All About Spike - Print Version
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By flaming june

Written for deadsoul820 for the Summer Slashficathon

Spike comes out on top (pun intended) for once
Hard R or NC-17
ETA: Um, it's kind of dark. Go figure.

Disclaimer: Not mine.
Deeply respectful, Spaniel-esque tail-wagging in the general direction of Coquette, kita0610, and peasant_ in whose mťtier Iím only dabbling.
And many many thanks to kita0610, saussy, and wiseacress for splendid betaliciousness, hand-holding, ego-stroking (and all other types of stroking), and to saussy for her smokin' hot slashficathon loviní.

For the gorgeous and obsidian-black backstory, see wiseacress, Incandescence

ďOne more such victory and we are lost.Ē
-- Pyrrhus, after the battle of Asculum in Apulia

London, 1882

Afterward, Spike didnít see him for days. Darla was in and out of the dark, shuttered room at all hours, her fear and rage tamped down tightly under a veneer of brisk efficiency. Even Drusilla was permitted to sit with him at his bedside. But Spike wasnít allowed anywhere near his sire in those days following the accident. Darla banished him-- didnít want him in the way, didnít want him annoying Angelus. Still, he hung about in the corridor, listening, sniffing the air, waiting for someone to tell him something. He begged Drusilla to explain what had happened, but she would not speak of it, just pursed her mouth and ducked her head and moaned. Finally, he lost his temper with her, even shook her, once, hard, but still no words escaped her lips. Darla simply ignored him; in fact, she seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, even as she passed him in the hall.

And now five days had gone by since they had found Angelus, unconscious and caked with blood and filth. It had taken three stableboys to half-drag him down the hall to his chamber. Five days later, as he did his evening chores-- blacking Angelusís boots as carefully as ever, though they didnít need it, hadnít been worn since-- Spike could still feel the shameful, panicked knot of salt and tears that had suddenly clogged his throat while he had watched the lads struggle with his sireís body. He put down the smudged chamois, swallowed, and dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. He lined the boots neatly at the base of the wainscoting, and then for a terrible moment, he didnít know what to do next. He wanted to do something-- what? Perhaps he could find the thing that had maimed Angelus, and then....He didnít know.

He looked dumbly around the neat little room, at the tidy furnishings all in order, the fussy little lace antimacassars. The narrow strips of light coming in around the edges of the heavy damask window coverings were thin and grey. It would be dark soon. The feeling of wanting to do something grew stronger in him. His mind suddenly fastened on a memory of the electrified Swan lamps they had seen one night at the Savoy Theatre-- bright hard buzzing things, brilliant and merciless. Angelus had been in a strange and terrible temper that night, had fucked and fucked and thrashed and nearly drained Spike before carrying him to bed like a sick child. And then had sat with him as he fell asleep, had smoothed a cool hand across his brow, his cheek, his shoulder, murmuring soft words Spike hadnít been able to recall on waking. The broken ribs, however, had proved harder to forget. Spike thought he might never again see another incandescent lamp without remembering that night. Now, it was as if that hot sizzle was inside him; he felt electric.

He crossed the room to the cellarette in the corner, and pulled Angelusís bottle from the top shelf. He thought of the railroad spike he had taken to carrying with him when they went out to hunt, thought of ripe, plentiful viscera. A fresh wash of red across his vision. Thought of Darla and Dru, still asleep in one of the rooms upstairs. The brandy burned a ragged path down his throat. Heíd only ever been permitted to taste the dregs of Angelusís glass, but now he had the decanter pressed to his lips and he was swallowing great long gulps. When he was finished, the bottle was almost empty and there were tears in his eyes. He was hungry. They had eaten the last of the captives yesterday.

He was walking down the hall before he realized what he was doing. The house was silent and still. And then he was standing before the closed door to Angelusís room, pressing his forehead against it. The wood was smooth and cool against his skin. He wanted to kick the door down, to feel it shatter beneath the blow, to rupture the awful silence in a fury of fists and splintering wood. Instead, he slowly turned the knob and went in.

Before there was sight, there was smell. The good sire smell, familiar but also strange somehow. Different. A smell of the sickroom, a weakness that made his knees buckle. The rank damaged scent of prey. Something inside him turned away from the smell, confused and oddly offended, but something else went toward it. Hungry. The room was very dark, and cold-- the fire must have gone out sometime earlier in the day-- and silent. The ancient tall-case clock that Angelus had had moved in from the library had stopped running, and apparently no one had thought to wind it. There was no ticking to mark off the endless minutes.

Spike looked at him, then, finally saw him, his naked body half-wrapped in a bloody sheet, lying on his back in the center of the bed. Everything about him looked horribly wrong. His eyes were closed, but Spike knew he wasnít sleeping. Without thinking, he raised a thumb to his mouth and began nipping at the nail. Angelus didnít open his eyes, but he said, ďWill,Ē in a low voice, and Spike quickly dropped his hand to his side.

ďYeah,Ē Spike answered, and went to stand beside the bed. Angelus was a mess. His face was black and swollen with bruises; it was alien and strange. His skin was dull and smudged and damaged all over, torn open in places in ragged-looking wounds. It looked as if both his arms had been broken. The smell of blood and injury was strong. Spike automatically lifted his hand to his mouth again, but this time, when Angelus opened his eyes and leveled a warning look on him, he didnít stop. He stood there for a long minute, biting his thumbnail and looking at his sire. Angelus didnít look away and he didnít speak. Spike tipped his head to one side, worked the nail with his teeth, and stared, remembering the Savoy again. That night at the theatre, and in the alley afterward-- Angelusís fury, and his own broken ribs. The incandescents buzzed hotly in his head.

After a while, he stopped biting at his thumb and leaned in closer. He put his hand out and skimmed it lightly over Angelusís ruined face. Experimentally, he poked at one of the dark purple weals in the hollow under Angelusís cheekbone. Angelus winced, but didnít make a sound, just kept his dark, measuring eyes trained on Spikeís face. Spikeís hands were shaking.

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up a soft cloth from the nightstand and wet it in the basin. He pressed it gently to Angelusís forehead, then to his lips. Angelus swallowed, and Spike watched his throat work with a kind of sick fascination. When the cloth seemed to be wrung dry, he repeated the action, dampening the cloth in the basin, dripping more of the cool water into Angelusís mouth, watching the slight rippling movement of the muscles under the taut skin of his throat. He felt Angelusís eyes on him, observing him closely. Spike felt his lips twitching with something like an apology, or an accusation. He bit his tongue, tasted blood, and kept quiet.

Angelus held Spikeís gaze. The moment stretched out, and Spike was afraid Angelus might say something. But he didnít-- he only sighed, and let his dark eyes fall shut. The smell of prey was very strong then. Spike looked down at Angelusís face, blank and beaten, unrecognizable, and suddenly he felt his features contort as the demon emerged. It felt as if something was being ripped out of him. His hand locked around Angelusís throat, white-knuckling the bruises, and Angelus was choking, but he didnít struggle. There was blood in Spikeís mouth, and he was grinning, and there was a filament sparking inside him, electric. He squeezed Angelusís throat harder, and heard himself growl.

With his free hand, Spike yanked open his own trousers and pulled out his cock. He was half-erect. He cast the ruined sheet aside and then he was on top of Angelus, hands braced on either side of him, carrying his own weight, his cock pressed almost painfully against the huge thigh. He ground himself furiously against Angelus, snapping and snarling, his own thighs trembling with effort, eyes shut tight. Angelus was still and silent, his face turned away, but his cock was rigid against Spikeís belly. Spike worked himself hard and fast, feeling the muscles and the corded tendons of Angelusís thigh twitch beneath him. The friction was agonizing, and he was raw and burning. It made him harder, more desperate, and then despite everything the lump in his throat was back and he wanted to say please. And then he opened his eyes to find Angelusís gaze locked on his own. He tensed and seized, and there was a veil over his sight and a sensation of falling, and then he was coming and Angelus was saying, ďShhh, boy, hush.Ē

When he was finished, his body wrung out and empty, Spike dropped his head down into the crook of Angelusís neck. Angelus let him. For a long moment he stayed like that, his cock wet and sticking limply to Angelusís thigh, his damp face jammed into the comforting vastness of his shoulder. Angelus didnít touch him, but he turned and kissed Spikeís hair, once. Spike could feel that his own features were human again, though he didnít remember losing the demon face.

After what felt like a long time, he pulled away, righted himself, and began awkwardly shoving himself back into his pants, trying to look busy and engrossed. But Angelus said, ďLook at me, boy,Ē in that same low harsh whisper. Spike flinched, but he managed to make himself glance up. Angelus only looked tired, though, not murderous or enraged. ďCome back here,Ē he said. ďLie down with me, Will.Ē

Spike hesitated for just a moment-- thought foolishly of turning on his heel and running, running without stopping-- then carefully climbed up and stretched himself next to Angelus in the bloodied sheets, fitting his body against his sireís. He was tired. Whatever thrashing he would get for this later didnít bear thinking about now. As he surrendered himself to the calm pull of sleep, the weird glow of the theatre lights flickered once more in his mind. Then the curtain fell, and there was only darkness.