All About Spike - Print Version
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Long December
By Evette

Fic Card for slashalicious who wanted angry Spike/Angel sex

Pairing/Summary: Spike/Angel post-"The Gift" AU. In which Spike drinks a lot and annoys Angel, then they have sex and stuff.
Rating: NC-17 ish for the angry sex, drunkeness, violence, and language.
Disclaimer: So not even mine.

Itís a two hour drive from Sunnydale to LA. Two hours there and another two back. It's always a night when the witches can watch Dawn and no one is whining at him to go on patrol and be a Goddamned good guy. He finds the flashiest fucking car he can and the hardest whiskey that he can steal and tears down the highway.

The first time he was too shit faced to even realize what he was doing. Before he had the sense to know better, he was sitting outside that big fucking hotel of his throwing beer bottle caps at the windows. He laughs as he imagined little nicks forming in those perfectly perfect windows and he sang along to The Dead Kennedys. He thinks he sees someone standing on a balcony watching him as he speeds away. He doesn't care though, much.

Time seems to blend together for him in haze of booze and dead demons. But through the haze he always finds *him*. He always has it seems. Whether he's barreling down the road in a Porsche and sitting outside the hotel or screaming at the top of his lungs and daring the bastard to come down from his palace.

This time he just sits there listening to Johnny Cash, because he was the man and he *knew*, you know? He's down to the bottom of his bottle of Evan and singing "Ring of Fire" at the top of his lungs, when a hand reaches through the window and pulls on his shirt.

"Spike." The fucker always says his name like that. Like it hurt and burns coming from his lips. Spike knows that it does because he's the walking, talking, and fucking embodiment of all the things Angel wishes he never was.

"You could try opening the bloody door, *Angel*," he says pushing the door so it hits Angel square in the balls. Angel lets him go and Spike falls from the car, Johnny's voice and empty bottles pouring out onto the street with him.

Spike sits on the pavement, little rocks digging into his palms as he stares up at Angel.

"You're drunk," Angel says, kicking bottles onto the side of the road.

"You were always quite the intellectual, weren't you? Now then, can you tell me what that big silvery thing up in the sky is? Have you learned your colors or how to tie your shoes yet?" He hates him, he hates the way he stands there with his arms crossed, all moral superiority and repentant. He hates the way he looks at him, and he really fucking hates the way the bastard's hair stands straight up. Then again, Angelus was never one much for proper hair-care. Angel just rolls his eyes and then just glares at him some more. Another thing about Angelus, the glaring, lots of that.

"What do you want, Spike?"

"Nothing from you," he spits out.

"You always want something, *Spike*." Angel doesn't understand what he wants, though. He doesn't understand love and pain and the need to drown everything with whiskey and fucking. Angel was a master with knives and whips, but he never understood flesh and blood. Spike does, he knows why all those things Angelus did hurt so. It's not the scars across pretty skin that makes a man cry; it's the ache in your stomach to touch and fuck and feel something that makes you cry out.

Spike wrestles himself from Angel's grip and he's gone, swerving down the street. Somewhere between LA and Sunnydale he slams into a mail box. The car looks like shit, but still drives wonderfully, and just for fun he plows through the gate of the car dealership, laughing as wire twists and glass shatters.

It becomes his little ritual, instinctive and necessary. He doesnít understand why he wants the bastard and he doesn't think he wants to. Because if he did then he'd admit he needs someone who knows the soft places on Spike's skin and the easiest ways to make him bleed. If he did then he'd admit that he needs gutting so he doesn't have to think about dead slayers, lost lovers, little girls with tender skin that cry out for him to drink and that little bits of plastic make him scream when he tries to. So he spills his blood and drinks until everything is numb.

Some nights he just sits outside the hotel and the fucker never bothers to show up. He always was one to pull strings and play games, you donít have to touch to hurt someone. Those nights he crushes the beer bottles up and leaves them scattered and blood stained on the hotel steps. Other nights, Angel comes out and stares at him, talks down to him, tells him to get his dumb ass out of there and leave him the fuck alone. Some nights, it's different. Those nights, they pull the car into some dark alleyway and Angel's got his hand around Spike's cock, and it's all a tangle of limbs as they fuck in every position Spike can think of. Angel's got Spike spread out across the backseat of a Jeep and he's pushing into him so hard the cheap springs in the seat creak and break. That's what happens when you buy American. Spike pulls them out of the car and he's down on his knees, his hands pulling on Angel's hips and his lips wrapped around Angel's cock. He can't kill or feel the way he used to, but Spike knows there are Taiwan whores that would kill to give head the way he does. Angel's pulling on his hair, moaning as he comes into Spike's mouth.

They fuck each other to exhaustion and then some. It's quick and dirty; flesh, blood and fucking. He leaves the cars reeking of sex and blood; the upholstery is torn, and there's a load of beer bottles in the boot.

He sits with Dawn on some nights. They play cards and talk about her homework. Algebra and Edgar Allen Poe; sometimes he wants to get up and leave, he's so bored. He never does though, because he made a promise, and Spike can also do that, when he wants to.

"What do you do when you're not here?" She asks one night as she drips sweet and sour sauce across the table and onto her shirt.


"Some nights you don't patrol."

"You're a barrel of bloody questions, aren't you?"

"So are you. And you didn't answer the question." She pokes him in the hand with her chopstick, smiling sweetly at him and fuck, he has to stop himself from thinking *that* way about her.

"Things that are not for a child's eyes," he says, lighting a cigarette. Willow would have a shit fit if she caught him smoking in the house, but Dawn's an excellent little secret keeper as long he lets her take a drag whenever she's curious. He doesn't bother to answer her. He's learned if you sit and stare at her long enough, she gets pissed off and changes the subject. Usually that subject is something Spike is doing that annoys her, but it's easier than trying to explain about grief and longing.

She'd understand that grief maybe; she's lost a sister, but Spike thinks he's lost everything.

Trees are bare and people are putting up tacky turkey decorations in their windows. Spike's fighting off memories of back alleys and pool sticks, promised dances he never had.

He's maudlin and pathetic to Angel that night. He's too drunk to fuck and wound too tightly to want to do anything else.

They sit on some random hillside, Spike throwing bottles over the ledge, never hearing the crashing sound they make on impact. Angel sits on the hood of the car watching him; his foot taps lightly along with the Man in Black that's blaring from the radio.

"You know, maybe it's the music. You're always all stupid when you listen to him."

"Fuck off." He takes a drink from the bottle in his hand and his cheap whiskey spills all over him. "And what the hell do you know about anything?" The words are slipping from his mouth confused and unsure of anything but anger.

"A lot more than you ever will." Angel is in the car now flipping the station and Spike swears if he leaves it on Manilow or some shite like that, he'll stake him.

He's standing just inches from him now looking up at that hard face.

"She loved *you*. You were everywhere around her. Nothing would ever be as good as it was with *Angel*." Angel doesn't say anything, he just stares at him.

"What? You want me to apologize because she wouldn't screw you? To say 'I'm so very sorry that you're a soulless demon?' To feel guilt because you didn't get to laid?"

"You feel guilty about everything else, why not about something that's actually your bloody fault." Spike tries to make a dramatic hand gesture, but instead finds himself lying on the ground.

"You didn't love her, you can't..." His voice trails off and Spike doesn't even bother move, he just stares at the stars.

"Oh please drop the 'I have soul and am far superior to you and can love and feel and look a bunny is hopping in the flowers' act. I know about you, your demon. I know every damn inch of you, *Angelus*."

"Not an act, *William*. I always have been superior to you. Dru seemed to think so, too." Spike thinks he feels his blood running on the ground with those words. Black curls and branding irons float through his memory. A night in Paris two months after Spike was turned; Drusilla lying naked and laughing on white silken sheets. Spike tied up to the wall, scarred and bleeding as he watched Angelus and twist Dru around like the daddy's girl she always will be. And after it all, the pain and blood, after Spike had been hanging there for days with the leather straps cutting into his wrists, Drusilla comes to him smiling and says,

"Now hurt me just the way that Angelus does." She had licked her lips and run her fingers through is hair.

He just sees her dancing through his memory when he answers back to Angel,

"Always were one for the sucker punch," Spike says quietly. That's all he can really say because he's right.

Angel lies down next to him in the grass and holding Spike's face, he kisses him hard and hungry. They kiss until Spike tastes blood, and they fuck until they can both feel the sunrise coming. The next night, he'll follow the Scoobies around as they play Chase the Vampire, and the rest of the week he'll spend trying to repress the urge to feel up Dawn as he explains higher maths to her. He'll drink a distillery and Willow will bitch at him and tell him to get the fuck over it. When he throws a bottle at her, he doesn't know if itís the chip or her that causes him to go blind from the fucking pain. He'll go to LA and fuck and bleed for those hard hands. He'll make Angel moan like fifteen year old in a broom closet.

He just hopes that if he lives this life long enough, he'll finally have a night when he doesn't dream about her. He'll give it another year and see.