I can hear him panting. I open my eyes to find
myself under close scrutiny. He’s watching me with dark, hungry eyes, chewing
on his lower lip. Spike is clearly getting off on this, aroused by his power
over my body. He begins to work me hard with two, then three fingers, while
roughly jerking me off. That tiny twinge of almost pain just heightens the
pleasure. My body presses against his thrusts automatically. I want more, want
him to fill me completely, want him to push-thrust-pound into me. I’m beginning
to unravel. Suddenly, his fingers are gone.
I hope that
means he’s going to take me now, cause if he doesn’t get on with it soon, I
think I’ll strangle the cocky little bastard!
prick! He’s not going to say it. At least not in so many words.
But the way that
magnificent powerful body is sprawled in front of me, trembling and writhing; arms
still stretched out above his head while his legs are spread wide; and that
gorgeous cock all hard and urgent – that speaks volumes, that’s what counts.
And god, there goes my patience. Poof! Gone.
“Right,” I mutter,
taking a deep breath. “Was plannin’ on givin’ you the blowjob of your unlife.
Reckon I changed my mind. Wanna fuck you now, this very minute. Guess that
means you win.” I pick up the tube once more. “You know, Angel, it wouldn’t
hurt for you to let go every once in a while. You worried about that pesky
curse of yours? Well, we both know that there’s no way I can give you the big
happy, don’t we. So, why don’t you just drop that oh-woe-is-me act. Have fun
while you can. If you’re lookin’ for some kind of punishment, well, forget it.
You’re not getting’ it from me.”
Angel just watches
me, his face inscrutable, while I squirt some lube on my hand and swiftly coat
my dick with it. I lift his ankles and place them on my shoulder. Then I align
myself properly, positioning the head of my cock at his slick hole.
Anticipation makes me shiver.
I pause. There’s a
strange look on his face. Not the boring frown of martyrdom but a strangely
unguarded expression. Almost laid back. Like he’s decided to let me in. Into
his head, I mean.
“Shut up!” He says
quite deliberately. And then: “Fuck me, Spike. Fuck me already!”
“God yes… Angel….”
I groan, unable to come up with anything suitably smug, and sink into him in
one long deep thrust.
* * *
After all this
waiting it’s almost too much. One second I’m aching for him, the next moment
there’s this stretching, almost burning, sensation and I’m impaled on long cool
We’re frozen for
a moment. Both overwhelmed. There’s a dumb-struck look on his face.
He pulls out a
bit, then slides back in, his movements fluid. When he starts an easy rhythm, I
shake my head. “Harder,” I tell him. “Fuck me hard, Spike.” He draws in a
shuddering breath and ploughs into me with more force, sinking in as far as
possible. Hard and fast.
I cant my hips
up. “That’s it, Angel, yeah,” Spike moans through clenched teeth. “Let go, you
know you want to…” He spreads my legs wider and rams his cock into me, changing
the angle until he’s hitting my prostate. At each thrust a rush of pure
undiluted pleasure courses through me.
Is there such a
thing as too much pleasure?
of me shatters. I’m not even sure what face I’m wearing.
I think I call
his name but I’m not sure which one. Maybe both. I think I’m talking but I’m
not sure what I’m saying. Maybe I’m begging. It doesn’t matter.
Spike continues to slam into me, but now
my hands are on him, my make-believe fetters broken. I need… I grab a shock
full of hair and yank him towards me. He has to let go of my legs to support
himself. I need his lips on mine. It’s a fierce kiss, savage even. Need to
devour him. I bite his tongue, and oh, the sweet taste of his blood... I suck
greedily. He grunts in surprise, but doesn’t pull back. Need to be devoured. I
bite my own tongue, mixing my blood with his. A tremor runs through his body
when he tastes me. Echoing my own urgency he speeds up his thrusts, while
fucking my mouth with his tongue. He shifts his weight slightly, freeing one
hand. He grasps my cock and resumes his earlier rhythm.
That’s all it
takes. I feel my balls tightening. I come in a drawn-out climax, spurting my
come in about a dozen bursts all over his fist and both our bellies.
back, wide-eyed, panting, drinking in the sight of my orgasm, but then he can’t
hold out much longer. A dozen or so more thrusts and with a muted scream he
convulses and shoots his own load into me.
Fun. Spike has given
the word a whole new meaning. I’d be embarrassed about what happened, about how
I totally lost it, except Spike won’t let me. He calls it therapeutic. Maybe
he’s right. I feel good. Apparently, so does he.
He lights two ‘post-shag’ cigarettes,
and forces one on me, claiming it’s part of the ‘fun’ and should endanger
neither my health nor my redemption. Okay, why not. So, we sit and smoke, and
stare at the sea.
liked the ocean,” Spike says. He sounds cheerful, seeming to draw strength from
the memory rather than sadness.
“One time she
wanted to see the sun set in the sea,” he continues. “So we drove here durin’
the day. We watched from behind the blackened windscreen as it set like a great
ball of fire. Wasn’t the real thing, not the way we had to hide from the light.
Even so, it was sort of grand.”
I nod. Yeah, I
get that. I watched the sun set before I destroyed the Gem of Amara. I still
dream of the radiant colors and the blinding brightness.
“I think the
fact that it had the power to turn both of us into walking torches,” Spike
muses, “Just made it better.”
I smile. Some
things never change. I’m beginning to think that part of him has always been
ready to fall in love with a Slayer.
I turn around to
scan the eastern sky. Still dark. Even so, I should be getting back to the
Hyperion. I try to brush some sand off my thighs. That stuff is everywhere.
“What is it?”
There’s plenty of water right there,” Spike nods at the waves. He’s joking.
“Come on, mate, let’s go for a swim.” Or maybe not. He jumps to his feet and
tosses his cigarette butt away. Oh no. No way. He grabs my hand and tries to
pull me to my feet. Spike is crazy! If I didn’t know it before, now I do.
“No, Spike, let
“Come on, Angel,
when was the last time you did something on the spur of the moment?”
“Yeah, you got
me there,” he concedes. “So let me rephrase that. When was the last time – other
than tonight - that you did something purely for the fun of it. Sod the karmic
Oh no. I won’t
be drawn into that discussion.
“Come on, don’t
be a spoilsport,” he exclaims. “A spot of skinny-dipping’s not gonna be the
death of you.”
I shake my head.
Nothing on earth will make me take a swim in cold saltwater. I want a steaming
hot shower, not this.
Angel,” Spike gives me another tug. “You don’t expect me to go down on you when
you’ve got spunk and lube sticking to your dick, do you? Not to mention all
Um. Did I really
say nothing on earth?
* * *
such a ninny!
Looks like I found
the right bait though, cause he’s tentatively wading into the water, lifting
his feet high in a stork-y gait that looks utterly silly for a man of his
I wait till the
water comes up to his thighs. He bends down to scoop up some water in his hands
and splash it on his sticky privates. Hee hee. When I barrel into him there’s a
hoot of surprise, then he splashes into the waves. What can I say, I’m evil. I
jump after him and push his head under. Bye bye, nancy boy hair gel.
He splutters and
wildly flails his arms, hitting me squarely against my injured ribs. Ouch! Now that
hurts! I gasp and almost swallow a pint of seawater. This calls for revenge. I
dive at him and bite his bottom, causing him to gasp in surprise. I press my
advantage and capture him in a tight embrace. We sink to the bottom in a tangle
of limbs, groping and holding. It’s pitch-black and I can’t see a damn thing
but I find his lips anyway. No thinking, no talking, just kissing and feeling -
and being tossed around by the tide. So what. Don’t need to breathe, now, do
Even so he
struggles, like he’s about to drown. I let go and he shoots back to the
surface. “Spike, you idiot,” Angel pants as he frantically scrambles through
shallow waters back towards the beach. But I sense mirth under the indignation.
I just laugh at
him and cause him to trip and fall. I quickly pin him underneath me. We end up
somewhere in the no-man’s-land between land and sea. The Pacific is pushing and
pulling. Angel’s on his back, and I’m lying on top of him.
“Admit it Angel,”
I yell as a wave washes over us with enough force to lift us off the sand for a
second. “This is fun!”
“This isn’t fun.
This is madness!”
Angel, same thing!”
I crouch next to
him and make good of my promise. I bend down and take his cock into my mouth.
It’s soft and limp. I lick and suck, tasting the salt of the sea on my tongue,
causing it to swell and harden. Every cold wave throws countless grains of sand
at us that swirl and tickle against our skin and get caught in our hair. Feels
great. And that feeling when the waters retreat with a rush, when they drag the
sand from beneath you – really neat!
I’d laugh out
loud, but I’ve got Angel’s cock between my lips. I start pumping him with one
hand while fondling his balls with the other. Soon I have him thrashing like a
stranded fish. I haven’t felt so good in a long time.
* * *
When I look at Spike I wonder: How can a
vampire have such a zest for life?
* * *
“Now that was
fun,” I say as we wade out of the water.
“Now we’re wet,”
Angel states the obvious.
“Want me to lick
“Your loss.” I
shrug. “How ‘bout this then: let’s ride our bikes at full speed an’ let the
wind dry us.”
Angel doesn’t even
reply, just gives me a pitying glance. I take it that’s a no. I walk to our
pile of clothing and pick up my shirt. “Dry yourself with this,” I suggest and
toss it his way. “Prissy.” I light myself a fag, then grab my trousers and put
them on. Who cares if I’m still wet?
He takes a lot
longer to get ready and dressed. Then he kneels in the sand to pack his stuff
into his bag, even the empty jar that held the pig’s blood he gave me. Can’t
litter, can we?
We walk in silence
to our bikes.
He looks up.
I hunt for the
right words to say. God, can’t go all sentimental now, can I. But there’s no
need. Angel just smiles. “Any time, Will.”
And with that he
turns the ignition key and his engine roars to life. I do the same. We race
back to the highway where we stop. He nods. I nod back. Very manly and all. And
then we speed our separate ways. But tonight, neither of us was alone. Nothing