Reality Check

Chapter 1

A leaf floated lazily on the pool, turning in circles. 

It caught his eye.

A flaw in his otherwise perfect world. 

He blinked behind his dark sunglasses and wondered if he had the energy to rise and remove it. 

When he looked again, it had gone, possibly blown out of sight to the nearest edge. 

Angel sighed and went back to doing nothing.

He reckoned he earned doing nothing after nearly three hundred years of doing too much.

It was blisteringly hot, but however much sun he absorbed, it never seemed enough. It never burnt him, which was strange, as he’d built up no immunity to it when young. Sometimes, he wondered if this was the very reason why he didn’t burn, just went a dark bronze: it was so long since he’d had human skin, that this he had now was unique. Sometimes, he wondered if he was just an all-over unique human.  

Shanshu had never said ordinary.

After all, ordinary had never been part of his life.

He heard a phone ringing somewhere in the house, knew who it was, and knew he should answer it. She’d worry if he didn’t, worry that he was lounging in the sun instead of working.  He smiled, a quick flash of amusement, hidden behind the dark lenses. He loved her worrying about him: the gentle nagging when she returned home, the fake frowns and promises to withdraw her many favours. Which she never did, of course: they couldn’t get enough of each other now—now they had all the time in the world.

Thoughts of Buffy—remembrances of the things they had done the previous night, anticipation of what they would do that night—made lying on his belly suddenly uncomfortable.

He rolled onto his back.  

Naked, reluctant to have any area of his body not a mahogany bronze, the source of his discomfort was now lying heavy on his belly.  Every so often, a tiny pulse of clear fluid seeped from the pisshole, and he watched it avidly. Every fluid that came out of there now fascinated him, particularly piss, which he never tired of watching arcing through space and hitting water in a long, satisfying stream. 

He brushed a finger along his thick, long penis as if adding a stroke to one of his paintings. 

Sometimes, being human was too good to be true.

He had a number of choices: he could pull himself here and now and enjoy a long, lazy jerk-off in the sun, or he could go indoors and put some porn on the TV and do it there. Alternately, he could retrieve a magazine from his sock drawer and lie in the cool of their huge bed.

Or he could save it for Buffy.

He pictured her now, coming through the door, her work clothes slightly wrinkled, her face alight with the pleasure of another day that gave her so much satisfaction and happiness. He could be waiting for her just inside, in the shade, something prominent greeting her with a steady pulse of need dripping to the floor.

She’d catch her breath in pleasure and let him take her against the door, crushed to the wall, or lying askew on the stairs, or clinging to the banister. Or she’d run. She could run like the wind, and she always added that edge of fear, as if he were still demonic and as if he still had physical power over her. Her pretence almost gave it to him: the speed to catch her, the strength to bring her down and take her.  

Or she would stalk him, pretending he was still demonic, calling for him with his old name and falling on him, stabbing into his heart with her love, but impaling herself, not him.

Or he could wait for her here. Have her climb slowly into her bikini, pulling it high and tight. Adjusting it again.  Then slipping it to one side and the impaling again….

He couldn’t wait.

He began a strong beat on the hard flesh, stroking over his balls with his other hand.  It was no matter. By the time she returned, he would be hard again.

Life was so much better than he could ever have imagined.

There were no houses near them, but sometimes, he liked to imagine there were: spying eyes on him as he lay in the sun day after day.  He knew he was beautiful, and sometimes he wondered if he was trying to make up for so many years of feeling deformed, hideous and beneath contempt with this craving for admiration now.

He pictured an audience—an appreciative one—and sped up, lifting his hips, sliding his hand beneath.

It wouldn’t be long now.  Blood was rushing south, tingling into his cock in an impossible rush. His balls were uncomfortably heavy.

His reaching finger found its target. 

One press and an electric charge surged from back to front. His balls rose high, and everything released on a flood of intense pleasure.  

Arc after arc leapt gracefully from his purple-headed shaft, until the colour faded to a deep rosy pink. The last arc slowing to spumes bubbling thick globules of come into his fist.

It seemed as if he were making up for more things than hundreds of years without sun—compensating in other areas. He produced so much human sperm that he felt he could impregnate the world.  Power—primal, masculine power—surged through him as he wiped the thick life around his sweat-glistening body.  

When he was covered with life, he slid off his shades, rose and dove gracefully into the pool.

It was his water, and he liked the idea of it swimming with his life—liked the idea of swimming surrounded by his life force.  

He swam to the bottom and lay flat, emptying his lungs slowly so his body was leaden.

He was going for two minutes this time. He’d not done it yet, only ever reaching just over a minute and a half (and he suspected he counted too quickly as well).

If he could only reach two…. The rush would be….  He swam frantically for the surface and… there it was… the first great gulp—air!—oxygen sucked into his screaming lungs… the rush to his head… the burning in his chest.

He vowed he’d never take it all for granted: this life of his. This humanity.

He could hear the phone again and grinned openly this time.  It was still Buffy. He could almost see her tapping her foot, glancing at her watch, wondering where he was.

He decided to surprise her by his industry, swung strongly to the side and levered out of the water. Dripping, naked, he padded to the house.

Pulling on some sweatpants, he circled his desk, glancing down at the unfinished sketches.  They were good—very good—even he could see that, and he was his harshest critic.

Demons, in all their hideous forms, danced across the page, but somehow, he’d managed to turn hideous into comic, fearful into fun. It was a children’s anthology, after all.  

He ran his hand over the bookshelf. Award-winning books. Award-winning illustrations. Astonished publishers wondering that he had such an imagination. 

How it made them both laugh, for he just closed his eyes, and they were all there: the parade of creatures in his mind. He just let his hand move, and they danced onto the pages for him: fairies and unicorns, devils and demons. 

Three lifetimes of memories and the gift for drawing had brought them a good life.  A very good life.

Bare chested, he sat and picked up his pencils, a slim, plain cross swinging free from his tanned neck, reminding him of Buffy: his gift to her returned, now that he could wear it.

He smiled as he worked, humming, sipping coffee, bathed in sunlight from the glass ceiling panels. 

It was a good life, and she’d be home soon, making it better.

Later that evening, clearing up from the meal he’d cooked for them, kissing over the washing up, the doorbell rang. 

With a brief stab of awareness, Angel knew that he’d never heard it ring before, but he shook off the prickling sensation on his scalp. It was that sort of neighbourhood: no one needed to ring; they just pushed the door and hollered. 

Wiping his hands, he gave Buffy a final peck on the nose and went down the pure white hallway.  

He prepared a smile of welcome and opened the door.

Spike looked up from an examination of his boots and cocked him a crooked grin. ‘Hi ya, Pet. How’s life?’

Chapter 2

‘You can’t be here.’  Angel frowned at the sound of his words. It wasn’t what he’d been saying in his head, and the contrast between hello and you can’t be here seemed extreme even to him.

Spike nodded as if this were no surprise to him. ‘How long has it been?’  He seemed genuinely interested in Angel’s reply to this and waited patiently.

Angel tried to remember.  Finally, sure he’d lost a year or two here or there, he said uncertainly, ‘Ten years.’

Spike twitched up an eyebrow. ‘You don’t look a day older, Mate. What’s your secret?’

Angel immediately ran his fingers through his hair, emphasising the sun-kissed highlights.

Spike chose to ignore this and peered behind him as if considering his next move. ‘So, can I come in?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Do I have to want something?’  

It was so wrong that Spike was here that Angel couldn’t actually articulate it.  He felt he’d said it all when he’d opened the door: Spike couldn’t be here. It wasn’t possible.

Given that impossibility, he had no other recourse but to let him in. He turned and walked away, leaving the door open in invitation.

Spike eyed the opening. ‘Don’t I need a bit more?’

Angel shook his head without turning around.

Spike glanced around once more, as if steeling himself for something, then stepped inside the house.

He wandered into the kitchen and nodded at Buffy. She smiled gracefully, and left off arranging some flowers. ‘Spike! What a surprise.’

Angel smiled at her, so proud of the way she hugged Spike: not too tight, not too casual—just right, as befitted her role as his wife.

He draped an arm over her tiny shoulders. ‘So, what have you come for, Spike?’

Spike was eyeing the flowers and shook himself to say, ‘Wondering if I can crash for a night or two. Run into some bother—demon shit, you know the kind of thing. I need somewhere to hide out. They’ll never find me here.’

Angel wrinkled his brow. ‘We’ve left that world behind us now, Spike.’

Spike nodded again, more to himself than to Angel, and said carefully, ‘I’d like to see how you’re getting along, Luv. You can show me what this life is like, what’s the big…’ he widened his eyes theatrically and made air-quotes, ‘attraction of the human thing!’

Angel tightened his hold and his smile. ‘I think you can see the attraction.’

Spike turned slowly in place. The kitchen was the size of Angel’s old office, vast and airy and white.  Everywhere there was glass: in walls, in the roof, in areas of the floor making small see-through galleries to the vast living space spread out below them. More glass, more white, more perfection.  

Spike nodded, eyeing the decor. ‘Hope you’ve got a nice cosy bedroom with a bit of colour in, Mate. I hate white.’

‘You can’t stay!’ Angel thought Spike had got this and was annoyed at the hint of panic he’d heard in his voice.

He licked his lips and glanced to Buffy. She was pulling the petals from one of the flowers in absorbed concentration and gave him no help, one way or the other.  He didn’t want a scene though—didn’t want to physically tackle the vampire. ‘One night, then you have to go.’

Spike flashed him a smile as if he’d never doubted his acquiescence and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Lead on then, cus I’m feeling kinda weary all of a sudden.’

Angel didn’t deliberately take him on the scenic route—through the living area and up onto the galleried landing, through his studio in the attic and down into the guest bedroom—he was only making sure the house was secure before bed.

Spike trailed behind him silently until they came into the studio. Angel’s drawings were still on the desk, with some of his finished, hung canvasses dominating the walls in the vast space. ‘Impressive place you’ve created for yourself here, Luv.  Pretty damn near perfect.’

‘Yes.’

Spike dipped his finger in some crimson paint and held it up thoughtfully. ‘Nothing you miss? From the old life, like?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Uh huh. Sure you’re not hungry?’  He brought his finger toward Angel, and suddenly Angel’s head reeled with the smell of coppery warmth.  

He mouthed silently, ‘Blood?’

Spike smiled and wiped his finger on his coat. ‘Just paint, Pet; just testing.’

‘You can’t be here.’  For the first time, this simple phrase seemed less a statement of disbelief in Spike’s presence and more a command.

Tentatively, Spike laid his hand on Angel’s arm. They both seemed surprised to actually feel the touch and stared down at the joined skin.  Spike hissed between his teeth, ‘You’re actually warm…. How can you be…?’

‘You have to go!’ Sweat beaded Angel’s forehead. 

Spike started and removed his hand. He smiled softly. ‘Okay, Luv. Too…. Come on; show me the room. I’ve always wanted to be your official guest.’

He stepped carefully around the immobile figure and waited. 

Angel shook himself and marched across the studio to the far door.  

The room was white, like the rest of the house, but decorated with bold splashes of colour: a Navajo rug on the floor; a print of Paul’s Wright’s The Garden of Eden shockingly evocative on one wall. It was a room of someone who hated white and was fighting it with all he had.

The bed was low and sleek, and Spike knew without asking that no one had slept in it before.

He sat on the edge then slowly laid back and spread his arms.  

Angel hovered for a moment, adjusting the shades unnecessarily. After an age, he whispered, ‘Why have you come?’

Spike turned his head lazily on the bed. ‘I think, deep down, you already know the answer to that.’

Angel didn’t appear to hear. He straightened and said distractedly, ‘Looks like it’s going to be sunny tomorrow.’

Spike blinked slowly. ‘Have you had one single day yet when it’s not been sunny, Angel?’

Angel smiled wistfully. ‘I have rain, too. Heavy rain, so heavy that when you stand in it, it runs down your body and pools at your feet. I tip my face up to it and let it drown out the sound of….’

‘Of what?’

Angel bit his lip, leaving a flush of red. ‘Of my heart.’

Spike sat up.  ‘Your heart feels… wrong?’

Angel shook his head a little too emphatically.  

Spike came closer.  ‘Can I…?’

Angel hissed but nodded as if he welcomed the additional affirmation of his new status.

Spike laid his hand over the thin cotton and then withdrew it sharply, then returned it more boldly. He glanced up through lowered lids. ‘Can you feel it?’ Angel nodded dumbly. ‘Can you feel the blood pumping through your body?’ Another small dip of the dark head, hardly more than a flinch of agreement. ‘So many beats in one lifetime. One moment they’re there then….’ Spike snatched his hand away. ‘Gone!’ 

Angel’s eyes widened, then he said as if this followed, ‘I have a pool. Would you like to see it?’

Turning his face into the shadows, Spike made a non-committal reply. Angel went to the nightstand and tested the light over the bed. ‘Is there anything you need?’

Spike watched Angel’s back thoughtfully and was clearly not willing to speak his needs out loud.

‘Sleep tight, Pet. Give Buffy my thanks. For the room….’

Angel smiled as if the thought of Buffy had returned after an absence. 

Her body called to him, Siren-like. But he’d never been in this guest room before and, for a moment, wondered which was the best way to return to her. Through his studio seemed simple enough. And once he was there, his mind became clearer. He went back to humming as he made his way into their bedroom.  

It was pure white, not a splash of colour except for her blonde hair spread out and welcoming like captured sunlight on the pillow.

He sank into her arms and into forgetfulness. Both equally welcome.

It was sunny the next day.  Angel was lounging by the pool when he saw a figure in the doorway. He sat up, a feeling of disquiet washing over him, guilt tripping on its heels.

‘Sleep well?’

Spike nodded.

Angel felt torn. He didn’t want to leave his sunbathing. It’s what he did now.

Spike managed to look like a puppy left out in the rain: deeply apologetic for being so much bother.

With a wry grin, Angel stood. He knew he was being manipulated, but those relatively harmless, doleful eyes were far less threatening than the looks he vaguely remembered from the previous night. They had promised a manipulation of an entirely different kind.

‘Hungry?’

‘You offering?’

Angel flinched. ‘That’s not funny.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Actually, it is, but eggs will do just as well.’

Angel closed the shades around the glass bubble of his kitchen, watching them slide over the roof, watching Spike watching shadows.  

‘Where’s Buffy?’

‘Huh?’

‘Buffy. Where is she?’

‘At work.’ The minute the word left his mouth, he regretted it.

‘What does she do?’

Angel bluffed. He had absolutely no idea what she did. ‘Something in insurance.’ As soon as he said it, he remembered. She did. Insurance. He felt relieved and said cheerfully, ‘How do you want the eggs?’

‘Cooked?’

Angel nodded, taking this seriously, and began the preparations. Spike perched on a stool and watched him with great intensity whenever Angel turned his back. Eventually, he lit a cigarette. Angel whirled around. ‘Not in here.’

‘Can’t go outside.’

‘Then don’t smoke.’

‘But you’ve missed the smell.’

As soon as Spike said it, Angel knew that it was true. He had. He’d missed it so much he couldn’t afford to smell it now.

He strode over, snatching the cigarette out of Spike’s lips and ground it into water in the sink. 

Spike tipped his head to one side with thoughtful, narrowed eyes but made no other response.

Annoyingly flustered, Angel scraped the eggs onto a plate and set them before Spike.

Spike pouted. ‘Don’t you eat?’

Angel glanced down at the pale yellow mass. 

‘Cus, like, you’re kinda thin, Angel.’

Angel shifted his eyes to his belly, bare from his earlier sunbathing. He was thin, every muscle standing stark on his abdomen, as if he worked each one obsessively each day.  Spike held up a forkful of eggs. ‘Try some.’

Angel reeled away. ‘I don’t….’

‘Don’t eat?’

This seemed to upset Angel for some reason, and he said too forcibly, ‘No! Don’t like eggs.’

Spike shrugged and stuffed some into his mouth, looking surprised that it tasted good.  

Angel leant on the counter and hung his head. ‘I think you’d better go, Spike. Soon as it’s dark.’

Spike didn’t seem surprised or angered at this. He agreed softly, ‘I am going, Luv. Don’t worry. This was just a…. I might come back though—if that’s okay with you.’

‘To be honest? I’d rather you didn’t.’

Spike scraped his fork over the plate in small, intricate patterns and continued in his quiet voice. ‘Afraid of me?’

‘No! Of course not!’

‘Afraid I’ll take Buffy from you?’

‘Shit, Spike! Hardly!’

‘Afraid I’ll take something else?’

‘No….’

‘Afraid I’ll take something you’re working so hard to keep hold of?’

‘No! You have to go!’

‘Okay, Pet. I know where I stand now—where you stand. I need to think things through, but I’ll come back.’

‘Don’t!’

‘You’ve invited me in, Angel. Remember?’

Angel did.

He saw his error now.

He should have ignored the bell. 

‘Spike?’

‘What, Luv?’

‘Please. I’m begging you: don’t come back.’

Spike reached out but withdrew his hand at the last moment. ‘I’m so sorry, Angel. I really am.’

Angel grinned. ‘I think I’ll go for a swim. The water looks great!’ He turned and went to the pool, humming softly. 

The air was so hot! The water was so blue and so perfect to slide into.

It was a good life, a very, very good life.

Chapter 3

Angel wasn’t too sure how long it had been since Spike’s last appearance. 

They had the baby now, so he guessed it must be at least nine months. Time played tricks on him sometimes: his mind still set to the time zone of eternity. 

He was sitting by the pool one evening, rocking the baby’s basket idly with his toe, and there he was, observing.

Angel sat up.

Spike walked over with a small nod. ‘You invited me, remember?’  He smiled warily. ‘What’s in the…?’ 

Rory began to cry softly. 

Spike’s eyes widened, and he looked down.  He shook his head and blinked, and Angel had the absurd thought that Spike was fighting tears. 

Then he looked down and saw the perfection that was in the basket and suddenly did not find this all that strange: Rory made him cry with pleasure, too.

Finally, Spike looked up and said raggedly, ‘I’m so sorry, Luv. I’m so, so sorry.’

Angel picked up the small figure. ‘Isn’t he perfect?’

Spike swallowed. ‘I kind of guess he would be.’

‘Yeah, good genes.’  

Spike lifted his head and closed his eyes, just scenting the night air for a while, as if it calmed him. ‘Where’s Buffy?’

‘Buffy?’ Angel frowned. ‘She’s out, I guess.’

‘Is it okay if I stay for a while?’

Angel seemed to remember that he had not wanted Spike to stay. But he couldn’t for the life of him think why that was.  He snuggled Rory and glanced up with a look of deep contentment. ‘Sure. I’d be glad to have you here.’

‘Do you miss company?’

Spike sat on the edge of the sun bed next to Angel, casting a neutral look at the baby.

Angel shook his head. ‘I’ve made good friends here, now. Human ones.’

Spike watched Angel’s eyes. ‘What are they called? Maybe I’d know one.’

Angel pouted and played with Rory’s tiny fingers. ‘He never really cries, you know? I thought all babies cried.’

‘Put the baby down, Angel; I need to talk to you.’

‘It’s his bedtime, Spike. Come with me. You’ll die when you see the nursery.’

‘Angel!’

Angel stood up, rocking the sleeping baby in his arms as he walked to the house.

Spike tipped his head up to the stars and regarded them for a while then he rose and followed the figure into the house.  

The nursery was pale blue and green: sky and earth. The baby, when he was lain in his cot, looked like an angel, fallen from one to the other.  When Angel leant over the bars and smiled down at him, Spike bit his lip and left the room.

He was waiting for Angel in the kitchen when he returned.  Angel glanced shyly at him and asked, ‘Drink?’

‘Sure, why not?’  He waited until it was poured then perched on a stool opposite Angel. 

Angel grinned and clinked his glass to Spike’s. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what I need to talk to you about.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Angel! No! Sit down!’ He grabbed Angel’s arm then released it quickly. ‘You need to try and concentrate on me for just a minute—please.’

Angel smiled, and it was the look of a man humouring an old acquaintance. Spike’s jaw clenched slightly when he saw it.

‘Okay, here’s the thing…. What do you remember about Shanshu?’

‘Shanshu?’ Angel glanced away. ‘Can you hear Rory?’

‘No, and you can’t either. Just answer my question, Angel.’

‘Well, you know…. You were there. We had the final battle. Buffy was there, of course, and Wesley. You and I stood…. I was hit, I think. You carried me…. No, wait…. You were hit; I carried you. I’m not sure. It’s a long time ago, Spike.’

‘How old are you Angel?’

Angel licked his lips. ‘I think maybe you should go.’

‘Okay, calm down, Luv. What about me then?’

‘You?’

‘Yeah. What have I been doing since that final battle?’

Angel blinked. ‘I’m not sure. Why haven’t you kept in touch, Spike?’ 

‘Exactly.’

‘Huh?’

‘Why haven’t I?’

‘We could have….’

‘Where do you go on holiday, Angel?’

‘Huh?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’m…. Well, we haven’t….’

‘What hospital did Buffy have the baby in?’

‘What?’

‘Where is Buffy?’

‘I’m not….’

‘Have you ever left this house?’

‘Spike!’

‘This isn’t real, Angel. You are lying on your bed at Wolfram and Hart. You’re dreaming. I’ve been sent to bring you back. I’ve come to bring you home.’

Spike didn’t even see the fist coming. He felt it though and rose from the bed with a grunt, dislodging the wires that connected him to Angel.

He ripped them off and flung off the bed, storming out of the room.  

Wesley put a hand out to restrain Lorne from following.  ‘Leave him be for a while. He was like this the last time he came back as well. He’ll tell us in his own good time.’

Totally contradicting his own homily, he rose and followed Spike down to Angel’s office.  He poured him a drink and tapped him on the arm. ‘Here.’

‘He’s had a baby, Wes. He’s got a fucking baby.’

‘Oh. That’s not good.’

Spike let his head sag onto his chest. ‘I can’t do it to him.’

‘You have to. He’ll die if we don’t bring him back. He’s not fed for over a month. That damn demon is sucking the life force out of him.’

‘You bloody go then. You tear him away from his perfect bloody life, cus I’m not!’

‘I couldn’t survive the mindmeld. Only a vampire—or a Vulcan, I suppose—could.’

‘Lucky me.’

‘He’ll thank you when he’s….’

Spike whirled around. ‘Oh, Wes, bloody grow up, will you? This isn’t some Boys’ Own episode, where the hero always…. He’s created that entire fantasy out of his own head. He’s living the perfect life. Who the hell would want to leave that and come back here? Jesus Christ! I went through this with Buffy, and now….’

‘She knew Willow had done the right thing—in the end.’

‘No, she lived on, dying from regret. You didn’t know her.’

‘No, I know, I’m sorry.  But this is entirely different. Angel will die if we don’t bring him back. Ultimately, therefore, he will lose that perfect life just as effectively as he loses his real life here.’

‘Will he though? Perhaps he’s just….’

He broke away from the too intense huddle they’d formed in the corner of Angel’s office and strode to the window, lighting a cigarette.  Wesley followed him more slowly, watching the flame from Spike’s lighter.  ‘What? Perhaps he’s just… what?’

Spike pouted and looked down at his feet as if only just realising they were bare. ‘Perhaps it’s not a delusion. Perhaps he’s just… found heaven early.’ 

His look was so confused, so wistful, that Wesley found it difficult to say, ‘You don’t believe that.’

Spike shrugged, a casual, dismissive gesture that fooled no one.  Wesley suddenly turned and said sharply, ‘I want you to see something.’

Spike wondered if he could be bothered with a suggestive comment but only mumbled, ‘I need my boots.’

‘I’m sure you’ll survive a stubbed toe.’

A wry grin softened the words, and Spike sighed, catching him up, responding to the lighter mood. ‘It’s amazing, Wes. It’s like having Angel’s mind eviscerated.’

‘And that’s a pleasant thought.’

‘You’d think. But there’s no horror, no evil…. It’s like…. It’s not an Angel I’ve ever known. I mean, who’d have thought he’d ever want a baby? Buffy, I kinda expected. But a baby?’

‘Not the Angel we’ve come to know. I’ll give you that….’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a nagging feeling that he did talk about a baby once. I’m not sure…. Maybe it was just a conversation we had late one night over too many whiskies.’

He led the way into the lab and over to a machine in one corner.  

Spike peered at it. ‘You’re measuring earth tremors?’

Wesley stroked a finger over the readout. ‘I’m measuring Angel.’

‘Uh huh. And I’m guessing that steep angle down isn’t good?’

Wesley punched in some figures on a small keypad and another faint graph appeared below Angel’s. Spike laughed. ‘Hah. I guess that guy’s already dead.’

‘Thank you. I may flatter myself but….’

‘That’s your line?’

Wesley didn’t reply, only punched in another set of numbers.  A bright, strong line appeared some considerable distance above Angel’s.  It forced the axes to reform, increasing the scale, closing the distance between Angel and Wesley’s lines. For one moment Spike had the impression that this presence forced Angel on top of Wesley, but he shook off the inappropriate thought and said dully, ‘Me, I’m guessing. And why the fuck am I pink?’

‘It’s supposed to be crimson, and I really think you’re missing the point somewhat.’

‘How low can Angel go?’

‘Unfortunately, as you can see, the decline is accelerating. I give him another week at the current rate.’

‘Oh.  What are those up and down bits.’

‘Ah. Yes, well, that’s what I wanted you to see.’

‘Bloody hell. That’s me?’

‘This surge up here coincided with the moment we managed to establish the link.’

‘That dip?’

‘Given what you’ve said, I’d say that was the baby.’

‘So I broke some of the creature’s hold over him, but it strengthened when I’d left and… produced a baby in Angel’s head.’

‘Exactly.’

Spike looked pleased. ‘Best I don’t go back then.’

Wesley changed some settings and the lines began to project. Within a moment, Angel’s had dipped below Wesley’s and then it ran out, below the scale. He bent and read the date. ‘Next Saturday. Pity. I rather think Angel would have liked to survived a little longer than that.’

Spike watched his own line with feigned interest then sighed. ‘I thought about picking the damn baby up and just bashing its….’

‘No! Whatever you do must prompt Angel’s own good desires to be free, not rip or tear the fabric of his reality. Something like that could do untold harm.’ He saw Spike was looking unconvinced, so added, ‘My research seems to point to a link between what’s happening to Angel and a well-known phenomenon: sleepwalking. It may be that this demon that has Angel in its thrall has some power over humans when they are asleep. It’s ironic, really, that for all my research and science, I can do no more than offer advice that’s been common knowledge for centuries: you shouldn’t wake a sleepwalker abruptly. Old wives can be cannily accurate, sometimes.’  He saw Spike’s I-am-now-utterly-bored look and waved his hand dismissively to indicate that he’d finished. 

Spike looked alert once more. ‘So, what the fuck do you want me to do? I have no power over there!’

‘Firstly, I want you to try and remember every little detail from this latest trip. I’ll put it together with all the information you brought back last time and….’

‘And?’

‘And then I’ll come up with a plan.’

Spike put a hand hesitantly on Wesley’s arm. ‘You don’t think we can save him, do you?’

Wesley pulled away, turning toward the door. ‘I’d appreciate that report on my desk in the morning. Every detail please—no matter how insignificant. Everything you can think of: sounds, colours, tastes…. What? Spike?’

‘Or absence of those.’

‘I’m not with you.’

They began to walk together back to the office, Spike silent and thoughtful, until he said casually, ‘Everything was white. But when I mentioned this, I think he tried to make my room colourful. But then…. Jesus…. Then Buffy seemed to disappear.’

‘You think he’s unable to maintain too much sensory reality!’

‘Er… do I?’

‘My God! I wonder…! The report, Spike! Everything you can remember—just like you did then.’

Spike nodded warily. ‘You look… excited.’

Wesley grinned. ‘I think I just might be.’

Chapter 4

Spike spent the night sitting alongside Angel, hoping the sight of him would help with the capture of all the necessary facts. It didn’t. The contrast between the Angel lying on the bed and one that existed behind those still features in Angel’s imagination was painfully distracting. Stressed, worn looking, his energy being drained, the only sign of life on this Angel was a vein pulsing in the broad forehead.  Spike tore his eyes away and focused on the paper. He felt guilty, as if he were conspiring with Angel’s enemies. He knew that Wesley underestimated the pain Angel would feel if they did this thing to him. Spike wasn’t entirely convinced that Angel would rather return to life in this world than die in that one.  As he had pointed out (although he’d noticed no one had listened, as usual), he’d kinda… been here… done this…. And it hadn’t ended well (for him, at least).

Dutifully, he made his list of observations: Angel was sitting by the pool. He was rocking a basket with his toes. The baby looked like him. It had the face of an angel. He looked like the baby. Unsullied.

One by one, he listed in order the things he had thought then went down through the dark and always slightly eerie hallways to Wesley’s office and laid his list prominently on the desk.

When he walked in at lunchtime, Wesley peered at him over the sheets of paper. ‘Hello.’

Spike nodded and lit a cigarette, flinging himself into a chair. ‘Well?’

Wesley looked down and spread the sheets on the desk. Suddenly, he shoved his chair back and went to stare out of the window.

Spike sat straighter, then got up and came closer. ‘What?’

Wesley spun around and grabbed his wrist. ‘Damn you.’

‘Wesley?’

‘What do you smell, Spike?’

‘Huh?’

‘Tell me!’

‘Coffee! What is this, Wesley?’

‘No! Tell me! What can you smell?’ He shoved Spike hard then pulled him closer. If Spike were human, his wrist would have bruised. ‘What can you smell?’

‘You washed your hair with something that has coconut in it. You filled your car up on the way to work. You polished your shoes. Your pen leaks, and you cried last night. You stood close to a man in a bar who killed someone. You have something that belonged to Fred in your bed with you. But you can’t smell her on it any more.’

Wesley stepped back, pale. He suddenly seized the papers in his fist and shoved them in Spike’s face. ‘Tell me! Tell me the truth!’

Spike’s face creased up, and he looked as if he would pull away from the human’s grasp, but then he spat out, ‘He was hard all the time! He ached for relief, and Buffy wasn’t what he needed, but he couldn’t change that fucking life—it was the one he’d always wanted. His body yearned for dark pleasures, but his damn head wouldn’t let it have them. His saliva was aching to taste someone else’s; his sweat was eager to share with sweat. There! Are you happy now?’

Wesley ran his fingers through uncombed hair. ‘Not particularly, but I do have a plan—of sorts.’

Spike felt angry, as if Wesley had opened him up and peered into his secret places. He tried not to use the word rape, but it slipped into his mind nevertheless. 

That he had just betrayed Angel in some way made him turn away and deliberately not ask Wesley what he had devised. He knew this would piss the man off. It was a petty revenge, but he enjoyed it anyway.

‘I’m sorry, Spike. Angel used to….’

‘Don’t talk about him in the past tense!’

‘I’m not. I’m telling you something that happened in the past.’

‘Oh.’

‘He used to do that to me sometimes. When I’d come into work in the mornings, he’d slide past me with that enigmatic smile he’d wear sometimes and whisper my night to me. I had forgotten that he did that. In this place, I find I forget a lot of things that happened between us. But when I read your bland… account… I could hear him whispering again of sweat and saliva and….’

Spike swallowed. ‘You heard him?’

Wesley blinked. ‘Well, no, not literally; I was using dramatic irony.’

‘Oh.’

Suddenly, at the same time, they snorted with faint amusement, which then amused them enough to give each other shy smiles. ‘Sorry.’

Spike nodded. ‘Yeah. So am I. I didn’t lie, Wes; it’s just something I can’t talk about with….’

‘Me?’

‘Humans.’

‘Did you ever talk about it with Angel?’

Spike pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes fractionally. ‘That’s an odd question.’

‘No, it’s not. You said you couldn’t talk about it with humans, which implies that you could with fellow demons.’

‘Well, yeah, an’ I know lots of demons, all of ‘em more friendly than Angel.’

‘So, you don’t… talk… about things with Angel?’

‘Huh?’

Wesley sighed and sat down in his chair, spreading his fingers on the desk as if for support. ‘I’m trying—in what appears to be far too subtle a way—to find out what kind of relationship you really have with Angel—the one you have when no one else is around.’

Spike froze, a cigarette theatrically halfway to his mouth.  

Wesley pouted and winced slightly under the intense scrutiny. ‘Surely you can’t know someone for that long and not have a sort of private relationship when it’s just the two of you. Like—and I’m half-afraid to actually say this—like a very old married couple that moves around each other without the need for outward communication?’

‘You really do need a good shag now and again, Wesley. You bloody dwell on some very unhealthy thoughts.’

‘Why are you both so afraid to confront these issues, Spike?’

‘What issues? He’s just a vampire that bit me. Sure, he’s kinda familiar now. That’s partially why I’m here; I’ll admit that, but it’s no more than that! What do you think we bloody do when we’re alone? We stare in opposite directions and think about Buffy! What the hell has this to do with me trying to break that bloody demon’s hold…?’

‘Because you need to make Angel fall in love with you. That’s the plan. You need to make him want you more than he wants that illusory life.’

Wesley almost laughed at the way Spike’s face gave meaning to the word derision. He would have laughed if he hadn’t felt the weight of his plan like a stone around his neck. He suspected that Spike thought he couldn’t know how much this would hurt Angel. Of course he knew. He knew Angel better than anyone. He knew what drove the dark vampire. He understood passion better than a man who indulges it. He’d studied it—studied Angel—until he knew all the ways that passion could drive a man. Everything Spike told him confirmed in his own mind that Angel was fighting just this: his deep, red river of passion.  

It was time to let it flow.

Spike finished lighting his cigarette and said deceptively casually, ‘You are a complete riot sometimes, Mate.’

‘You know I’m not joking. I think you knew what I’d say. I think you thought it yourself when you were there.’

‘You think too bloody much.’

‘At this moment, I’m thinking that you haven’t actually denied the truth of what I said.’

‘It don’t matter how true it is that he needs to do it; he isn’t going to do it. You might as well tell the sun to stand still in its orbit.’

Wesley glanced up, frowning, then shook his head as if deciding to leave well enough alone. ‘The situation is not real, Spike. Nothing that is real here need apply there. Christ, you say he’s conjured up a baby? That just proves how out of character he’s acting over there. Who knows what else he could be persuaded to that was… out of character.’

Spike nodded, but it was clearly a nod of denial. ‘Still not going to work. You wanted to know what we’re like when we’re alone? I’ll tell you, Wes: we make the arguments we have in public look like sweet, whispered nothings.’

‘Excellent. I suspected as much.’

‘Huh?’

‘Oh, come on! You’ve been alive a very long time, Spike. You’re not exactly challenged in the cranium department: you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Do you really think the way you and Angel carry on means you don’t like each other?’

‘You need to be very careful where you’re going with this.’

‘Yet again! No denial!’

‘No, I don’t need to deny it. It’s too bloody preposterous to need my denial!’

Wesley stood up and slammed his fist onto the table. ‘It’s passion, Spike! I don’t care what you rationalise it as. It’s Angel’s passion, and he has it with you. Yes, you bicker and try to kill each other and make each other’s lives a misery, but you gravitate to one another. You circle each other. Your passions keep you bound together in a bitter dance.’

Spike folded his arms around his body, rubbing for a moment as if he were cold. ‘Dance?’ His voice sounded unnaturally loud, so he repeated softly, ‘Dance?’

Wesley lifted his eyebrows. ‘Wrestling, if it makes you feel more manly. What?’

Spike shook his head but then, after a moment’s hesitation, said quickly, ‘I said that to Buffy once: that all we really did was dance.’

Wesley perched on the edge of the desk and began to dig distractedly at a cuticle. ‘I never have asked you how your affair started. I’ve meant to—I certainly didn’t see it coming—but it’s never been the right time to ask somehow.’

Spike raised his eyes to the ceiling and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘One day, the dancing wasn’t enough.’

Wesley lifted his eyes to Spike’s face and knew that he had won.

Chapter 5

‘’S not easy—this love business.’ Wesley seemed to illustrate the difficulty of love with his inability to get the bottle back on the table. It kept tipping off, which seemed to confuse him no end until Spike realised what was wrong and struggled up to move the table closer for him.

Wesley was impressed, so, after a long swallow of whisky, gave the vampire some more of his wisdom. ‘’S not like you need it to last—juss long enough to get him back here…. He seems to have tired of Buffy pretty quickly.’

‘Ten years, Wes. ‘S bit unfair.’

‘He’s replaced her with a baby!’

‘And I’ve got to replace the baby.’  Spike drowned a full glass in one go, and tried to stand and make an unsteady way to the fridge. ‘Broody Butt got any more?’

‘Not in the redigifator… refrid… fidge.  This is best Bushmilsh—mills, philish… phils… vampire.’

Spike found the bar and opened another bottle, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, staring at Angel.

Wesley climbed very precisely to his feet and joined him.

‘People he’s loved.’

‘Huh?’

Wesley hiccupped and repeated, ‘People he’s loved. We need a list so we can match… traits….’

‘Darla.’

‘You can’t count Darla! Angel was a demon. ‘S not love!’

‘It bloody well was! I loved Drusilla more than….’ He trailed off when his list of loves post-soul proved to be rather short.

‘You,’ Wesley poked him in the chest, ‘were an appaulin’ly bad demon. You were full of humanity!’ 

‘You said he still loved Darla after he was souled!’ 

‘Damn. All right. Darla.’

‘Buffy.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Cordelia?’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘I’m seeing a trait, Wesley! Shit! I can see it!’ 

‘I knew it! What?’

‘They were all soddin’ female!’

‘It’s pure co’isidence. Think of another.’  

He was making his way back to the table for a top up when Spike said very quietly, ‘Fred.’

Wesley continued to pour some more of Angel’s whisky but said in a less slurred voice, ‘He did not love Fred. Not like that.’

Spike shrugged but added, unconcerned, ‘He did.’

Wesley straightened. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not saying anything other than Angel loved Fred. But he let you have her, cus he loves you more.’  There was a long moment’s pause, and then Spike said interestedly, ‘Huh. You’re not female….’

‘This is getting us nowhere. You’re mixing up love with love…. I mean, friendship, respect can all be… but love is a different thing… a sexual thing, if you like….’

‘Maybe it’s all the same for Angel.’

‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous! Angel doesn’t love me!’

‘He’d die for you!’

‘Well, that’s friendship.’

‘He’d kill for you.’

‘That’s… not true, I hope… but it’s also quite explainable…. And what about you! If he loves me (given he hardly has the time of day for me these days), then he must bloody adore you!’

Spike’s face spoke his derision for him. Suddenly angry, he strode toward the bedroom.  ‘I’m going to fucking rip him off that bed and just shake him till he comes back!’

‘No! We tried to pull him free. It nearly killed him!’

‘He’s already dead! Let’s just admit it and move on, yeah!’

‘You don’t mean that!’

‘I mean it more than I mean to go back there and make him…. He’s never—not in a dream, not in real life—going to love me!’

‘He doesn’t have to! He has to want you. He has to find that killing need he had for you! My God, man, he’s bloody killed you once already! What more proof do you want? Don’t tell me he turned you so he could listen to you read poetry!’

Wesley’s eyes were glinting, and he began to circle Spike. ‘It’s unusual for a male vampire to turn another male. Angel’s done it twice that we know of: Penn and you. Why? What did he want from you, Spike? William?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘No…. It’s critical. I was thinking about Angel’s passions now, but I’d forgotten….’ He seemed lost in his own thoughts for a moment, murmuring, ‘What passion it must take to bite into someone’s throat and suck their…. What need it demonstrates to bring someone into eternity with you….’

‘Wanna give it a go?’

‘And he kept you by his side for almost twenty years. That’s longer than most marriages…. And—.’

‘No. Let’s not go with the ands; let’s stop talking about this at all. ‘S not relevant. Angel is human inside this bloody dream world of his. He won’t want to think about his past. He won’t want to think about….’ He didn’t need to add the word me; they both heard it in the silence.

‘Maybe he’s tired of the baby as he tired of Buffy! Maybe it’s exactly what he’s looking for!’

‘He’s not suddenly gonna think of himself as a vampire!’

‘But he might want to be… turned into one….’

Spike reeled back, arms folded protectively across his chest. ‘You want me to make him beg to be turned?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’d never do it.’

‘You did.’

‘I loved—.’

‘Yessss.’

‘No!’ Spike turned sharply away to hide his expression, but Wesley grabbed his arm. 

‘What did he do, Spike? Did he promise you something? Oh! My God! He promised to love you! He promised to be your lover, didn’t he?—if you let him turn you! But he lied! That’s what you fight about! He promised—.’

Spike shoved him so hard and Wesley was so unsteady from the drink that he crashed into the coffee table and sprawled on the ground.  Spike stepped over him and stormed toward the elevator but stopped and rubbed his hands over his face before returning and picking him up.  He laid the limp human on the couch, checking his pupils. ‘You tosser.’

‘I was right though.’

‘Yeah. You’re always bloody right.’

‘You still love him.’

‘Don’t matter if I do or I don’t. He’s still lying to me.

Wesley’s hand came out unsteadily and gripped Spike’s sleeve. ‘Bring it back, Spike. Bring it back for Angel inside that damn perfect world of his: the passion, the need, the promises…. He’s hiding from all of it. Bloody hell: Buffy and babies…! Offer him what he really… wants.’

Wesley drifted into unconsciousness, his mouth still open, still forming that final word like a confession.

Spike studied him for a while then leant down and brushed his cheek over the dark stubble. He smelt deeply into the whisky breath, put his tongue to the drunken pulse beating wildly in the hot neck.  His fangs descended, and he stretched his mouth wide over the sweaty column. He bit, just enough to feel the rush, but not enough to break the skin. 

Very slowly, he unbuttoned the middle of Wesley’s shirt and slid his hand in on the dark hair, placing it over the thumping source of the man’s life.

He listened to the beat then tongued the neck, heart, neck: pulses of pleasure.

A darkness came into his mind as if the human’s insight had stirred up long-settled silt from the murky pool that was his life. So many promises made to turn a weak mind. Intellect overwhelmed by physicality—masculinity overcoming the effeminate.  

Had Angelus reneged on his promise or had he changed too much to want it? He wasn’t William—he wasn’t weak, cerebral or effeminate now.

Perhaps that’s what they argued about: who was to blame for this waste of a hundred years.

Very slowly, keeping his amber eyes locked on Wesley’s face, he slid his hand under the man’s waistband.

Arguing seemed to agree with Wesley, too.

The warmth was overwhelming; his palm absorbed it as he explored. He put his mouth back to Wesley’s neck and face, tickling with his tongue as he would to taunt a victim. Death and sex, the two commodities they’d been trading in all their demon lives. How inadequate a woman’s body was to close the gap between these two extremes. Pawing this man was the closest Spike had come to understanding the connection—sweat, raw meat, hair, muscle and sinew, stubble and the smell of the primal oceans. 

Wesley grunted as if Spike’s hands brought forth his unconscious agreement. 

Spike withdrew his hand and mouth and sat back on his heels. He slid into human form.

He had learnt nothing that helped him with what he had to do with Angel—quite the contrary. It had only confused him about his reluctance. Angel wasn’t the only one who stuck to women to avoid the obvious. He didn’t want to discover there was something he wanted even more.

Perhaps he should just pretend he was going to do this thing. He could lie on the bed with Angel and pretend. No one would know. No one else would be inside Angel’s head but them. And Angel wouldn’t tell—given it would all be pretence, he’d soon be dead.

Or he could just… do it.

He could lie with Angel and pretend that he wanted him. Or pretend that he was pretending. Then, when they came back, they could argue some more, this time over things they pretended in a dream. Not the things they pretended about now.  

He knew he was badly messed up.

Then, however, Spike suddenly had an image of him promising Angel something, dangling it in front of him until he complied, holding it tantalisingly just out of his reach until he begged, trailing it teasingly over his body until he was quite lost. 

He grinned with anticipation, a slow, malicious stretching of his facial muscles. 

They were right: revenge was a dish better served cold.

Chapter 6

The baby was now walking: small, unsteady steps into his father’s loving arms.

Spike watched from the privacy of the oddly wavering house. When Angel saw him, the house steadied, and Spike stepped out.

‘Hi ya.’

Angel frowned and picked up the child. ‘You’re back.’

Spike gave him a hopeful smile. ‘Am I welcome? Cus, like, I was out of order last time, Luv. It was just a joke….’

Angel nodded warily. 

Spike came closer. ‘So, how’s the little chap?’

Angel beamed. ‘He’s grown so big! Hey, watch him walk. Connor, walk to Uncle Spike.’

‘Connor? I thought he was called….’ Spike shuddered with the effort to pander to Angel’s delusions. ‘Hey, Connor’s a great name.’  He held out his arms to the eager toddler, curious to see how substantial he felt.

He even smelt right—what he could remember of eating numerous children about this age. He was impressed: Angel had managed every detail.  The pool, however, he noticed, was looking neglected: it appeared to be a flowerbed. Clearly, maintaining the smell of talcum powder and the illusion of baby-soft flesh was taking its toll.

He spun on his heel and carried the baby into the house.  Angel hovered like a nervous hen, almost clucking as his precious was taken from him.

‘He’s tired, Angel. Let’s put him to bed, yeah?’

Angel nodded and smiled. ‘I love bedtime. It’s just the best, Spike.’

‘Yeah, I remember you thinking that.’ He stared into the baby’s eyes and pictured ripping its head off. It made him feel sorry for himself, which steeled his resolve. He wasn’t cut out to be demon. He never had been. 

He should have been left to be a poet. 

He began to eat at the cold dish he’d come to enjoy.

The nursery hadn’t changed, and the child was still put in a cot. It still lay silently, eyes wide, gurgling. The perfection was freaking Spike out. He lifted his eyes and saw a large picture of Buffy on the dresser. That was new.

‘How’s Buffy?’

Angel paled. ‘Didn’t you hear? Oh, God, Spike. I sent word. She….’ His voice choked. ‘She was killed—car crash. I’m so sorry. I know how you felt about her.’ He came close and appeared willing to offer the traditional comfort. 

Spike saw no reason to waste a hug: he was curious to see if it would turn into something more. 

For all Angel’s inability to maintain a house, a baby and Buffy in his fictions, he’d not neglected his own body. It was even tauter than before—perfect musculature currently exemplified by just one set of muscles: the erectile ones.

Spike grinned into Angel’s shoulder and murmured plaintively, ‘Did she suffer?’

Angel shook his head. ‘She was lying by the side of the road when I reached her. She held Connor in her arms and blessed him. Then she told me….’ There was a sob, and Spike increased his sympathy, the tightening hug turning into something else—for him, at least.
 
‘Go on, Luv. Let it out.’ Let me have it.

‘She said she’d never been happier than these last twelve years and that she knew she was going back to the good place—that her mom would be there waiting for her.’

‘Ah. That’s nice.’

‘We held the funeral in the early morning. God, it was so pretty. The leaves were the colour of her hair. The air was so crisp. Connor was in his new little suit. He looked so cute! You should have seen him, Spike; he held a red rose over the coffin, and when the preacher said ashes to ashes, he dropped it in.’

‘Uh huh. Was it frosty with an early mist rising from the ground?’

‘Oh, yeah. It was so pretty.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘As perfect as I could make it for her.’

‘So….’ Spike pulled away fractionally. ‘You must be lonely…?’

‘Huh?’ Angel looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I have Connor.’

‘But he’s a baby, Angel. What about… adult… company?’

‘Oh.’ Angel blushed and turned away. ‘You don’t have time, ya know? By the time you get them to bed, then you’re so tired….’

Spike smiled and put an arm around his shoulders. ‘How about a drink?’

Angel nodded gratefully. ‘Wanna see his Christening video?’

Spike swallowed deeply. ‘Sure. Why not?’

Spike couldn’t work out what was different in the living room until he noticed the colour: just traces of it, hints in corners, subtle lines on walls. He guessed Buffy was reallocated. 

He accepted the drink but smelt the Bushmills before he tasted it and gagged.

Angel frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, Pet, only I had a few too many last night with Wes.’

‘Wesley! But he’s DEAD!’

‘Is he?’

‘In the final battle, Spike! He died in my arms! Don’t you remember?’

He’d be a mean demon another night.  ‘I didn’t mean our Wesley, of course. It’s someone I met in… England. Last year.’

‘Oh. I miss him so much, ya know?’

‘You loved him.’

Angel nodded happily. ‘I did.’

Spike waited until Angel chose the couch and then sat down next to him. Close.

Angel didn’t appear to notice. 

Spike opened his legs, pressing his thigh to Angel’s.  ‘You must find the bed kinda empty these days.’ Had his chat-up lines always been that bad?

Angel nodded. ‘I bring Connor in most nights.’

‘Oh.’ Damn. ‘That’s not supposed to be good for kids.’

‘Why? How can that be? It makes him feel safe—so no one can take him!’

‘But what about you? You need…. Are you keeping fit? Human an’ all….’

Angel blushed faintly once more. ‘I’ve a gym. Wanna see it?’

Spike gritted his teeth. It wasn’t what he’d had in mind seeing. ‘Why not?’

Spike narrowed his eyes at Angel when the smiling figure didn’t seem to remember that his gym had once been a studio. 

He couldn’t resist a soft, ‘So, what did you say you did, Luv? Work, I mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t need to…. Buffy… insurance money….’ He could say no more.

Spike ran his hand over the weights. ‘Wanna show me what you can press?’

Angel grinned like a kid in a candy store and lay on his back on a bench. ‘Put four hundred on.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Spike!’

Spike fitted them into place and was about to step back when Angel asked, ‘Spot me?’

Spike hesitated then straddled Angel’s head, his arms outstretched. It was a favourable position to watch Angel from, the unfamiliar body so tight and flat to the bench, except in the place where it wasn’t—flat.

On an inspired thought, he eased the bar into the cradle and came around to the other side.  He straddled Angel’s torso and said helpfully, ‘You’re not lifting right, Mate. Let me show you.’ He ran his hands up the insides of Angel’s arms, from armpit to wrist. ‘Straighten up a tad.’ He did it again, lingering in the hair in Angel’s armpits and trailing his fingers slowly up the warm skin. ‘Tighten up; take the strain.’ As Angel obeyed, he held the straining muscles and crooned encouragement, ‘Christ, you’re so hard….’

Angel let the bar sink back and made to get up, pushing Spike off, but he had to hold the slim waist to do so, and his hands lingered for a moment on the tautness.

Spike wasn’t going to pretend he couldn’t smell the effect he was having on Angel. The scent of pre-ejaculate was potent. Some was his, but most wasn’t. He made it easy for Angel and swung his leg off, sitting down on the bench beside him. ‘I really miss the fighting, Angel. Got no one to spar with now.’  Angel nodded, his brow furrowed. Spike could almost hear his fear.  Subtly, he murmured, ‘Think how perfect it would be if we could train together again.’

Angel turned his head, interested. ‘Training buddies… companions. That would be… perfect.’

Spike grinned inwardly but contented himself by saying, ‘Not everyone would think so, I guess.  All that sweat, those muscles straining…. Course, I’d take it easy for you.’

Angel’s eyes widened, and he shoved Spike off the bench. 

Spike laughed, pleased by his tactic to get Angel physical, then swiped his legs at him, catching Angel’s between them. He pulled hard and dislodged the heavier body, rolling on top and pinning him down.  ‘You’re human now, Angel; remember? Can’t possibly take me.’

Angel flipped him off and jack-knifed to standing. ‘Really?’

Spike sighed with intense pleasure: Angel’s flirt with humanity was not being extended to his physical prowess. It seemed a short step to him then to bring Angel back to the dark side. Some things you never stopped wanting.

He flicked to his feet, too, and they stood face to face, sizing each other up. 

Spike jabbed out his fist, but Angel was quicker and caught it in his like a catcher taking a fastball. The dull thud of flesh on flesh increased the salty potency in the air.

Suddenly, like a man who sees he’s bitten off more than he’s willing to chew, Spike stepped back and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m bushed? Mind if I borrow the spare room again?’

Angel hid a frown. Almost.

Spike looked innocently at the door they exited from before. 

Angel shook his head. ‘The guest room is next to mine.’

‘Ah. Is it.’

Angel nodded wisely and led the way.

It even had a connecting door.

Spike grinned. Seeing Angel’s sexual frustrations manifest in room arrangements was amusing.

He lay in just his jeans in the huge bed, leaking, fairly sure that Angel was doing the same.

He waited until he heard deep breathing, until the house grew unnaturally quiet. He wondered if Angel ever stopped dreaming and just slept, and if he did, whether it would all disappear for a short time before he recreated the fantasy. 

When the time felt right, he let out a loud, fearful moan.  He followed it up by crying out Buffy’s name.  He thrashed around in the sheets and drummed his heels as if in pain, and like clockwork, the object of his efforts appeared.

‘Spike?’

‘Dead! I didn’t bring a rose!’ If Angel could lift from slushy romantic films, he could, too.

Angel perched on the edge of the bed and shook him gently, ‘Hey, Spike, you’re dreaming.’

Spike sat up with a huge gasp, his eyes wide. ‘Buffy!’

Angel’s eyes welled up. ‘I know.’

Spike buried his face in his hands. 

Angel hesitated but put an arm over his shoulders. ‘Don’t. She wouldn’t want this.’

‘It’s so wrong, Luv! She shouldn’t go before us! She’s not had her time! We’ve had too damn much.’

Angel nodded sadly. ‘That’s exactly how I felt.’

Spike suddenly clasped him around his broad neck and buried his face in the warm hollow. ‘Stay with me for a while? I really don’t wanna be alone.’  He hesitantly patted the space alongside him. ‘Stay and tell me about her? What her last years were like for her?’

Angel seemed only too pleased to relive this part of his fantasy—the one that he’d tired of so quickly. He lay alongside Spike and appeared happy to have the contact and company, too. He folded his arms behind his head and smiled fondly. ‘I’ve missed this. We used to do this—in the beginning.’

Spike propped himself up on one elbow, turned toward the smiling profile. ‘’S bin long time. Be nice, wouldn’t it? If we could stay like this. Like you said: mates… good friends.’

Angel nodded. ‘I wanted to be your friend in L.A., but you were fighting so hard to stay my enemy.’

Spike frowned, not liking this intrusion of reality. He said petulantly, ‘That’s revisionist crap. That’s the kind of thing you’d think up if you’d fallen into some sort of better than life dream: that it was all my fault and you were the perfect champion for Right.’

Angel turned his head to look at him. ‘That’s what you said before—about this being a dream.’

Spike pushed his luck gently. ‘It must seem pretty unreal to you here sometimes? I mean, all this perfection? No one’s life is this perfect.’

‘I’ve just lost my wife, Spike. I’d hardly call it perfect.’

Spike suddenly got the real reason behind Buffy’s death: another squeeze by the demon to cement this as reality after his dramatic kicking of it last time. 

Not wanting to risk another punch, and consequent vialent dislodging from Angel’s dream, he gently patted the strong arm. ‘You’re taking it so well, Pet. She’d be so proud of you.’

Angel visibly relaxed. 

They lay quietly for some time, side by side on the bed, as they were elsewhere, in their other reality. Spike idly wondered if he was hard there, too.

When he judged the time was right to move Angel along a bit, he murmured innocently, ‘Angel…?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You are really kinda tense. Turn over; I’ll rub your back….’

Angel looked dismayed. ‘That’s just freaky! You’ve never offered to rub my back in the hundred….’

‘Jeez! Don’t get freaky on me then! It’s just a backrub! Hey! What are you thinking it is?’

Angel turned over abruptly. Spike grinned. Sometimes it was like taking the proverbial from babies.

Spike slid his hands under the warm T-shirt, being careful to do nothing that startled Angel. If he’d been tense before, now he was like a coiled snake, a jack-in-the-box of fear. His palms moulded themselves around Angel’s prominent shoulder blades. He longed to remove the shirt. He ached to flare his fingers erotically over the broad back, but he contented himself squeezing and kneading Angel’s muscles with his strong fingers.

‘Good?’

Angel only nodded, seemingly not trusting himself to speak.

Very carefully, making sure he dug even harder with his fingers to distract Angel, Spike swung his leg over the slim waist.  

Angel closed his eyes.

Spike grinned and leant harder into the massage.  

Suddenly, in a brusque, business-like tone, he said, ‘Take your shirt off. I can’t reach you.’

Angel frowned and opened one eye. Spike added slyly, ‘Something you need to tell me, Luv? You got an ulterior motive for not taking it off?’

Angel grimaced and worked himself out of the T-shirt.  He lay spread out, hot, sweating. Spike swallowed deeply, utterly distracted from his task. Then, for the first time, with a jolt of shock, he realised that he could do anything to this body, for it wasn’t real… anything he wanted….

Fangs pushed out of his gums, accompanying another blossoming equally pleasant below.  With his hands spread on Angel’s flesh, his balls grinding into the hollow of Angel’s back, he leant down and took some of the sweat into his mouth—along with skin and blood. 

Angel cried out with a gasp that began as shock and turned into fury. He twisted, and with a strength beyond that he’d had even in real life, threw Spike into the corner of the room. Spike hit and crumpled, driven into the wall with a force to cause unconsciousness.

When he didn’t pass out, he blinked then looked back at Angel through dilated eyes. For the first time, it occurred to Spike that Angel wasn’t the only one here who was unreal: he could do anything he wanted to his own body, too.

He came at Angel, growling, his demon face screwed tight with menace. He could see Angel’s wavering: the temptation to meet his childe’s attack as a demon breaking down the desperate desire to be human.  Human won out, but he met him with all the strength of Angelus—and more.

Spike boosted his power, too, and they flung and ripped and bit and clawed. Alpha-males battling; the reality of the house blinking on and off around them.

Angel flung him out of the room. Stairs appeared, and he tumbled down them. Angel had the advantage because he could control their physical environment. Spike could only control himself. 

He drew into a ball at the foot of the stairs and listened to Angel descending—the thump, thump of a giant from a childhood nightmare.  When the menacing sound was close, he flung out an arm and grabbed Angel’s ankles, tipping him off the stairs.  Angel sprawled hard on the tiled floor then flipped over to retaliate. Spike was faster.

This time, he bit deep into the soft front of Angel’s throat, his nose resting deliciously in a hollow as he filled his mouth with blood. It wasn’t human—inside, Angel was now what he always was.

As he leant over, he connected with something. Two long, hard columns of flesh touched then shifted, then stretched to touch again.

Angel moaned, and Spike knew it wasn’t from the fall.

He lifted his face and stared into dilated, amber eyes, shockingly beautiful in the otherwise perfectly formed human face. He rubbed them together once more, a single touch of his cock to Angel’s sending more pleasure through his body than he’d felt for months.

Angel suddenly said, in a voice that dripped venom, ‘What do you think you are doing?’  He pushed Spike off and rose, his posture cold, withdrawn. ‘You had better leave, I think.’

Angel held Spike’s gaze intently, and with a frisson of excitement, Spike realised that Angel was trying to exert his control over him, too: make his reality bend to his will as he did every other aspect of this better-than-life world.  Walls faded then reappeared. The floor rippled under them as Angel brought his great will to bear on Spike. 

However hard he tried, though, he could not make him leave.

It amused Spike that Angel had less control over him here than he had in reality.

He licked his lips and slid back to human form.  ‘Okay, Luv. Don’t burst something. I’ll go. But… hows about a shower first?’

Spike spent a long time in the shower, doing something he didn’t do very often: thinking.

He knew his motives for being in Angel’s dream world were confused. Ostensibly, he was there to bring Angel back because he was an obedient little sidekick who now worked for the good of mankind… blah, blah, blah.

Privately, he was there to see how Angel liked being ripped from his humanity for once. He couldn’t actually turn him—as Angel had him—but it was a bloody good second best.  He was fairly clear, therefore, on these motives.  It was the others that confused him. For although he knew there were others, he couldn’t bring them to the surface, and they continued to lurk, just out of reach of rational examination.  He felt them in flashes as he, for example, watched Angel with the baby, or saw him run his fingers through his hair, or caught a shy smile on the perfect lips. Vague feelings about Angel, however, were nothing new. He had enough of them in real life though and didn’t want to even begin examining the ones he was feeling in this place—which was, after all, only the inside of Angel’s head. 

However, it was these hidden motives that made him glad he was returning to the real world for a while. He would come back, but it was reassuring to think he could put off his main reason for being there. Let Angel have his humanity for a while longer.

He replayed Angel’s resistance to him as he washed his hair. He’d been relatively okay about the bite—reacting just as Spike had expected him to; although he gave Angel credit for the way he’d controlled his demon. It must take Angel a huge amount of willpower to maintain his human form under so much provocation. Willpower or desperation—Spike reckoned they were one and the same thing when you analysed them too carefully.  

The bite, therefore, had not fazed Angel. It was what came afterwards. Angel had rejected the explicit offer of Spike’s body. 

Spike frowned and scrubbed at his hair harder. He’d thought he’d made it explicit, anyway. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps Angel had merely felt some vague inappropriateness in the way their cocks had stretched and rubbed around each other like hungry felines.

Whatever. Angel was resistant. Just as Spike had known he would be. It should make the conquest sweeter. It should make that dish colder.

He stomped out of the shower and walked naked into the bedroom, rubbing his hair furiously in the towel. Should!

Why—could anyone answer him this one simple question?—why was he such a blisteringly crap demon?

‘I’ve been thinking—shit!’

‘Angel!’

They both blushed furiously, and Spike dragged the towel tightly around his waist, cursing that it was too small to tie.

Angel tried to resist putting his hand over his eyes, but he looked resolutely out of the window. 

Spike was torn between holding his towel and sorting his hair, which he now knew would be badly defining his nickname.  He grabbed his jeans and turning his back to drag them on, spoke in a distracting rush. ‘Give me a min and I’ll be out of your hair, Angel. I’m sorry….’

‘No. I’m sorry.’

Angel turned and caught Spike dragging his fingers through the blond mass of his hair. He took a small breath and continued, ‘I was kinda freaked by the bite and thought you…. But that’s my fault, not yours. Look, what I’m trying to say is: I don’t want you to go. It gets kinda lonely here sometimes. I’m glad you’re here.’ He grinned shyly. ‘It’s like when you burst out of that damn necklace in L.A.’

Spike pulled his T-shirt over his head and said dryly, ‘I think you’ve got a bad case of revision-itus again there, Mate. You hated me then; the last person you want—wanted—in L.A. is—was—me!’

Angel toed the ground. ‘I just made it seem like that, Spike. I was lonely. You relieved the boredom. Hell, you just kinda relieved everything.’ He looked up at a spot on the wall, frowning deeply. ‘And I seriously need to rephrase that!’

Spike began to laugh, and Angel cast him a wry look. ‘See? No one else finds me all that funny.’

Spike sobered slightly, but he kept amused eyes locked with Angel’s. ‘So, I stay?’

Angel smiled softly. ‘Comrades… brothers….’ He walked slowly toward the hallway, pausing in the doorway.  ‘Spike?’

Spike, struggling to pull boots onto wet, bare feet, grunted. 

‘Is there someone…. I mean, will anyone be missing you?’

Spike looked up sharply, and Angel added quickly, ‘It’s been twelve years since L.A. You can’t have been alone all that time.’

Spike kept Angel’s gaze and said distinctly, ‘You know there was only ever family and Buffy.’

Angel looked down at his shoes. ‘And you lost both at the same time—after the battle.’

‘Well… if that’s true, now I’ve got one back.’

Angel looked up, his face a restrained mask of delight. He nodded brusquely and left.

Spike stretched out fully clothed on the bed and wondered which, out of all his muddled motives, he had just served the most.

Chapter 7

Spike was not the least surprised when the baby made no appearance at breakfast or the rest of that day.  He knew he shouldn’t be grinning and feeling pleased with himself that he’d supplanted a baby, but it was kinda cool all the same.

As Angel began some preparations for breakfast, Spike studied him with intense concentration. He was here now; that was established. But having pancakes together, messing around with weights or whatever else Angel had in mind for him, wasn’t going to snap Angel out of this fantasy life. He had to seduce Angel with something that he would want more than he wanted this.

Spike knew his history with seduction wasn’t all that impressive. Drusilla had seduced him and he—nervous, repressed, virgin poet that he had still been—had submitted to her dark caress as he would have to a whirlwind: first with fear and then with resignation. It was only as the change had begun in him, the blossoming of his new persona, that he had taken the initiative with her, but by that time there was no seducing to be done. She was his; he was hers, and it had lasted for decades of passionate pleasure. Then there had been Buffy. His seduction of her was almost too embarrassing to think about. He remembered chocolates, wigs, robots and poems, all in flashes that made him feel nauseous. If he wasn’t hounding and tormenting her, kidnapping or torturing her, he was like a court jester: desperately joking and dancing, hoping his queen would notice him.

‘Spike!’

Spike jumped and looked up, confused. 

‘Two?’

Spike eyed the batter and nodded.

‘You okay?’

Spike frowned and toyed with the gingham tablecloth. ‘Did Buffy ever talk about me?’  He suddenly blushed deeply and cursed under his breath. Who was the one forgetting reality now?

Angel didn’t find the question as odd as Spike feared: he believed he had lived with Buffy for twelve years, so sat down and appeared willing to give the question consideration it didn’t deserve.

‘Sometimes.’

Spike knew anything Angel said would be unreal, made up to fit his own version of reality, but nevertheless, he couldn’t resist asking, ‘And?’

‘Well…. She told me how it started—all that pain from being pulled out of heaven.’

Spike felt it was better to move on from this particular subject, given the reason for his being there, so asked casually, ‘Did she know how I felt before that? I mean, I was trying to get her to want me before that, but I kinda messed it up. Not good with the seduction scenes, I guess.’ He looked away, feeling that he’d said too much, admitted too much, but something about this cosy domesticity—sitting at a pretty breakfast table, laid with gingham and flowers—encouraged confidences he would not have attempted in the sterile masculinity of Wolfram and Hart. 

Angel was watching the expressions flit over Spike’s face. After a while, he said, ‘Sure she knew.’ He looked down and adjusted the cutlery then looked up and said with odd clarity, ‘You can be very seductive—mostly when you aren’t trying.’

Spike’s lips quirked, and he watched Angel rise and return to the stove. 

He returned to his introspection, happier but none the wiser about how he was going to pull this thing off. He had the distinct feeling that Angel wouldn’t be impressed with any of his seduction tactics, even if there were the tiniest hint that Angel wanted him, which there wasn’t.  Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. Perhaps his history didn’t matter so much as Angel’s. Perhaps he needed to think more about what Angel wanted, not what he could offer.

He leant back in his chair and looked around the kitchen.

Is this what Angel wanted?

It was something out of one of Harmony’s magazines: Hello, Okay, Envy Me. He could picture Angel posing at the range, posing on the couch, posing on the bed—perhaps with a Buffy look-alike: this is my life, this is me.

It all seemed so shallow to Spike, but at the same time, he couldn’t see how he could surpass it in Angel’s mind. Its very lack of real substance gave it its power: like sugar, he guessed, it was addictive.

Maybe Angel was just going for contrast—something that was the opposite of what he had always known. He’d done a pretty good job of it, if it were true. This sunny, warm, sweet-smelling kitchen could not be more different to what they had both left behind in the edifice of evil.

He was missing something though, and he knew it. What was it that really held Angel here? Could it really be gingham and pancakes and the smell of caramel in the air?

Slowly, Spike lifted his eyes to the ceiling. The child.

Where did the baby fit into this perfect life?

What was the baby giving Angel that held him fast in this destructive world? He closed his eyes and pictured the child, felt him again as he’d held him, let his baby-sweet essence seep into his being, trying to unravel the mystery.

‘Spike.’

He snapped open his eyes and fumbled for the plate that Angel was holding out to him. He yelped and dropped it to the table. ‘Ow! Hot!’

Angel laid down the cloth he’d been holding the plate with. He made a small click of his tongue and took Spike’s burnt fingers in his own, turning them, murmuring something that sounded very much like, ‘Baby.’

Spike looked up into Angel’s lowered eyes, and in that moment, he knew.

Touch—Angel was starved for touch. He was a creature put behind invisible bars, which prevented him from reaching out to the love he saw around him. Spike tried to think back to that other place that was real life, but which was becoming less and less real the longer he stayed here. When was the last time he’d seen Angel touch someone? Not the casual taking of a mug of coffee from Harmony. Not the resting of his hand on Wesley’s shoulder as they talked. Not the fighting with him. Real touch—hands; bodies rubbing together, belly to belly; smell and taste; and the sound of sweat getting off on sweat. When had Angel last enjoyed these things? He had Angel at something of a disadvantage. Despite Angel’s fantasy, he was the last one to be with Buffy, and Buffy shared secrets occasionally. Especially when she was in love, as she had been at the end, when it had been too late for both of them, and they had sacrificed that love for something they needed more: validation. She had lain in his arms and told him something of that one night with Angel. Not consciously kissing and telling, but trying to reassure him that she wasn’t short-changing him, because it had been just like this with Angel: loving, intense, but oddly asexual. So, he had to go further back to find sexual physicality in Angel’s life. Darla had given it to him; that was for sure. Perhaps that’s why, as Wesley had said, Angel still caved into her particular charms when he’d met her again in L.A. It was just touch, feeling something other than the cold, and no one else would give it to him.

What a perfect thing to create: a baby. Unconditional love, touch that could not be withdrawn, that would never be withheld. What did a baby need more than to be touched? 

‘You don’t like them?’

Spike focused on Angel then on his plate. ‘No, they’re….’ He took a bite. They were surprisingly good. He repressed the thought that he was eating recycled baby and tucked in.

As he was chewing, he nudged Angel with his foot, watching the reaction to this small touch carefully. ‘What?’

‘What do you want to do today?’

Angel seemed to consider this for a long time. ‘How about a swim?’

Spike gritted his teeth then held his hand into the beam of sunlight that streaked high above his head through a crack in the blind. ‘I can’t go…. Hey.’  He stood up and put his forearm into the light. ‘Hey!’

Angel grinned. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I had the house made with Wolfram and Hart glass.’

Spike was absurdly grateful for this revision to their fantasy, and sat back down with a wide grin, until he said annoyed, ‘Last time I looked, the pool was outside and had roses in.’

Angel tipped his head to one side and said amused, ‘I’ve got a pool in the basement, Spike; you know that.’

Spike clenched his jaw. ‘Don’t you find it freaky? That you can control your life like this? Yesterday, you didn’t have an indoor pool! You didn’t!’

Angel looked curious for a moment then said calmly, ‘One day, I was human, and then I wasn’t. One day, I was soulless, and then I wasn’t. One day, I was in this world, and then I was in hell. Then I came back, and I was a demon again, and then I wasn’t: I was human for a day. But I was the only one who could remember that. One day, I was sterile and dead; then I had a baby with Darla, who was also dead—and barren. Oh, and, hey! One day, I was a dad, and then I wasn’t! But, best of all, one day I was grieving, and then I wasn’t, because he was back, and all grieving stopped. All emotion stopped, because it was too much: being killed by your own child, slowly in a way no one should be left to die. Oh… but then I didn’t die. I survived and fell into a world where everything was perfect, and I was in love, and I’d have killed to stay there. But they dragged me out. With blood! And how ironic is that, Spike? And then it was like hell again when I realised that I would never have Jasmine’s love back. And then I lost my child again—I gave him away, to someone else. Someone who could be a real father to him. See… seems like I wasn’t real enough for him. Are you starting to get it? I had to stand there and watch him have the perfect life while I returned to my life—what there was of it then. So, no, I don’t find it odd here. Here is right, and it stays just the way I want it to be. The way I want it to be, Spike. After three hundred years, it’s the way I want it to be.’

Spike swallowed. ‘How come I’m here then?’

Angel blinked and thought about this for a while. Then he smiled and said softly, ‘You’re my deliberate flaw.’

Spike’s hand froze as he was reaching for his coffee. ‘You need to be careful….’

‘The Shakers used to make sure that however perfect they made something, they put a tiny, human, deliberate flaw into it—to remind them that they could never be perfect: only God could.’

Spike repressed a pout and tried to say neutrally, ‘So, I’m the flaw ruining your perfection?’

Angel laughed. ‘No, I think that if this is all a delusion, some hell dimension that’s holding me in its blissful maw, you’ll be the one to save me. You’re my true perfection that will rub in the eye of this enticing devil.’

Spike leant back in his chair and lit a cigarette. It had not occurred to him, or (he assumed) to Wesley that Angel knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, but that he chose to stay here regardless.

He wasn’t sure that was what Angel had said, but if was, it explained a lot. 

It changed a lot, too.

Now he had to tempt a conscious, resistant Angel. He had to try and seduce the same bloody Angel he’d been fighting with in L.A. only a month ago. 

He snorted with amusement and stubbed his cigarette out into the remains of his pancakes. ‘I think I’m fucked.’

Angel lifted an eyebrow in surprise. If he was acting, it was a bloody good job. 

Spike thought in for a penny, in for a pound and said deliberately, ‘If you know that this is a hell dimension and you’re trapped, then what the hell can I do to persuade you to come back? How the hell am I gonna rescue you, Angel? Give me a clue, maybe?’

‘Maybe this is real and everything else is the delusion, Spike. Maybe we were trapped in hell, and now we’re free. Seems to me…’ he looked slowly around his perfect, honey-coloured kitchen, ‘this is very real and normal. For once.’

Spike quickly lit another cigarette and screwed up his face, taking in the first jolt of very necessary nicotine. ‘But we—. I—.’ There was a good response; it would come to him.  ‘That’s dumb.’ (It was the best he could come up with.) ‘Hey! What about the baby? How come he’s disappeared this morning?’

Angel watched him for a moment then leant over and took one of his cigarettes, tipping his head to indicate he wanted it lit. Bemused, Spike touched the tip to his, their faces inches apart. With his eyes locked to Spike’s, Angel murmured, ‘Do you want me to fetch the baby back?’

Spike reared away. ‘Are you threatening me?’

Angel tipped his head to one side, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Why does Connor threaten you?’

It was a bloody good act. Spike shook himself slightly. He was seeing twists and tricks that weren’t there. This was Angel’s mind, after all—simple, one-dimensional.

‘Are we going for this damn swim, or not?’

Angel smiled and stretched his arms above his head, and Spike felt a stab of uncertainty once more. Who was playing whom?

Angel stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We shouldn’t swim so soon after eating.’

‘I’m not bloody human, Angel! No tummy! No circulation! And you shouldn’t bloody smoke, come to that!’

Angel grinned and rose. ‘I do lots of things I shouldn’t these days—all the things I promised myself I would do.’ 

With that, he took the dishes to the sink and began to wash up. Spike had the distinct impression that housework wasn’t what Angel had just meant.

He took his bad mood into the living room to get away from the distracting presence. He was tempted to return to reality and tell Wesley to forget it. Or return to their shared delusion, which Angel had escaped….

As he flung himself furiously into a very real and substantial chair, he realised that Angel had not answered his question: What was he going to do to tear Angel away from this?  

Or perhaps he had.

All the things I promised myself I would do

Had that been a come-on? A promise? 

Spike slammed his fist into the chair. He’d had Angel’s promises before. He was the one who was supposed to be making and breaking promises now. 

Something flew over the back of the chair and landed in his lap. A swimsuit. 

Angel came into view, amused at Spike’s expression. ‘Are you coming?’

Just as Angel promised, he had a pool in the basement with one wall of sliding, sun-safe glass, which gave the illusion of bringing the outside in.

Angel pulled off loose sweatpants to reveal a pair of small red trunks, which did some considerable revealing of their own. 

Spike held his up with dismay but saw with relief that they were anonymously baggy.  As he had no intention of going into the water anyway, he wondered why he was alarmed. He sat on one of the sunbeds and watched Angel dive like an Olympian God into the perfect blue water.  He shook himself and tried to remember that anyone could be perfect inside their own head. 

Angel’s head rose when he reached the near side, and he propped his chin onto folded arms, drifting his legs out behind him. ‘Come in.’

Spike shook his head. ‘I don’t do the water thing. You know that. Have you ever known me to get voluntarily into water?’

Angel pouted. ‘But this is….’ Before Spike could react, there was a blur of movement, something on his ankle, and he was in the water—jeans, T-shirt, boots and bad attitude still in place.

Angel ducked under him and rose on the other side, laughing.

Spike had swallowed some of the water, which freaked him out more than swallowing the food, despite them all being some part of Angel’s psyche. He gagged and flung himself on the grinning figure, which was exactly what Angel had wanted in the first place. 

Angel wasn’t easy to fight; he was wet and slippery and moved like he was part of the water: fluid and easy. (Which was something Spike really didn’t want to examine.) He, on the other hand, was dressed in sopping clothes, which were now stretched, enabling Angel to twist holds to pull him under then throw him away or drag him closer. 

He only had one advantage.

He took it.

He was curious to see what Angel would do.

He caught Angel’s ankle and began to swim down.

It was one reason he detested swimming (besides being English and having bad memories of pink puckered thighs and water so cold it froze his spermatozoa): having no air, he sank. Badly.

Now, however, it was a distinct advantage. He was the anchor around Angel’s neck; he was the weight pulling Angel down.  

He grasped him around the neck, locking his arms, watching Angel’s face.

Angel’s cheeks bulged out; his hair floated toward the surface, as if it had already made a desperate bid for air, refusing to recognise that this was all delusion and it didn’t need to breathe.

Angel began to struggle: a man drowning. 

It really was a bloody good act.

For a moment, Spike wondered if this would be enough to bring Angel back. Would he give up the fantasy? Would he just stay under the water, admitting he didn’t need to breath, or would he…?

Spike frowned and licked his lips.  Angel was going blue and ceasing to struggle.

Suddenly, holding Angel protectively, he kicked for the surface. 

He held Angel above the water and felt him shudder then take a huge gasp of air. 

It was best sound he’d heard for a long time. He towed Angel to the shallow end and just let him float out, holding his head. After a moment’s hesitation, he pushed a lock of hair from Angel’s forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Luv.’

Angel was concentrating on the air, but he opened his eyes, and they were curiously alive. ‘How long?’

‘Huh?’

‘Shit. That was such a rush, Spike.’

Spike stared down at him, perplexed by this reaction, but he felt Angel wanted to say something more, so raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Angel smiled. ‘You can let me go now; this is the shallow end.’

Very slowly and playfully, Spike pushed Angel’s face back under the water then he let him go and dragged himself out of the pool. He cursed his waterlogged clothes and took off his boots, empting them theatrically, ripping off his T-shirt.  

He couldn’t believe it.

He refused to believe it; Angel caught him again and pulled him back into the water. 

He surfaced and spat out a stream of water. Angel was smirking, his eyes sparking with challenge. 

So, Spike let it all go: all his confusing motives, delusions, realities. For this one moment, none of it mattered. 

He skimmed his hand over the surface and sent a sheet of water into the smirking face.

Angel hissed with glee and retaliated.

For over half an hour, they fought and splashed and wrestled like children.  Spike didn’t exploit his advantage again, except by occasionally swimming out of Angel’s reach and staying down, attacking him from below like a demonic blond shark. Angel, though, still had the advantage of slippery skin compared to Spike’s jeans, which gave him great handholds. 

It was this—a simple handhold—that turned the game from a childish one of splashing and noise to something else. Something definitely not childish.  

As Spike ducked beneath the surface to dive and swim out of reach, Angel caught the back of his jeans, pulling hard on the waistband to detain him. 

The top button gave, and with the increased strain, the next one went as well.  Unaware of the damage, Angel yanked again, and the jeans slipped down to Spike’s thighs. 

Spike twisted, now trying to swim back to the surface. Angel, confused by this turn of events, pulled some more, and the jeans came off in his hand.

Spike surfaced, flicking his head from side to side to clear his vision. He held out his hand, an annoyed look on his face.

Angel glanced at the jeans, as if considering something of great import then flicked up his eyebrows, smirked, shook his head, and slowly paddled backward.

Feeling exposed, well aware just how distinct his natural, dark hair looked against his unnaturally pale body, Spike swam closer. ‘This isn’t a joke, Angel. Gimme.’

Angel backed off again, glancing behind to see how close he was to the side.

Spike took his chance and lunged, grabbing the wet denim, but Angel didn’t let go, and they entangled, struggling for mastery. 

Spike was now just as smooth and slippery as Angel, and their bodies twisted and coiled like mating sea otters. Angel was getting the worst of it, going under too much, swallowing too much water, but he would not back off. He held the jeans behind his back with one hand, swimming with the other. Spike darted his hands around, and they were locked together. His momentum buffeted them where Angel could stand. Spike could have, if he’d tried. They both knew this. Instead, he locked his legs around Angel’s waist. 

Angel flung both arms back and grabbed the side, jeans forgotten.

He closed his eyes with a small hiss, which Spike could not interpret until he felt something snaking along his stretched cheeks. Angel’s cock tented the tight swimsuit, horizontal, running snugly the length of Spike’s stretched arse. 

Intensely stimulated by the fight, Spike’s cock was already vertical, quite free of its tight foreskin and leering up at them with its greedy little mouth open. 

Angel hung his head and murmured, ‘Fuck.’

Brushing his lips against Angel’s neck, Spike whispered, ‘Was that a request?’

Angel’s head jerked up, and he locked cold eyes on Spike’s. Spike held the gaze, knowing his eyes were deepening to amber, dilating.  Very deliberately, he dragged his eyes down to Angel’s lips and back again. Angel’s tongue flicked out almost unconsciously, and he glanced down, too. Then Angel’s head dipped. It was so slow and so deliberate that Spike felt it outlasted the hundred years he had already waited.

Their mouths came together, and for one tiny moment there was nothing else but a kiss: the feel of the other’s lips, which they knew so well by sight, but had never felt before; the taste of the other’s saliva, which they’d seen spat in anger, but had never tasted before.

One moment, before the rush of what they were doing hit them…. Then it was all hands and limbs and rip of lycra. Flesh then rubbed to flesh, until with a sob, Angel’s body shook. He clamped Spike tight, as if by this close proximity, the childe would remain ignorant of the weakness of the sire’s resistance.

Crushed in such a tight embrace, Angel’s orgasm, therefore, ripped through Spike, too. The shudders of that powerful release kick-started his to life, and he arched back in Angel’s arms, his fingers digging into the powerful shoulders, his body jerking, spasm after spasm wringing his sperm from him, until it floated with Angel’s like tiny oil-slicks of pleasure on the rippling water.

They only came down from their individual pleasures when Angel began to shiver.

The heat of the water seemed to have gone into Angel’s orgasm, for now it was bitterly cold, the fabric of the house indistinct.  Spike extricated himself from the almost stiff arms and sprung out of the water. He picked up Angel’s towel and turned, offering him his hand.

Angel ignored the hand but accepted the towel when he rose from the water. They watched the jeans and Angel’s ripped costume float together, as if tangled in some game of their own. 

Spike felt as if he’d ruined everything: gone too far too soon. Resolutely, he lifted his head. ‘I’m not going to get all angsty about what just happened, Angel. It happens. Forget it.’

Angel turned his head and regarded him intently. ‘I’m not sure I want to.’ 

Spike faltered but added, ‘It was just release, we both needed it, and I’m….’

‘I wasn’t thinking about the orgasm.’ To illustrate his point, Angel leant over and put his lips to Spike’s. It was a cold embrace until his arms slipped around Spike’s head. Then he seemed to forget he was chilled, naked and kissing a man. 

Spike felt the moment when the kiss changed, Angel’s mouth opening to his. For a fleeting moment, he remembered that he was supposed to be initiating this, leading the seduction, but then he didn’t care. What could be remembered when Angel’s tongue found his: touching, playing, teasing? Who cared who was supposed to be in control when Angel’s fingers dug into his wet hair, stroked his back, or sought lower, cupping him and crushing them together?

On his last rational thought, it occurred to Spike that, this time, Angel did forget he needed to breathe. Then he let the rational go on the pleasure of the fulfilment of a century’s old promise.

Chapter 8

Angel seemed unable to raise his core body temperature (or other things) and kiss, so he reluctantly broke away from Spike’s lips with a wry smile.  ‘Hot shower?’

Spike nodded. ‘You go on. I’m gonna retrieve my jeans. Kinda fond of ‘em, yeah?’

He watched the slim, tanned figure leave, closed his eyes and left, too.

He didn’t open his eyes for a moment, sensing to see who was in the room. It appeared they were alone, so he sat up and ripped off the wires connecting his temples with Angel’s. 

He turned the slack face toward his and stared intently at it. ‘Do you know what you’ve done, Angel? Are you going along with this damn demon? Is there actually a demon, or have you just decided enough is enough? What the fucking hell are you doing to me?’

‘I can’t answer the last one, Spike, but I can categorically confirm that there is a demon.’

Spike sighed and looked over to Wesley, who was standing in the doorway, nursing a mug and holding a sheaf of papers in one hand.

‘How long have I been gone?’

‘A couple of days. Hungry? Why are you back, by the way, without Angel?’

‘Yeah. Well.’

Wesley gave him a curious look then said softly, ‘Want to go and get something to eat?’

Spike nodded and swung his legs off the bed, and they rode silently down in the elevator.  Spike watched Wesley’s profile for a while then lit a cigarette. As they made their way to the cars, Wesley asked quietly, ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Why did you pick this particular way to bring Angel back? Of all the things you could have thought of, you think of this.’

Wesley frowned and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Well, I guess living with Angel for so long…. Just the two of us mostly…. All the things we went through together, it gives one an insight….’

‘You’re saying you sensed that Angel wanted men.’

‘No! Of course not.’

‘What then? Talk to me, Wes.’

‘I sensed he was missing… companionship. Intense companionship. Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure exactly what I….’

‘Touch.’

Wesley looked relieved and dipped his head. ‘Yes. Touch. God, he must miss that so much.’

‘But why not Buffy or Darla or—why me?’

Wesley turned his head and regarded Spike thoughtfully. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

‘Don’t evade my questions. Why not a woman?’

Wesley blushed but answered hesitantly, ‘Well, I don’t think—I’m not the only one to think this of course; the classics are full of… but you’d know that; you had a classical education, too. What was I saying? Oh, yes, see, I don’t think that a woman can ever fulfil all the facets of need that a man has. Some of them, of course: the need to reproduce. But when it comes to real connection, some kind of bone-shattering link to someone else, I believe that has to be with… well, a man.’ He turned his head to see how his confession had been received. Spike was biting a nail, and something in the simple action seemed to take on a deeper significance, so he added softly, ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

Spike pouted and replied obliquely, ‘Even if that’s all true, I don’t think it’s going to be enough to make him want to come back. I think he knows what’s happening. I think he wants to be there on a conscious level.’

‘No. I disagree. I know Angel better than you—well, this Angel, anyway. You’ve not seen much of him over the last few years. This Angel would not abandon his mission.’

‘I’m so sick of people and their missions!’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Just drive, yeah? I’m starving.’

Wesley pulled out of the garage, and they negotiated the traffic for a while, Spike staring out of the window as if mesmerised by all the people. Wesley glanced over at him occasionally then broke the silence tentatively. ‘You’re getting through to him, aren’t you?’

Spike made a so-so face. ‘The baby’s gone.’

‘Well, that’s good. So, there’s just the two of you?’

Spike nodded.

‘He must be so lonely.’

‘Hey!’

Wesley smiled. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I meant that to have rejected Buffy and this baby in favour of you…. It seems to me—given all I’ve said before—that he’s getting closer to what he really wants.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want it with me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well….’ Spike felt himself blushing and was glad Wesley would not be able to discern the faintest flush of red, which passed for a blush on his preternatural skin. ‘Even if I do accept your theory that Angel needs a male companion….’

‘He turned two men and only one woman, so it seems to me….’

‘Yes! I know that! I was there, remember? So…! I was thinking, even if I do accept your theory, maybe, seeing as it’s you he’s spent all this time with recently, all those long, lonely nights and all that danger bringing you closer together…. I was thinking…. It’s you he wants, not me.’

Wesley pulled up outside a bar, climbed out, slammed the door, and went in, leaving Spike to negotiate the sunlight as best he could.

The interior was gloomy in comparison, and Spike looked around, spotting Wesley sitting in a corner, nursing a large drink.

‘Bit early, ain’t it?’

As if not hearing him, Wesley said precisely, ‘I couldn’t survive the link. I can’t go through, even if I wanted to.’

‘And that’s an answer, is it?’

Wesley gritted his teeth. ‘It’s all you’re going to get.’

Spike put a hand on his arm. ‘I think you have to give me more than that, given what you’re asking me to do.’

Wesley took a long drink. ‘If there had been something between us, there would have been something… between us. But there wasn’t. Ever.’

‘So where did you come up with all that crap about what Angel wants?’

Wesley almost spat his words out they were so low, controlled, vehement. ‘Exactly because of that. He was so lonely, so needy, so desperate for something, and I was there, but there was never anything…. Don’t you see, Vampire? He was looking for someone else! He wanted it, but not with me!’

Spike leant forward to keep his reply equally private. ‘And it’s not me, either. He hates….’

‘Change the bloody record, Spike!’

All heads turned, and Wesley blushed, lowering his voice. ‘I’ve told you; that’s just what you tell yourself to avoid having to face the truth of what’s really between you. I see it every time you fight. I feel it every time he comes to me after he’s fought with you.’

Spike jerked back in his seat. ‘Christ. You want him.’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘I’ve spent my entire life wanting things from other people that they seem unwilling or unable to give me. So, if I do, it’s nothing particularly new or revelatory. It’s not even relevant; suffice to say that I want Angel back. I want him back, and I want him doing what he has to do. That is the beginning and the end of my motivation in this.’ 

‘Oh, bullshit! Bullshit! Oh, my God! What’s the real reason you came up with this plan? Why am I trusting you? Shit!’ Spike tried to snatch his arm away, but Wesley’s fingers were strangely powerful in their grip. 

‘Calm down.  Just calm down and think, Spike. You’ve known me long enough to know….’

‘Maybe you aren’t real!’ He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Maybe Angel is right: this is the delusion. Maybe you’re a demon and you’re trying to….’

‘Spike. Spike!’

Spike swallowed and leant back in his seat. ‘Fuck.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Quite. Drink?’

Spike nodded. 

When Wesley got back, Spike was smoking a cigarette intently and drumming an irritating beat on the table with a finger. He looked up sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

Wesley nodded. ‘As much as I’d sometimes like this to all be a dream…. So, are you going to tell me what’s got you so… riled?’

It took another couple of long drags before Spike could bring himself to say, ‘We kissed.’

‘Oh.’

Spike squinted at him through the smoke. ‘Shouldn’t you be calling me a cad and telling me to unhand your beloved?’

Wesley choked on his large swallow of whisky but began to laugh. 

Spike dipped his head, chuckling, too. ‘Shit. We kissed, Wesley. Me and Angel! Can you believe it?’

‘Well, frankly, yes. Anyone who’s been watching the two of you would have almost seen it coming, I think. What sort of kiss was it?’

‘Oh, God! Details, NOT!’

‘What I meant was: is it going to bring him back?’

‘No. It was very real but it was there.’

‘Ah. But he seemed to want it? When you kissed him?’

Spike left out the details and just nodded, but thinking of Angel reaching to him, deliberate and slow, and knowing exactly what he wanted.

‘Then you need to make it the only thing he wants. The only thing he can focus on.’

Spike pushed his glass away angrily. He didn’t need to hear the rest, but Wesley was relentless. He put his hand back on Spike’s arm. ‘The only thing, Spike. Make him weak for you; have him beg; have him forget everything he ever was or could be in the taste of your mouth and then—then you give him a choice.’

‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse?’

‘If he wants you, he has to come back here to have you, yes.’

‘You are frightening.’

Wesley sat back, clearly annoyed. ‘I do what I have to….’

‘Not that, although that single-mindedness of yours is spooky enough, Mate. But you have so much bloody passion, and it’s all going to waste.’

Wesley flushed, a dark smudge of colour behind his stubble. ‘I—.’ He hung his head and toyed with his glass. ‘I can’t afford to let go. I sometimes think I’d end up like Angel— only still here in this world. Only a demon got him to let go, Spike—give into his delusions. But I’m not that strong. And what about you? You live as chastely as I do.’ He caught Spike unprepared, and the vampire’s eyes looked uncertain for the first time.

‘I’ve done my passions, Pet. Long gone, and they nearly killed me in the doing.’

‘Bullshit yourself, Vampire. You lie like the very Devil sometimes. I think your passions brought you here. I know they saved you from that damn amulet.’

‘I’ve told you: you think too much.’

‘And I told you that it’s all I have. And now you know why.’

Spike leant forward with a small smile. ‘Maybe we should be the ones kissing. We’ve done the telling, after all.’ As he said the words, he knew they weren’t funny. He licked his lips and glanced up at the human’s expression. ‘Sorry.’

Wesley’s eyes were wide but almost vacant, as if he were deep in some memory or desire. He snapped back to focus and said in a ragged voice, ‘I would come into that damn fantasy of his with you if I could make him fear to lose you.’

‘To you?’

Wesley seemed to sober rapidly and laid down his unfinished drink. ‘It’s time we got back.’

Spike looked at him thoughtfully then said lightly, ‘Yeah, and I’m driving.’

They kept up a mutual silence on the way back for about five minutes, until with a small grin, Spike murmured, ‘So, we’ve admitted we fancy each other—any more advice on how that’s going to get Angel back?’

Wesley laughed ruefully and rubbed his hand over his face, the sound of flesh on stubble oddly erotic even in the bright light of day. ‘I shouldn’t drink during the day.’

‘You should go out and get a good shagging. Pay for it, Wes. We’ve all done it.’

‘You’ve paid for sex? You?’

Spike turned his head and locked his gaze with the human. ‘I have the feeling that soon I’m going to be paying heavily and for a very long time to come.’

Wesley could think of nothing to say to that, and they returned to their mutual silence as they made their way back to the bowels of Wolfram and Hart.

Chapter 9

When Spike went up the stairs, there was now only one room at the top. His room, the guest room, seemed to have been subsumed into Angel’s, which was now larger and more luxurious. The bed was particularly impressive, and Spike had a bizarre thought that, given time, Angel would shrink the entire world so that they lay together in that bed. He could not decide whether he found this prospect attractive or appalling, so sat on the edge and listened to the sound of Angel’s skin warming under water, concentrating on that instead.

He knew he should feel elated. He should feel that Wesley had given him the perfect opportunity to enjoy his private reason for being here: hurting Angel. He could dangle the promise of his body just long enough to get Angel back to reality and then withdraw it. Angelus had kept up his promises until the moment Spike came around from his turning. Just as all his demon need coursed through his blood, just as he came to a realisation of his new power, Angelus had laughed and gone to find Darla. He should be enjoying the prospect of doing the same to Angel. But he wasn’t.  He stretched out on the bed and let his fingers sink into the rich eiderdown. 

He heard the water shut off and then a rustle. He sensed Angel in the room, the very air tightening in his presence as reality followed, obedient to his command.

‘Hey.’

Spike turned his head and smiled wanly. ‘Hey.’

Angel was naked, rubbing his hair with a towel, unconcerned, even blatant standing before him. 

Spike had a startling moment of clarity that whatever happened, he would not regret seeing Angel like this. It was a memory that he would carry with him into whatever was coming. He was seeing Angel as Angel wanted to be, and he wondered if they would ever achieve this level of intimacy again. Angel was drying his face and held the towel so he could watch Spike the whole time. Only his eyes did not match the arrogant certainty of his body. 

No longer entirely sure who was lost, Spike held out his hand and smiled. ‘Come here.’ 

Angel crawled onto the bed and over Spike, braced on his powerful arms. He flashed him a lopsided grin, which twisted Spike’s heart into a similar shape. ‘Are you giving me orders?’

Spike felt a surge of intense excitement at the soft, flirtatious tone of Angel’s question. He licked his lips and replied quietly, ‘That depends. Would you obey them?’

Angel dipped his hips and let his hardness speak for him. It dug into Spike’s belly, leaving a silvery trail across his dark T-shirt. 

Spike didn’t waste time with words either; he cupped his hand around the back of Angel’s neck and rose to meet the descending mouth. 

Warm, on the vast, soft bed, kissing overwhelmed them. Reality or fiction didn’t matter; they were both lost in a separate, third place, which existed only for them. It was a place of heated flesh and intense scents that made Spike’s mouth water, made a small damp stain spread on the front of his jeans. They rolled but had no spatial awareness, locating themselves only through the mouth of the other. They didn’t keep their lips crushed senselessly together, but constantly pulled apart to inspect the effect of a soft bite or a lick, darting back in to try another position or place that had yet to be explored on the swelling lips. They didn’t speak coherently, but odd words of command or exclamation escaped: yeah, bite me, want you, stop, don’t, don’t stop, yeah—always that soft affirmation of pleasure at what they did.

Hands were not idle; they joined in, finding their own places to explore and enjoy. Fingers probed like tongues, almost seeming to taste, so soft and gentle did they brush and dance over heated flesh. Angel didn’t let Spike’s clothes distract him; he seemed to take enormous pleasure from exploring what lay beneath, unseen, running his hands up the muscular back, pushing down into the slack waistband and swirling over ridged belly and peaked nipples.  Spike knew, almost without conscious thought, that he had been right about Angel’s desperate need for touch. His very fingers seemed greedy, moving with a life of their own; his hands jealous they could only touch in one place; the fingers dancing in response, plucking sweet music from the chords of Spike’s body. 

It was the longest kiss that Spike had ever enjoyed with anyone, long foreplay not something any of his lovers had asked from him. He had not realised that such a strong streak of sensuality existed within him, but Angel drew it forth. For a moment, Spike wondered if he too had fallen under Angel’s power to control reality. Was he himself, or was he a projection of something that Angel wanted? With a chuckle deep into Angel’s mouth, he realised that these seeming contradictions were merely different ways of expressing the same thing. He was who he was because Angel had wanted him. What Angel wanted, he took, and he had taken him.  

Suddenly, he held Angel off, hands spread either side of the perfect face. ‘Why have we waited this long, Angel? I want to know why you turned away from me.’

Angel’s lips were swollen, his eyes deeply dilated. He seemed almost drugged with the pleasure of the kiss. He touched a finger to Spike’s lips, drawing along their pink swell. ‘You never really got being a demon, did you Childe?’

The reply could not have startled Spike more. He tried to pull away, but Angel sighed and just put his head down on Spike’s chest, playing with a nipple through the material of his T-shirt. It was such an affectionate, trusting thing to do that Spike felt his body melt with pleasure into the heavier one. ‘Being evil is an art, Spike. I told you that once, but you didn’t believe me. How could you? You never really were—evil. Hurting strangers was good, and took a lot of skill to make it just right, ya know? Just long enough screaming, just long enough for them to think that hell would be preferable to what I was doing to them. But the real perfection, the real artistic flare was in making my family suffer. Why turn someone unless you can totally, utterly destroy them in the process?’

‘Oh. I was kinda going for the having a life-long companion theory.’

Angel chuckled. ‘You’ve been reading too much again, Will. Being a demon is a negative; it’s absence. Anyone who sees the romantic in the demon has been seduced by the devil.’ He lifted his head and whispered into Spike’s ear, ‘His form had yet not lost all her original brightness, nor appeared less than archangel ruined, and the excess of glory obscured.  I wanted to destroy you utterly.’

‘Your plan didn’t work too well then.’

‘Yeah, well, even Angelus had off days. My heart was never really in it.’

‘But you never let us have… this.’

Angel lifted his head, his eyes narrow and thoughtful. ‘Why did it have to be me to make the first move?’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, when we were together in L.A., for example, why didn’t you say or do something? Why didn’t you initiate something?’

Spike pushed him off and sat up, not sure whether to laugh or hit him. ‘Me? Me! Yeah, that’s rich. Shit, Angel, you are so up your own arse all the time! What am I… was I… supposed to say? Hey, Luv, give us a kiss!’

Angel obliged, and they were lost to kissing and laughing about this for some time until Angel broke away and said thoughtfully, ‘It’s all so long ago now. But maybe if we had said something, if something had begun between us, we wouldn’t have faced the end together as we did.’

Spike propped himself up on his elbow and prompted him to continue by drawing his boot up Angel’s bare leg. 

Angel smiled and caught at it. ‘See? This is what I mean. I’m not sure that if anything had happened between us, I’d have been able to do what I needed to do—at the end. I think I might have just curled up in a bed somewhere with you and let the bad guys win.’

This confused Spike on so many levels—given that Angel was curled up in bed with him, letting the bad guys win—that he didn’t reply for a moment. When he did, he said softly, ‘Buffy just woke up early and left me. She had the strength to just go.’

Angel rolled onto his back. ‘She was always stronger than me. She was one hundred percent goodness. I’m evil wearing its thin veneer, which you can scratch off with a well-placed nail.’

‘Well, not now….’

Angel smiled. ‘No, not now. Now I don’t have to be anything. Now I can be like every other human schmuck: sometimes a little bit bad, sometimes a hero, but not really trying too hard either way.’

‘So, that’s what we are—for you? Something not quite one thing, not quite the other but not going to faze you either way?’

‘Huh?’

‘Angel, why are you doing this with me now?’

‘I told you. I’m doing the things I didn’t do then.’

‘But wanted to?’

‘Why is it so important what I wanted back then?’

Angel looked back wistfully to a yesterday that Spike was living painfully through today, and he felt a vast surge of frustration that he could not get Angel to answer this critical question. 

‘Is this what you wanted then? I mean, did you ever picture this and want it? If I make the first move will you respond? I mean, if I had made the first move, would you have responded?’

‘That’s a lot of questions for one small vampire.’

‘Damn you.’  Spike rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, mirroring Angel’s position.

‘The past isn’t important, Spike. There’s just us now. Here. What we can have here.’

‘You’re having nothing here, Mate.’

Angel laughed at Spike’s petulant tone and walked his fingers up Spike’s leg. ‘Is that so?’

Spike removed his hand. ‘Yeah, it is. And where’s my own bloody room gone? Cus I’m thinking a little time out from you would be kinda good about now.’

‘So…. You don’t want me to…?’ He pulled one of Spike’s jeans buttons undone—the middle one, which enabled a finger to slide into the warm wetness beneath.

Spike groaned. ‘No.’

When Angel moved his finger the flesh beneath it shivered and shifted.  

‘Stop it.’

‘Make me.’

‘Angel….’ Angel rose over him and silenced him by a kiss that made the previous one seem tame. This only gave the lie to Angel’s apparent humanity. His lips may have been warm, but his power was undeniably demonic. Spike responded, but he knew that he should resist. They had just passed the point of no return. They had passed from foreplay to the real thing, and Angel was tearing at the buttons of his jeans.

If he gave into this, then he would have no leverage over Angel, nothing that Angel would want from him that he hadn’t already given. 

He held Angel’s hand still. 

Angel’s eyes went dark for a moment, and Spike said hastily, ‘You’re human now, Angel. That changes everything—for me. You know me: I’m not one for casual fucking. I kinda commit big time to things and… you’re human.’

Angel brushed his thumb over Spike’s cheekbone and said wistfully, ‘You’ll think I’ll grow old and that you won’t want me anymore.’

‘It’s just too soon.’

Angel quirked up his mouth, apparently at the thought that a hundred years could be too soon. He rolled onto his back with an audible sigh. Spike extricated himself and stood looking down at the perfect display on the bed. He rolled his eyes and said, ‘Where am I gonna sleep?’

Angel replied by twitching down one corner of the sheet, his face a mask of innocence.

Spike grunted his acquiescence, which sounded suspiciously like a groan, spun on his heel and made for the shower, peeling off his T-shirt as he went. He stepped into the bathroom and kept going, rising from the bed and walking out of Angel’s room and into the elevator without stopping to speak to Wesley.

Chapter 10

He took a car and drove to the coast, keeping his mind utterly blank until he reached the ocean. It was easier to think there, away from the pressure.

It was easier to give into the realisation that his personal motive for saving Angel—hurting him as badly as he’d once been hurt—was as substantial as the sea foam that now lapped at his feet. He didn’t want to do to Angel what Angel had done to him. On the contrary, he wanted to have with Angel what had always been so tantalisingly close, hidden under the easier relationship of hatred and discord. 

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders then, on impulse, ripped them out, shed his clothes, and walked out into the cold surf.

The ocean was no more real than the water he’d been playing in all afternoon—inside Angel’s head, where things shouldn’t be real at all.

It buffeted him, froze him, took him back to a time when things were simpler, and as he lay on its cold surface, staring up at the sky, his perspective returned. He was no longer a needy childe in thrall to Angelus’s broken promises. He had saved the world. He was a man, and he could make his own decisions. 

When he emerged, he was calm and decided.

He made his way back to Wolfram and Hart, to the bedroom, to the bed and, for the first time, willingly attached himself to Angel’s psyche.

He emerged from the bathroom, naked, only a few moments after he left. Carried on the same purpose that had formed on the swelling waves, he slid into Angel’s welcoming bed and Angel’s welcoming heat. 

Angel, half-asleep, grunted happily and draped heavy limbs possessively over him. ‘You smell like the ocean.’

Spike smiled into the dark. ‘Sex, Angel. I smell of my need for you.’

Angel chuckled and slid down, licking and tasting as he went.

Spike kept his hands flat to the mattress until Angel came to one source of the salty aroma, and then he put them onto the dark hair and guided him on. He kept them there as Angel made a new reality: theirs. In the dark, with the centre of all his passion and pleasure deep in Angel’s throat, Spike felt his certainties drain away at Angel’s powerful sucking: who he was, where he was, the very definition of reality. There was only this: Angel, a bed, and being pleasured in a way he had not imagined possible despite a century of anticipation.

When he released down Angel’s throat, he cried out. The sound began as nothing more than a man reaching orgasm, but when it escaped his body, it sounded more like a cry of terror. Angel’s fingers entwined in his, and as the dark vampire drank, the powerful grip anchored Spike. Wherever they were and whatever they were doing, Angel’s grip seemed to be saying they were doing it there, and they were doing it together.

Drained, lost, found, Spike fell instantly asleep on the aftershocks of his orgasm, tiny tremors of pleasure still rippling through his body and carried into his dreams.

Dreams within dreams seemed to favour him, for he woke to bright sun on his face, an awareness of intense, bone-warming heat, the feel of strong, tight limbs entwined with his, and the knowledge that he was in love for the first time in his life.

He lay absolutely still so as not to disturb even the dust motes that drifted in the rays of sunlight.  He saw for the first time just how much difference a soul made to his capacity to love. It made him utterly vulnerable, connected somehow to every other person. There was no self, no arrogant concern about his needs. There was nothing of him left; there was just them, and he had never felt so content.

All of these feeling lasted for the time it took Angel to wake, scratch, grunt and go back to sleep, but by then, back to his old self and just as indestructible and selfish as ever he was, Spike knew that what he was feeling was real. There was nothing soulful or mystical about it. He had a vast capacity to love, and it all now centred on the sleeping man lying next to him.

If their positions were reversed and Angel were trying to get him to swap realities on the basis of this feeling, he’d have taken the plunge without a single doubt. He’d follow Angel to hell and back if that was what Angel wanted.

He draped his thigh over Angel’s hard backside and laid his face on the broad, warm shoulder. ‘Mornin’.’

Angel grunted again, but then slid his hand around to hold Spike’s thigh, an occasional stroke of his thumb proving he wasn’t quite as insensible to Spike’s presence as his loose-limbed sprawl indicated.

It was the sort of morning that Spike had rarely ever enjoyed, having been so mismatched with previous lovers: loving them when they were mad and unable to love him back; not loving or respecting them and consequently wanting to spend as little time as possible in bed with them once the sex was done; loving them when they hated themselves and had no love to give him back. Dru, Harmony, Buffy. Not exactly an impressive record for a hundred years of opportunity.  

This, however, was something entirely new. 

He pushed to the back of his mind that it wasn’t real, that it would all have to end soon. It was real enough for Angel; why couldn’t it be real for him?

Suddenly, a seductively dangerous thought wormed into his mind. He tried to push it into the mass of other things he wasn’t thinking about, but it resisted, and slid back, looming large in his consciousness. 

Something had to be done. He could not let this thought take root, grow, begin to blossom. Moving away from this enticing body would do it.  So, he just had to move. Away. From the sleek warmth. From the smell of sex.  From Angel. 

Just before he put some considerable thought into which muscle would be best to move first, Angel, although apparently still asleep, took Spike’s hand and suggested it lie somewhere new.

Spike closed his eyes to the inevitability that he would not move away. It was too late to stop, too late, for the thoughts were blossoming like large exotic flowers of temptation in his mind.  Too late, for he was touching Angel’s frighteningly hard cock. Too late, for his hand was being moulded around it, encouraged with a few first tugs. 

He was a quick study. 

As the flowers turned to crimson, dripping pollen of enticement, he fondled his first cock. 

Angel rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed in early morning lassitude but his shaft, surprising as an exclamation mark, purple and needy on his belly. 

It wasn’t hard to know what to do, even if he didn’t already do it to his (which he did): it was a shape that demanded to be fisted. The knob, like a tiny pugilist’s fist, was cocky, arrogant, and tight with the need to jab and thrust. The shaft felt incredibly hot to his perpetually cool hands, and impossibly hard, more bone than flesh, but alive in a way bone could never be: flushed, veined and pulsing with blood.

Before he could play with the foreskin, which drove him insane with lust when he popped the head in and out, in and out, Angel put a hand to the back of his neck. 

An oral sensualist, Spike found nirvana when the knotty, skinned fist slid between his lips. It was salty and raw, soft and hot, and sloppily wet. He caught the foreskin in his lips and withdrew, pulling it tight, then plunged back on, allowing his cheeks to bulge, not so lacking in self-awareness that he didn’t know how erotic this would look in his angular face and under his sharply delineated cheekbones. 

Angel’s fingers entangled in his hair, and for the first time, Angel admitted he was awake. He pulled on the longish strands and whispered, ‘Yeah,’ in a voice that made Spike’s face flush, only adding to the eroticism of the moment.  He allowed his lips to travel further down the impossibly thick shaft, panicked, then pulled off swiftly. 

Suddenly, Angel rose to his knees. Spike lowered to take the vertical shaft in his mouth again, annoyed that he’d allowed a very human fear of gagging to ruin their pleasure, but Angel grabbed his shoulders and very determinedly turned him around. 

Back to Angel, confused, Spike began to protest, until Angel transferred his hands to Spike’s head and eased it back, then back some more, until his neck stretched taut. Angel smiled down at him, his eyes dilated, then fed his cock into the now long, tight, straight throat. 

Two Adam’s apples, one his own, one the little boxer jabbing wildly as if to escape his confinement… Angel’s hands holding his head, rubbing around in his hair… whispered, erotic accompaniment to the deep throating… a conviction that no one had ever done this for Angel before… balls crushing his nose… no need to breathe but the desire to drag the musky scent deep into his lungs. Completely wanton, Spike allowed himself to be face-fucked as if he wasn’t there, totally safe in the knowledge that Angel was actually very aware whose face he was plunging his cock into and enjoying that thought very much indeed.

When the end came, when it was all shudder and strain and the noise of a man coming with wild cries of pleasure, Spike felt as if he were back in the ocean, swallowing greedy throatfuls of the salty water.

As Angel’s come filled his belly, it watered the crimson blooms of Spike’s temptation.

It was so simple he wasn’t quite sure why he was even attempting to repress the thought. 

He could stay here, too.

Chapter 11

Invigorated by his wake-up call, Angel was a person Spike had never really seen before. He seemed to integrate the best parts of his demon and human self. He took Angelus’s sense of humour, his love of life, his energy, his charisma, and blended them with Angel’s good heart and his desire to do right.

It was the worst possible thing to happen, for Spike would have found it hard to resist the desire to stay in this better-than-life world if Angel had just been… Angel. Like this, he didn’t stand a chance.

Once drained, Angel seemed keen to begin their first real day together. He chatted endlessly, wandering naked around the room while he selected and rejected items from the largest closet Spike had ever seen. 

Spike watched him from the bed, thinking about doing this every day… or for as many days as they had left….

Despite his slow starvation in the real world, Angel seemed to only grow in energy in this one. Spike guessed it was true that dying boosted the brain’s activity. He wondered if Wesley was in the lab, watching the thin line of Angel’s life dipping inexorably. What about his? How long would Wesley allow him to stay here before he ripped off the wires connecting them? He could go back and lie to the human: tell him that he needed to stay here until the very last minute—to make Angel’s return easier. He could tell him that he’d bring Angel back with him when his resistance was lowest. Then not—bring him back. Neither of them… back. 

But then Angel would die, and he might be trapped in Angel’s dead consciousness. 

‘Spike!’

Spike jumped.

‘What’s wrong?’

Angel was sitting on the bed alongside him. Spike lifted his hand and ran it thoughtfully over the demon-smooth cheek. ‘Can you make this real for me, too?’

Angel smiled, his odd, enigmatic smile. ‘Things are as real as you want them to be, Spike. You know that. We lived as demons in a human world, but we were real. How real do you want it to be?’

Spike felt tears well and tipped his head back, biting his lip. ‘I want this.’

Angel bent down then whispered and kissed at the same time. ‘Then it’s yours.’

He pressed their mouths together and eased his tongue between Spike’s lips, a little dart for some aftertaste of his own essence. He groaned with pleasure at the discovery of the warmth and sweet-salty flavour of Spike’s mouth. 

They played with their tongues for a while, curling them around and around, elegant strands of living flesh. With a small cry, Angel began to kiss around Spike’s face, pressing lips into his eyes, bending around to kiss his ears. Spike’s mouth pressed into the warm column of Angel’s throat, and before he could stop them, his fangs descended. It wasn’t just the smell and feel of human skin; he was responding to Angelus, too. Under the cloak of his humanity, Angelus was still there, enticing Spike as he ever had.

Perhaps if he drank deeply from Angel’s psyche, he too would catch this demon.

Angel’s tongue was hot and insistent in his ear. Spike began to lick and nuzzle at the column of the beating throat. Before they knew it, they were climbing into each other, rolling and entwining on the bed, not sure who was begging whom or for what, only knowing that they needed more: more of tongue or lip or cock or words of love and need.

They ended up as they both knew they would: Spike on his back, Angel braced over him, one long sleek body covering the other. 

Very slowly and surely, Angel began to lift Spike’s thigh. The words were ragged but coherent. ‘I want you.’

Spike felt his belly drop as if from a great height. He was falling from that height, and he knew what awaited him when he hit: oblivion. 

With absolutely clarity, he knew how the demon intended to enter him—on the flooding release of this other demon held in its thrall. He would be impregnated with Angel’s delusion, and they would be joined until their solid bodies withered and shrank. 

But it wasn’t the demon asking him. It was Angel. Angel’s eyes, watching his for assent. Angel’s mouth, descending to his to kiss compliance. Angel’s body hard and urgent and wanting him. And it wasn’t the demon in him relenting. It was the man he’d once been. The one who had fallen in love with a charismatic demon and had fallen for the promises, which dropped enticingly from silken lips.

He could let Angel do this thing—bring him to the dark side once more on the promise of his love, or he could return to the real world. 

Spike reasoned that if he had a little longer, he might be able to think of one thing worth returning to real life for. 

He was damned if he could think of one now though.

He arched with a hiss of consent and lifted his legs.

Angel moaned with pleasure and whispered into his ear, ‘Have you ever done this?’

Spike chuckled and shook his head. 

Angel’s hand slid down fondling him, and Spike winced with intense pleasure. Gradually, Angel’s fingers crept further down, swirling patterns of need on his perineum until they reached their destination.  He rubbed two-fingered on the sensitive edges, pressing gently as if testing resistance. 

With a small, crooked smile, he murmured, ‘Keep this thought,’ and began to climb off.  Spike cried out in protest, which led to a prolonged bout of kissing. Eventually though, laughing, Angel cried, ‘Lube!’ in an urgent voice and hopped off the bed, running toward the bathroom.

Spike blushed then blushed some more at the thought that he was more embarrassed by the thought of lubrication than he was at the reason for it.

He stretched on the bed, loose-limbed with anticipation. He was so close to the fulfilment of Angelus’s promise now he could taste it.

‘NOOOO! 

The shout made the house wink out for a moment. Spike felt a sickening lurch as the bed dissolved beneath him.  He tore into the bathroom and found Angel punching his fist into a mirror. 

Spike shouted and caught the bleeding fist. 

The mirror was nothing more than shards, but it didn’t really matter: there was nothing for it to reflect anyway. 

Angel stared at his lack of reflection, and the emptiness in the slivers of glass was mirrored in his dark eyes. 

The room imploded, and Spike felt it as a burst of pain flaring inside his head.

He opened his eyes and saw Wesley standing at the foot of the bed.

There was a bellow of demonic fury; he clamped his hands to his ears reflexively, rolling off the bed.   

Angel was on his feet, his eyes darting in his head like a cornered animal seeking escape. With another bellow, he bent, upturned the bed on his audience, and left.

Chapter 12

Wesley was scared.

He’d never really seen this Spike before. 

He backed up to the wall and felt for its comforting reassurance behind him. 

‘You fucking idiot!’ Spike spat the words at him, and it was almost more frightening that he had not changed into his demon face. ‘What did you do?’

‘I brought him back.’

‘You said not to rip him out! You said….’

‘I had to do something! He was dying!’

‘He’s just thrown the bloody bed at us! How dead is that?’

Wesley licked his lips nervously. ‘I may have underestimated his strength.’

Spike began to pace, distracted, biting at the edge of his nail. ‘You’ve ruined everything.’

‘Oh! Have I?’ Wesley’s anger overcame his fear, and he intercepted the vampire. ‘Tell me the truth, Spike. When exactly would you have brought him home? I’m not stupid, you know. Did you like having him all to yourself?’

Spike slapped him.

It was a resounding slap, making Wesley’s face flare to a deep, painful red. There was a moment when tears, driven out on the pain, might have made Spike relent, when they might have gone back to the warm relationship that had begun to form in Angel’s absence, but it was gone before either could seize it.  Spike made a small gesture of dismissal, spun on his heel and left.

Wesley put a hand to his burning face and turned resolutely from the evidence of Angel’s painful return.

The human did not expect Angel to be his office when he came down, nor did he anticipate seeing the dark figure strolling the hallways. A sense of bleakness descended on him, an insight into what his life would be without the vampire. He was self-aware enough to know that a large slice of his depression was loss not of Angel’s friendship, but of Spike’s.

The lab was deserted, and Wesley was surprised to remember that it was lunchtime. Time had played tricks on him as well while his friends had been gone. Ex-friends. 

The small machine with which he had made his breakthrough mocked him. He leant on the table, hunched, staring at the faint coloured lines that had enabled him to free Angel, and then with an agonised sweep of his hand, he swept it to the floor, ripping cables out of the wall and flinging them away.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, his heart kicking wildly with shock. 

As he turned, the hand stayed on him, so it rested now over that pumping source of his life. Spike’s eyes were large, limpid, and Wesley knew the vampire had known misery of his own. He felt his own unshed tears begin to fall and couldn’t say whether they were for Spike or Angel. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘How did you do it?’

‘I was adjusting the power settings….’ They looked together to the smashed instrument. ‘And another line just appeared—over Angel’s. Grey, bloated, peaking where Angel’s dipped….’

‘The demon?’

‘I assumed so. I tracked it fairly easily then.’

‘And killed it.’

Wesley nodded, glumly.

Spike ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I—.’ 

Wesley nodded as if Spike had completed his apology. Tentatively, he put his hand over Spike’s, feeling his own heart through the surprisingly warm vampire hand. 

Spike swallowed, and Wesley could see deep vulnerability and need in his expression. Even more slowly than touching Spike’s hand, he put his other hand to the back of the cool neck and rubbed his thumb along the hairline. ‘I don’t want to lose you—.’ He did not complete his sentence as well, but he saw from Spike’s expression that the vampire had completed it in his head. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

Spike pouted, and Wesley had the answer he needed. Sometimes, the right thing was the most painful.

They walked out of the lab, not consciously together but feeling, nevertheless, a sense of solidarity in knowing that the other was equally as lost and hurting. Wesley was desperate to ask Spike what had happened so he could know how to handle Angel but was afraid his questions might have been seen as prurient—afraid that he was merely being prurient in wanting to know.  Somehow, he felt that Angel’s reaction on his return indicated that Spike had put at least part of his seduction plan into action. He took a small breath for courage.

‘Don’t.’

Wesley’s mouth closed. He pursed his lips instead.

He was about to try again when they rounded the corner to the lobby. Spike stopped so abruptly that Wesley ran into the back of him. He followed Spike’s gaze.

Angel was leaning on Harmony’s workstation, handing her pieces of paper. It was so routine that, given the circumstances, it seemed bizarre. 

Angel glanced up and said casually, ‘I’ve called a meeting—to catch up. Ten minutes, my office.’

He handed Harmony the rest of the signed letters and went back to his office, leaving the door open. It was all very normal, very routine and very… frightening.

Wesley murmured, ‘Perhaps we’re making too much of this? Perhaps he’s glad to be back now? Initial shock, yes, but….’

‘Wesley. Duck.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That flying pig nearly hit you.’

‘Well, how do you explain that then?’

Spike lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I care to.’

‘You think it’s an act. Perhaps it’s time you told me what actually happened between you over there.’

‘Perhaps it’s not.’

‘How can I help if I don’t know?’

Spike closed his eyes. ‘You make the assumption that help is possible.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. I think my explanation is by far the most likely: he’s back, and secretly, he’s glad. Okay, he’ll play the martyr for a couple of days, be more grumpy than normal, but mark my words—he’ll have forgotten this far more quickly than it actually took to play out. Now, are you coming to this meeting?’

Spike saw himself doing both—going and not going. Not going seemed to imply he had something to hide, some reason why he was afraid to face Angel. Going was just plain impossible. It was an unpleasant dilemma. 

It was solved for him when Angel came back out with some more paperwork and, brushing past them, said even more casually than last time, ‘We need to talk before the meeting starts. Are you free now?’

Wesley swallowed quickly. ‘Was that addressed to me or…?’

Angel looked up, his expression completely veiled by a mask of neutrality. ‘Both of you, of course. I kinda assumed you came together these days.’

With that, he went over to Harmony and began to run through some more work with her.  

Wesley let out a small breath. ‘Ah. I may have been a little hasty assuming he’s taking this well.’ He turned to see Spike’s reaction and realised that this vampire was just as capable of masking his feelings as the other. Spike only shook out his shoulders and headed to the conference room.

He was on his third cigarette by the time Angel joined them, Wesley watching him smoke as if hoping to be vicariously calmed.

Angel slid into his seat at the head of the table and laid out some papers, spreading his hands on them. He looked up and would have caught their gaze, but both Spike and Wesley were staring with fixed attention at the tabletop.

‘There’s a rival firm opening up in the city. We’ve been informed—Gunn is bringing the latest update to the meeting later—that they make the Senior Partners look like Girl Scouts. We need to set up some lines of communication with them and see what their agenda is.’

Wesley blinked and seemed lost for words.

Spike ground out his cigarette and hastily lit another.

Wesley licked his lips. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about what happened. I’d like to explain, if I can, why I—.’

‘Let’s go for the succinct version shall we, old friend of mine? You need me back!’

Wesley blinked quickly and appeared to find nothing to add to Angel’s assessment, but he did say faintly, ‘I hope I am still your friend.’

Angel smiled. ‘Sure thing, Wes. A man needs all the friends he can get.’ He swivelled his eyes to the silent vampire. ‘So, Spike, Wesley needed me back here so I can die for humanity. What was your excuse? And, hey, great timing! Can’t fault you on the diversionary tactics, Mate.’

Spike pursed his lips, still staring down at the table, Angel’s spittle from his addition of that last term a faint mist in the air.

‘I didn’t know what he was going to do.’

‘Oh! No! Don’t tell me I’ve misjudged you!’ Angel put his hands over his mouth theatrically then drew them slowly off. ‘Just coincidence you were there, hey? Fuck, Spike, I’d expected something more imaginative from you.’

Spike frowned, seeing the trap. He had gone to bring Angel back, and he had toyed with the opportunities for revenge it had offered him, but he’d changed his mind. At that last minute, he’d changed his mind. But who would believe that? He hardly believed it himself.

Obliquely, he said calmly, ‘If you want me to go, I’ll go.’

‘Go? Who said anything about you leaving? Shit, no. I told you: a man needs to know where his friends are. Keep track of them, ya know? Stay. In fact, I insist on it.’

Spike looked up and caught the tail end of a look he didn’t care to examine. 

Wesley, watching this exchange, was about to intervene when the rest of the team arrived, and they spent the next two hours discussing the firm’s business. Spike, he noticed, made no contribution at all, other than to chain smoke two packets of cigarettes and destroy three cuticles.  Wesley said very little, too, every comment he made being received by Angel with mock appreciation and bitter little jibes that almost sounded quite normal—almost made them appear like the very old, very close friends they were.

The meeting eventually broke up, and Angel stood, waiting until the others filed past before saying quietly to Spike, ‘I think we have more to discuss. Upstairs.’

Spike ground out another cigarette, waiting for the room to empty and replied calmly, ‘I don’t think so.’

Angel smiled. ‘It wasn’t a request.’

‘You can’t make me, Angel. You’re being kinda dumb.’

‘Actually, Spike, I can make you, only I’d really kinda like to avoid having to touch you right at this minute as the thought of your skin revolts me. But, have it your way.’ Again, Spike didn’t see the fist coming. They’d been almost friends for months, almost lovers only so recently, and he’d let his defences down. His nose broken, he slumped against the table. Angel placed his hands precisely either side of him.  ‘Now, do you need me to remind you some more of the scheme of things, Spike, or are you going to do as you’re told?’

Spike straightened, trying to stem the blood that ran down his face. Angel calmly put a hand into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. ‘Upstairs.’

It was an uncomfortable ride in the elevator—for Spike, at least. Angel seemed unconcerned and rocked on his feet, even whistling softly under his breath.

When the doors slid open he went to the kitchen and took out a bloodbag. ‘I’ve come back with such an appetite!’

He drank the blood, with his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Spike. 

Spike took the handkerchief away from his nose and tested the break with a finger. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, and he dropped the bloodied cloth on a chair. ‘What do you want? You won’t listen to an explanation, so what’s the point of…?’

‘I’ll listen. I’m fascinated. Really riveted.’

‘Fuck off, Angel. I’m not playing your little mind games. You can frighten the children with them, but I know you.’

‘Ah. You know me. You know me.’

He chucked the empty bloodbag on the floor and came closer. 

Spike stood his ground. If he never did anything again, he needed to hold his ground now.

Angel smiled as if he sensed the effort it took Spike just to stand and wait. He came very close, the difference in their height and relative power never more obvious when this close. ‘Whose idea was it, Spike?’

Spike pouted, unwilling to admit that he knew exactly what Angel meant. Angel smiled again, a soft, loving smile. ‘Come on, Spike. I wanna know.’

Spike took the only refuge he had: attack. ‘I didn’t notice you finding the idea so abhorrent when you were doing it, Angel! You put fucking me right up on your Christmas list along with doing Buffy!’

Angel’s smile reached beatific. ‘I never said I didn’t enjoy it.’

Spike tried to run. He made it to the elevator. He thumped the button. The elevator returned and was then the only witness to what took place, its doors opening and shutting on the action, a torn off boot preventing them closing. Afterwards, when Spike remembered, he remembered it like that—in snatches, as if a door opened and shut in his brain. He guessed it was the best way. To remember it in its entirety was too hard.

Angel began by hurting him. All the pain he felt—whether from remembrance of how he had conjured up the perfect life and lost it, or from the real events that had sparked his fantasies—he gave to Spike. Spike wondered if Angel was trying to destroy the thing he had wanted, for he worked systematically to break and deface him, taking away his beauty and the perfection of his body.  When that was done to Angel’s satisfaction, when Spike was inside out—more blood without than within, bones mooning whitely at them from absence of muscle—he took what was left to have. Aroused from the torture, mindless, he pushed into the ravaged body, marking that with his unique brand, too. 

He took a long time to come but didn’t let that stop him enjoying the journey there. He humped and sweated over Spike, holding his ass cheeks apart, enjoying that he tore him, laughing gleefully as he made him swell, pulling out to watch the tight ring flush and throb then jabbing back in to compete his cathartic rape. Only one thing seemed to bother him: he could rouse no sound from Spike—not when he broke his bones, not when he crushed his cheekbones and broke his teeth, and not now as he plundered his guts, ploughing deep in places where he would have expected Spike to attempt some defence, if only through tears.

It angered him to the extent that it began to distract him. He pushed, but his dick concertinaed rather than slid cleanly in and out. It squashed wetly against Spike’s ring then became so soft that he was only mushing in the blood that pooled when he extracted.  Furious, he tried to work himself over the bloodied, still figure, but he was too soft, and he finally rose with a curse and kicked the inert form. ‘Get out and don’t come back. Ever.’ Tearing off his soiled clothes, Angel made for the shower, not turning back to confirm whether Spike had finally learnt to obey his instructions or not.

Chapter 13

Spike lay in Angel’s arms, in the warmth of a huge bed. He’d made the commitment—decided to join Angel in his fantasy world—and this would be theirs evermore. He’d had a terrible dream though. He’d dreamt that they’d been ripped back to Wolfram and Hart and that Angel had not understood he had meant to commit to him. Angel had hurt him, although even in the dream, his mind had shied away from remembering exactly how. Some things should remain in dreams. He didn’t want to remember it and ruin this perfection now. If he moved, Angel tightened his hold to prevent even the tiniest space from separating them. They were more one flesh than two, which is how he felt it ought to be, as he had sprung from Angel’s desire, was maintained by his will, and was now flooded with his life-giving fluids. 

For some reason, Angel’s hold around his waist began to hurt, as if he were squeezing his ribs too tightly. He tried to shift into a better position, but then his shoulders flared with pain. Gradually, the agony spread over his entire body, and like a child trying to hold back a flood, he was helpless in its inexorable path. Gradually, delusion and reality merged. Angel’s arms became his own, tightly clamped around his body to stem the agony. The bed became the hard, cold ground of the ally in which he had finally fallen, and the dream became reality.

He’d made it about two miles from Wolfram and Hart, two miles from Angel, before he’d fallen. He could not summon up the energy to rise, even though the sun was only a few minutes away.

He heard footsteps and winced, unable to defend himself, hoping they would pass him by and mistake him for the detritus of the city that shared his hiding place.

Hands seized him, neither roughly nor kindly, just taking hold and moving him from one place to another.

Leather, a seat. Moving. He could not open his eyes; they were too swollen now. His senses were lying to him anyway. He smelt Angel, but that could not be. As he’d just dreamt him, he put it down to his delusions and concentrated on returning to the better place where he would be able to explain to a loving Angel how he felt.

Hands pulled him from the car, and then things seemed familiar: an elevator ride, bright lights. 

Voices, and again, he swore one of them was Angel’s. 

There were other hands on him then and blood being forced into his mouth, making him swallow his broken teeth. He’d read of tiny teeth being found in people’s bodies, undeveloped embryos making their presence felt, and wondered about his, now swilling down his throat. Teeth and sperm; he had the makings of life in his belly.

The next time he woke, he recognised the room. He’d lain here for two weeks while his arms had healed, and Angel had visited him every day. He glanced around anxiously and then relaxed, until with a shudder of shock, he recognised the tall figure talking to one of the doctors. He tried to cry out but cut it short. What could he say—Don’t let him in; he did this to me?

He waited until Angel came in. The immaculate figure began to rearrange the sheets, humming quietly. When he was done, he leant in close and smiled. ‘Can you hear me?’

Spike nodded.

‘Good, then listen up. I changed my mind. You’re not going anywhere. I have to live in hell? You’ll live in it with me.’ He patted Spike affectionately and left.

It was easy. He waited until the middle of the night, disengaged the tubes that were feeding him God knows what, and left.  He couldn’t find anything to wear, so just went in the white, backless robe. 

This time, being at least able to walk, he made it to a car, which he hot-wired and drove out of the city. He drove until he ran out of fuel and then with his broken fingers, levered off a sewer cover and dropped inside. It was so familiar and so safe he began to cry. At least, that’s what he told himself the scalding, salty rivers on his cheeks were for. 

They found him: men in black, faces masked, dropping on ropes around him. He jerked to wakefulness; they dragged him to his feet and took him back.

Angel was waiting for them in the hospital room, sitting elegantly, scanning a chart. He nodded curtly to the leader of the team and waited until the doctors had hooked Spike up once more.  When they were alone, he sat on the edge of the bed and regarded Spike thoughtfully. He prised open his mouth, as if inspecting a slave, and ran his large, blunt fingers over the newly grown teeth.  The cheekbones got similar treatment. When his inspection was finished, he sat back, tapping a finger against his lips, deep in thought. Finally, he nodded, decision made. ‘You’ll be healed in a few days; then you’ll pull this stunt again, and I’ve told you: I want you here. So, here’s the deal. I will have company in my hell, Spike. If it’s not to be you, then it will be Wesley. If you’re not here, I’ll do this to him: every bone, every break, every rip and tear, every taking, measure for measure.’

For the first time since his beating and rape, Spike spoke, but his throat was too dry and his mouth still too damaged for Angel to understand. Patiently, Angel fetched some water and held it for him. When he could, Spike swallowed and repeated, ‘You are the Father of Lies.’

Angel nodded. ‘Because you think you,’ he made theatrical air-quotes, ‘know me.’ He leant in conspiratorially. ‘What you’re missing, Spike, is the big picture. See, Wesley’s done this to me before, only then it was real, and I actually had heaven in my hands. But he took it away from me just as surely as he’s done this time. So, no, I don’t care about Wesley, and I don’t care about you. Remember, then: you’re free to go wherever and whenever you want, but as you mince through your eternity, Spike, remember that back here in Wolfram and Hart, Wesley will be suffering through a hell that even his over-active imagination couldn’t conjure.’ He took hold of Spike’s hand, gently playing with the broken fingers.  ‘And when you lie somewhere on some lonely bed, he’ll be lying alongside me, and this pain will be nothing compared to his.’ Systematically, he re-broke each one of the delicate bones in Spike’s fingers. Then he leant down and kissed Spike on the forehead. ‘Sleep tight, little one.’

Spike returned to work three days later, and the story had already circulated that he’d been beaten in an alley by a number of demons, and as this was so much the truth of their lives, no one heard or suspected the lie.

He attended every meeting that day, not shirking anything he was asked to do, but he did it mostly in silence, which was uncharacteristic enough to make Wesley scrutinise him carefully. 

Wesley would have gone on believing the lie of Spike’s injuries if it hadn’t have been for one tiny incident. They were all sitting around the conference table after lunch, Angel at the head, and they were discussing plans for an up-and-coming open day for prospective clients. It was so normal, after what had gone before, that he wasn’t fooled for a minute and used his restless uncertainty to focus on Spike. Spike sat with his eyes downcast, not even smoking. When the meeting finished, Angel said softly to the other vampire, ‘I want to discuss some things with you—upstairs.’

No one else took any notice, and if Wesley had not been studying Spike so carefully, he might have missed the tiny flicker of expression on the vampire’s battered face. But he did see it, and it fizzed in his brain, sparking memories. He rose, unsure, trying to grasp the elusive thought. Where had he seen that face before? He went to his own office and poured himself a drink. He was drinking too much; he knew that. He felt tired and stale and ran a hand over his face, grimacing at the thick stubble. There was a mirror hanging discretely between two bookcases, and he leaned over to see if he was looking as bad as he felt. As he stared at his reflection, the memory surfaced. He’d been seven or eight—just before he was sent away to school. He’d done something wrong, some childish prank that had gone wrong and angered his father. Running away, he’d hidden in one of the long-disused bathrooms on the top floor. Thinking he’d be safe there and that he could wait until his mother came home to arbitrate between them, he’d been dismayed to hear the heavy, familiar tread come to a stop outside the door.

His father had knocked in his oh, so cold and polite English way. Wesley had stood, and as he had done so, he’d caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. Now, twenty years or so later, he was seeing it again, not on his face though, but in the memory of Spike’s at that seemingly simple summons. Wesley bit his lip and took another long swallow of whisky. 

He didn’t like thinking about Spike looking like a terrified child. 

He wasn’t seven now, though. He was a grown man, and Angel wasn’t his father. Had he ever confronted or crossed Angel? He thought sometimes that he had, but it was more a dream than a memory, so he did not believe it. This wasn’t a dream though; he could confront Angel now… ask him outright: Who hurt Spike?

Did he really believe that they had done this thing to him—ripped him from heaven—and Angel had just accepted it? That Angel’s not mentioning it meant he was okay with it? 

Wesley knew he’d been naïve and cowardly. 

He took another drink and paced out of his office towards Angel’s.  No one was there, and he lifted his eyes fearfully towards the ceiling. 

He could not go up. He called instead, letting the phone ring, refusing to put it down. Eventually, Angel picked it up. He seemed to Wesley to be panting, which made his stomach lurch with anxiety. ‘I need to see you, Angel. Now!’

‘I’m busy.’ Angel put the phone down, and when Wesley rang back, it had been left off the hook.

Angel laid the phone carefully alongside the cradle and said conversationally, ‘That was your little friend. I think he’s worried about you.’

Spike didn’t reply.

‘I’m real impressed by the way you’re keeping him safe, Spike! Did I tell you that? Real impressed.’ Angel backhanded him to the floor and stepped over him. ‘Get up.’

Spike climbed unsteadily to his feet and spat out another tooth. He watched Angel stripping off his T-shirt, and reality lurched, making him dizzy. Angel was even thinner and more beautiful than he had been in the unreal world. Was this real? Had they actually come back or were they still trapped, but now in the flip side of all that perfection? He jerked his head around and stared wildly at the bed. Were they still lying there? Could he break free of this delusion? 

‘What?’

Angel came closer, and for the first time since they came back, his voice was normal, his curiosity genuine. Spike ran his tongue over his bleeding lip and said quietly, ‘Are we still there?’

Angel followed his eyes to the bed, and did not immediately reply. Eventually, he shrugged. ‘Why?’

Spike darted bloodshot eyes to him. ‘You. Your body—it’s the same as it was back there.’

Angel glanced down, studying his abs for a while. ‘You fucking moron. I’ve not eaten for over a month.’

Spike felt a sense of hopelessness sweep over him. Angel picked up on it gleefully and leant closer. ‘What? Did you think this was all a nasty dream? Oh, Childe, am I the demon of your nightmares?’ He kissed Spike’s cheek and went to find a clean shirt. ‘I’m going out. Have that shit cleaned up when I get back.’ He toed some blood and flecks of thicker red material that marred the tiles, then added, ‘And take a Goddammed shower. You smell like someone’s just pissed over you.’ Laughing at his own joke, he strode to the elevator and let the doors close over him.

To Spike’s intense surprise, Angel came back looking much as he felt: beaten up and defeated. He stomped into the living room and poured a drink, wincing as the alcohol hit a split lip. 

He turned to look at Spike. ‘What?’

Spike only shrugged. ‘You try to save someone’s life, too?’

Angel stormed over and punched him hard into the wall. ‘You weren’t saving my life, Spike! You were playing God with it.’

‘You were dying!’

‘Do I fucking look like I’m dying?’ He hit him again, just for good measure. 

For the first time since the abuse started, Spike hit back. It wasn’t a particularly hard punch, as his fingers were still healing, and they hurt to even make a fist with, let alone thump into Angel’s belly. But at the one, not very hard punch, Angel went down like he’d been tranquillised: his knees folding, his arms hugged tightly over his belly. The smell of his rich blood filled the air.

Spike’s conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He could actually see himself fall to his knees and take Angel’s arms away, gently inspecting the wound. The trouble was, he could also see himself taking advantage of the situation and kicking the bastard in the head. Angel looked up, and without a shadow of doubt, Spike knew that Angel understood that he was debating these two options. The demon’s eyes glittered with malice but with something else as well, something that was curious to see how this would play out. 

Spike decided. He eased himself to one side and left without doing either. 

The next day he hung around the hallways, inconspicuously, not really fearing that Angel would make good on his threat to the human—he’d heard melodramatic bluster from the best of them—but curious to see what would happen now they were levelled. He had no doubt that Angel had sustained a serious wound, whereas he was now almost healed. Balance had returned.  

It was good focusing on these physical details—who was stronger, who was less injured, who would cause most injury and how quickly—it stopped him thinking about the emotional, stopped him falling into his daydream of lying beside Angel in the large, warm bed, thinking that he’d found the thing that would give meaning to his eternity.

Angel appeared an hour or so after his usual time and sat carefully in his chair, doing nothing. Spike was about to leave when Wesley came along the hallway, clearly flustered. ‘Is Angel in?’

Spike was about to advise him not to go in when the man peered around the door and went in anyway. Spike sighed and followed cautiously, casting Angel a small glance to see if his presence would be tolerated. Other than an equally small look back, Angel made no sign that he knew Spike was there, one way or the other.

‘What the hell happened last night? All-out bloody war seems to have broken out!’

Angel either didn’t like being questioned in this way, or he was hiding some other source of pain, for his voice was broken and slow, each word laboured. ‘I did what had to be done. What should have been done a long time ago.’

‘Do you have a death wish, or something? Really, Angel, you should have taken one of us along with you to back you up….’ He trailed off when Angel began to laugh, deep, painful jolts of his belly, and once more, the smell of blood filled the air.

Spike suddenly stepped forward and said in a low voice, ‘Let me handle this, Wes.’

Wesley looked reluctant but relieved at the same time and backed out, watching the odd scene for a moment. 

Spike punched the button for the elevator then took Angel’s arm, easing him out of the chair. Angel was still laughing, but neither of them found the sound very amusing.

He sobered in the elevator and hung his head, another scent now mixing with that of his blood, and when he lifted his face, it was streaked with tears. He pushed Spike’s offer of an arm to one side and staggered into the apartment, collapsing heavily on the side of the bed. 

Spike pulled off Angel’s jacket and swallowed deeply at the sight of his black shirt and pants, glistening with blood and the dark red fluid pooling steadily to the floor.  He tore the shirt and pulled it away. 

Something had tried to eviscerate Angel. His belly, which had been so smooth and hard the night before was now a study in hurt. If he looked too hard, Spike feared he would see Angel’s spine; so, he averted his eyes and eased him back. When Angel was lying flat, he went to the bathroom for towels. There was nothing much he could do but press them on and hold them, but it seemed enough for both of them for a while, Angel silent and watchful, Spike silent and deliberately not catching his eye. 

When the bleeding stopped, Spike was able to wash and examine the wound. He rummaged through Angel’s cabinets and came up with a not surprising amount of First Aid equipment. A stab of guilt that he had brought Angel back to this life twisted into his gut, but it found such a mass of warring emotions there already that it retreated quickly.  

Pulling yards and yards of stretchy bandage free, Spike bound Angel’s belly as tight as a corset. When that was done, he fetched some blood and handed a bag to him. 

Angel couldn’t sit up, so shuffled back until he was propped against the headboard. ‘This doesn’t change anything, Spike.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Yeah. It does.’

With that, he began to clear up the mess. The apartment had seen a lot of blood recently. Spike wished it well; everything needed blood.

When he was finished, Angel was asleep, his mouth open, breathing deeply in pain, his brow no less furrowed and anxious than it was awake. 

Spike sat alongside the sleeping figure, studying him. 

He wondered idly why he didn’t hate him; why tending Angel gave him pleasure when he could have taken the opportunity to cause him considerable pain. He laughed ruefully: Angel’s emotions were as screwed up as his. He had one advantage over Angel, however: he’d already lived through something like this with Buffy. Buffy’s beatings had not been so malevolent, or so thorough, but they had been done with the same motive behind every fist. Buffy hadn’t hated him; she’d hated herself for wanting him. Spike knew that when Angel pounded on him, when he’d… taken… him, he’d not really been punishing him at all. As Angel had stood hate-filled and malicious over him, he’d been punishing a slim young man who wore a tight red bathing suit. He’d been punishing the young man inside himself who could admit that he was needy and lonely. 

He pondered the paradox that was Angel for sometime more but came to no useful conclusion—except that he was bone weary of it all. He couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t stay—nothing ever changed. 

Without thinking through the consequences too much, he lay down beside Angel and closed his eyes.

Without meaning to, he slept, but only fitfully. His dreams were no more vialent or confused than his usual ones, but they were more vivid. The ability to tell fact from fiction had deserted him, and when he woke warm and alongside Angel in the dark, for a moment he was back there again. Had he really meant to stay there with Angel? Or had he just told himself that to justify letting Angel fuck him? It had been his one chance—in that unreal place. Here, they would always be bound by the rules of a very different relationship, painful rules they’d honed over decades. 

He sighed softly and rolled onto his side, curling up around questions, which he had no answers to. 

There was a palpable air of tension in the room and when he opened one eye cautiously, he saw that Angel was awake, staring up at the ceiling. He could have been waiting for a particularly unpleasant examination, his body rigid, his fists clenched. Spike sighed more audibly and rolled off the bed, padding into the bathroom.  He rummaged through the medicine cabinet, muttering in a voice he hoped would be just loud enough to carry to the vampire on the bed, ‘Would saying you were in pain be too much? Just once?’

He took a handful of Tylenol, fetched some water and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You gonna be a pillock and refuse them?’

Angel shook his head and held out his hand, swallowed the pills and accepted the water. 

‘Just tell me whose idea it was.’

Spike sighed yet again, the most forceful (if fake) one of all. Was he to spend eternity avoiding this damn question? He felt a rumble of anger in his belly and snapped, ‘Seems to me it was yours! You were the one with the freaking sun-safe pool and the too-tight trunks.’ 

He snatched back the empty glass and took it to the sink, hunching his shoulders, gripping the counter with unnecessary force. He heard Angel stir and turned, incredulous. 

‘Whoa! Where you going?’

Angel managed to stand and straighten, but he kept a hand firmly on the wall. ‘You brought me back to live in hell, Spike, so that’s where I’m going. I’m going down to the office to make deals with the devil and live with my memories.’

‘Oh, you are such a melodramatic prick sometimes, Angel; did you know that? You’ve had your fucking guts ripped out and now you’re going to work!’

Angel was in the process of selecting a shirt. He turned very slowly and said distinctly, ‘They were ripped out before this. This hardly hurts compared to the pain of what you did.’

Spike toed the ground for a moment then ventured, ‘You’re not the only one who’s hurting.’

Angel’s hand hesitated as he buttoned a shirt over the bandages, but he only said, ‘Stay out my way, Spike. I don’t want to see you.’

Being beaten was better than being banished. ‘I didn’t want to soddin’ bring you back!’ He wanted to take the words back, coat them with a tone of mature snark, but he couldn’t. They were out, winging around the room on childish pain and hurt. 

‘Why did you?’ Angel’s face was genuinely curious. 

Spike frowned. ‘Cus it was wrong—what that demon was doing to you.’

Angel’s eyes darkened. ‘Letting me be happy?’

Spike took his time lighting a cigarette then said through the smoke, ‘So… I made you happy…?’ He lifted his eyes.

Angel came toward him. Spike’s eyes widened, but Angel walked straight past him to the refrigerator, where he bent with difficulty and extracted a bloodbag.  He straightened and ripped the top with his teeth. As he paused with it held to his lips, keeping Spike’s gaze with a strange intensity, he said distinctly, ‘The trouble with you, Spike, is that you constantly mistake physical need for emotional commitment. Doesn’t matter how many people wanna fuck you, you never get that’s it just that: fucking. No one actually likes you. Your mother was embarrassed by you; Dru laughed at you, her mummy’s boy; I—.’

‘Shut up! You’ve made your point.’

‘No. I haven’t.’ He took some blood and licked his lips appreciatively. ‘You think Buffy doesn’t know you’re back.’ He snickered and flicked up an eyebrow. ‘She’s known for freaking months, Spike! What? You think we don’t call each other every night? She begged me not to tell you that she knew! She was so – sick – of – your…. Whoa! You gonna punch me now? After all that tender care last night? Will, I’m hurt.’

Spike backed off. ‘So… a baby, huh? I wasn’t gonna mention it, like, seeing as it was kinda private—your head, after all. Jeez, what a shame you pump out nothing but dead seed, seeing as you want a wittle baby so bad!’ He sidestepped a lunge and laughed. ‘Call up the only thing that could stand being around you, Angel! Couldn’t bloody escape, could it? Little chubby legs running so hard to get away from all your cloying need!’ 

‘Watch your mouth, Spike!’

‘Well, that’s kinda hard, cus I can’t see myself in a mirror—thanks to you!’

‘Oh, change the freaking record! We’re all sick of that one. Been dancing to that tune for twelve decades. Haven’t you got it yet? You could never see yourself even when you were alive! You were the world’s most invisible human!’

‘Oh, really? So, how come you wasted an entire London season stalking me and then seducing me?’

Angel narrowed his eyes. ‘I got bored fucking sheep.’

Spike inspected a nail with a shaky air of nonchalance. ‘So, that’s why you called up a baby…. I get it now: something you’d never fucked before.’ 

Angel didn’t reply. He stared at Spike for a moment then turned and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. 

‘What?’

‘You need to leave now.’

‘Why? Cus the great Angelus demands it?’

‘No, because I’m asking you to.’

Spike faltered. ‘What’s… wrong?’

‘I—.’ Angel stood up again went to the windows, parting the blind and pressing his face to the glass. ‘You need to go.’

‘I didn’t mean….’ Spike cursed under his breath and ground out his cigarette. ‘I know why you….’

‘You know nothing. None of you. Now just go.’

‘You’re not going to do anything… dumb…?’

There was no response. Spike walked slowly the elevator, casting a last glance behind him. Angel’s arm was bent up on the glass, his forehead leaning on it.

The bitter words they’d spat at each other hung in the air. He was glad he did not need to breathe. 

He went straight to Wesley’s office and flung himself in the armchair. Wesley was on the telephone, but he made his excuses and put the handset down. ‘How is he?’

Spike shrugged.

‘You spent the night?’

‘In the loosest sense of that, yeah.’

‘I’m not entirely sure what is happening between you, Spike.’

‘I’m entirely sure I don’t know.’

‘Don’t be facetious.’

‘Oh, I’ve been a lot worse than that. Shit! Why can’t someone just cut out my fucking tongue?’

‘I’m sure a number of people have contemplated it.’

‘Cheer me up, why don’t you?’

‘Well… things are back to normal. That’s good.’

Spike looked up. ‘I’m immensely cheered.’

Wesley smiled softly. ‘Did he mention… me?’

‘Believe me, Wes, you wouldn’t want your name mixed in our… conversation.’

Wesley’s face was as close to a pout as a stiff Englishman could manage. ‘So nice to know I’m so easily forgotten.’

‘Who’s forgotten?’

They both jerked up as Angel strode into the office. He turned to Spike and said meaningfully, ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’

Spike frowned over the tip of his cigarette. ‘No.’

Angel nodded. ‘No matter. Wesley. My office.’ He turned and strode back out.

Spike swore, flung out of the chair in a swish of duster and stomped off in the opposite direction.

Chapter 14

It was the most unlikely thing that could have happened, given what had gone before, but it happened anyway: things went back to normal.

The only difference was that where they had previously sought each other’s company and fought, now they fought by avoiding each other. It was a different kind of enmity, but an effective one, nevertheless.

Angel made no move to eject Spike from the agency, and Spike wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting defeat and just going.  So, they avoided each other and fought from a distance, instead of up close and personal. The pain inflicted by these distant wounds only seemed to hurt more.

Avoidance was a good strategy, except that they did still have to work together, and they could not altogether avoid the business of the agency. They still had to attend meetings and go out on cases, but always with plenty of other people around so they could keep up the pretence of being utterly unaware of the other’s presence. 

Working on just such a case one day, Angel leant against the car, deep in his own dark thoughts, waiting for Gunn and Wesley.

He noted the blond figure arrive but appeared to give it no more consideration than he did the comings and goings of the other employees in the garage.

Spike ignored the fact he was being ignored and leant against a pillar, lighting a cigarette.  

They waited.

Angel checked his watch then made a call on his cell phone. 

When he saw the call end, Spike said to no one in particular, ‘We getting this thing on then?’

Angel didn’t reply, but he turned and climbed in behind the wheel, tapping his fingers aggressively on the leather.

Spike assumed this was Angel’s way of telling him to get in without actually having to speak, so slid obediently into the passenger seat.  When Angel started the car and pulled away, Spike’s heart sank. 

They had a four-hour drive ahead of them, a meeting, and a four hour drive back. Alone. With any luck, he’d be staked and would only have to make the journey once.

The close proximity to Angel was only made worse by the fact he couldn’t open a window, lean out, feel space, if only illusory. 

He cast a surreptitious glance at Angel’s profile under the excuse of checking the direction and got the message that Angel had no intention of making conversation. Spike was tempted, somewhere in his evil centre, to chatter and thus force Angel to actually say, ‘I’m not talking to you.’ It made him smile to have forced such a childish pronouncement—even if only in his head.

Even more satisfying was to light a cigarette. As Angel wasn’t talking to him, he couldn’t tell him to put it out, which he knew Angel was dying to do. He could see it in the way the powerful hands gripped the wheel.

It passed another ten minutes or so.

When he’d finished the cigarette, he held the butt between his fingers, frowning. He debated grinding it out on the carpet but began to rummage around the dash instead, opening things, not pushing them back in…. It was hard to look genuine and not smirk at the same time, so he finally put it in his pocket and settled back until he could think of something else to do to pass the time.

Eventually, he pulled out the small, two-headed axe he’d brought and began to twist it around in his fingers. He had a vision of himself suddenly sinking it into the flesh of Angel’s thigh. That would get a reaction. It made him think about his severed arms, and afterwards, when Angel came everyday to the hospital. He’d hardly spoken then either, but there had been no silent hostility as there was now. Without thinking what he was doing, Spike began to drag one of the blades over his arm, watching dully as fine lines of red blossomed on his smooth skin. Angel had brought him presents, too… nothing of consequence, small things, but thoughtful, nevertheless. Sometimes, he altered these memories so that the gifts were more personal, leading to them becoming more… personal. 

‘Stop it!’

Spike jumped, and the blade sank deeper into his arm. He yelped and was about to put the wound to his mouth when Angel wrestled the axe from him. ‘You are a fucking moron, Spike.’ The angry vampire flung the weapon into the back seat. 

There was an odd sound. 

Spike twisted his head around to look. ‘Now you’ve done it.’

Angel refused to look at first then he quickly glanced back. The axe had sliced the two-thousand-dollar-per-hide leather as easily as it would have sliced the cow that had once owned it. It stuck out from the middle of the backseat at a jaunty angle. 

Angel yanked the car over to the side and twisted in his seat, pulling it free. It came away with a puff of surprisingly cheap filling, which drifted over them like confetti. Spike held out his hand and caught some. ‘That’ll teach you.’

‘Don’t!’

‘Don’t what, Angel?’ He tried to make his voice sound weary, but wasn’t at all sure that it didn’t just come over as dead.

‘Don’t make this out to be something that it isn’t. This isn’t us back to normal.’

‘Oh, get a life, Angel.’ The casual, throwaway line couldn’t have been less planned or more unfortunate. 

Angel put both hands on the wheel and gripped tightly. ‘Get out.’

‘Huh?’

‘You heard.’

‘Well, yeah. I heard. But it’s like… sunny.’

‘And?’

‘No! You get out! You’re so keen to be rid of this life, you bloody get out and end it all! Oh, no, you just make up a nice cosy little life to escape it. Haven’t got the balls to do it properly?’

Angel shoved the car into drive and swung carelessly back into the traffic. His driving was erratic, and for a moment, it seemed as if he’d taken up Spike’s suggestion for the both of them. 

It had a certain appeal—going out in a blaze of glory, fusing slowly with Angel in a molten fire of hate—until Spike remembered he’d already done molten. It wasn’t pretty. Kinda lit you in a funny way. He lit another cigarette, just to piss Angel off and began to lick at the cuts he’d made on his arm. Sometimes, you just had to make your own oral pleasures.

By the time they pulled up in front of a run-down bar in the middle of nowhere, it was dark. They had never been so glad to get out of a car, and both immediately separated, Spike going around to the back of the building to check it out, and Angel going in the front. 

Spike took the opportunity to sit on some crates and smoke another cigarette. It was an easy job: find an informant and get him to… inform. With a sigh, he hefted the axe and prepared to kick open the back door. 

Before he could contact with the wood, the door flew outwards and something heavy and very smelly landed on him. He grunted, rolled off and ducked a punch. The thing was so ugly he sank his axe into its forehead and reckoned it was an improvement. 

When he entered the bar, there was a blur of movement and the sounds of crashing and breaking. Angel, it seemed, had taken his angst out on the demon patrons, and a simple enquiry for information had become a brawl. Spike shrugged and waded in: Angel wasn’t the only one who was feeling the need for release. In fighting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Angel, a dark figure spinning and kicking. The incongruity of it all suddenly hit Spike: Angel’s suit, the demons, the bar in the middle of nowhere, his feelings. He should be looking at Angel now and seeing the demon. He should be hating him for what he had done, but he didn’t. All he saw when he watched the lean figure was the man Angel wanted to be: the one he had let exist, albeit for that most illusory of moments. 

Spike fought on automatic pilot—cut, thrust, swing, dodge. Was he living his life like this, too? He should either commit or surrender. Riding in silence, cocooned in expensive leather behind magical glass, bathed in harmless sunlight… his whole life was out of kilter. Was it any surprise that his emotions were, too?

He glanced over to Angel once more, trying to summon the anger he ought to feel and hissed in anxious surprise when he saw Angel on his knees, trying to parry a blow from a larger, heavier and very mean looking demon.

He decapitated the two demons that were standing between him and Angel then flung himself on Angel’s attacker. Grunting with the effort, he got the demon around the neck and jerked. There was a spine-tingling crunch, like footfalls in deep snow, and the demon went limp in his arms. 

‘You fucking moron!’

Angel came to his feet in a fighting stance, his face darkly shadowed with fury.  He strode over to Spike and began to check the dead demon’s pockets. When he rose, he bellowed, ‘What the freaking hell have I done to deserve you?’

More than a little put out that his heroic gesture had not been met with at least a nod of gratitude, Spike shoved Angel out of the way and began to make his way over the sea of bodies. He arm was snatched. Angel swung him around and hit him. ‘That-was-my-informant!’

Spike dabbed at his lip then before he could stop himself, he swung and punched Angel back, equally hard. Angel staggered, roared, and came at him. They both slipped on blood and crashed to the floor. By the time they separated enough to kick and punch, they were both in their demon faces.  Spike rolled, trying to reach his axe. Angel caught at his ankle and dragged him back. Spike got hold of a chair and brought it down on Angel’s head, wriggling free as soon as Angel released him.  He reached the axe and swung just as Angel lunged at him. The blade sliced into Angel’s arm, just above the elbow. Holding his injured arm, Angel kicked the axe out of Spike’s hand then crashed into him, taking them both down in a tangle of limbs onto the bodies that littered the floor.

They were awash with blood. It saturated their clothes and caked their faces. Angel got his hands to Spike’s neck. There was too much blood to get purchase, and he slipped and slithered, so he belly-punched Spike and the smaller vampire went down, winded. Angel put one knee onto Spike’s chest and dragged him up by the lapels, but Spike swung out and hit him on the temple. Angel fell heavily over Spike, and Spike brought his knee up, almost catching Angel in the balls, but at the last minute, Angel deflected the blow with his arm. They grunted and rolled and tried to dig eyes out of sockets, rip hair from skulls, strip skin from bone. Finally, Spike’s thinness told against him, and he lay pinned beneath Angel’s superior weight as their hands scrabbled to inflict injury to face or neck. Spike growled in frustration and bucked, jerking his hips up sharply. Angel fell forward, but he was too solid to dislodge completely. He punched Spike on the side of the head and sat down heavily again. Spike tried to wriggle out from under him, but Angel only punched him again. Spike snarled and grabbed Angel’s lower lip with one hand, twisting viciously. Angel gave a muffled cry and peeled the fingers off, his lip torn. He imprisoned Spike’s wrists and pinned them over Spike’s head, leaning along him to hold them there. 

Spike arched. 

Suddenly, there was nothing but silence. 

Angel pressed down again.

Spike hissed and turned his face to one side.

Before either could think it through, Angel was rocking on the bloodied figure beneath.  He released Spike’s wrists and held onto his shoulders, his thumbs buried into Spike’s hot armpits. He jerked his hips against Spike’s, met by Spike’s arching thrusts. Spike turned his face back and seized Angel’s hair, pulling it hard each time Angel slammed their groins together. He lifted his mouth, his eyes dilated, fixed on Angel’s as if mesmerised by the bleeding lip. Just before their mouths met, Angel twisted his face away and closed his eyes, blocking out everything else but the humping movement of cock crushed to cock.

At the refusal to kiss, Spike only dug his fingers more viciously into Angel’s scalp and used the hair to grind them harder together. 

Relief when it came was as hard and unsatisfactory as the fight. Angel arched back, his face that of an addict getting a fix. Spike shuddered his orgasm out as if he were being tortured with electrodes: jerky, helpless, defeated.

By the time they’d finished and Angel rolled off, they were soaked with too many fluids to individually identify.

Spike climbed shakily to his feet, testing his injuries. He heard Angel behind him and turned. Angel didn’t look at him. ‘Make your own way back, Spike. Maybe find someone to stake you on the way. Do the world a favour.’

‘Why don’t you do it?’ Spike’s voice was soft and silky: the kind of voice he might use to a lover.

He bent and picked up a chair leg, splintered off in the fight. He held it out. ‘You do it.’

Angel frowned, probing his damaged lip. 

‘Come on. If you hate me so much. Just do it.’ He flipped the stake around so the ragged splintered end was against his chest. ‘Embrace me, Angel, and send it home.’

‘Stop being melodramatic.’

‘You’ve just said you want me to get staked on the way home!’

Angel pursed his lips and winced faintly, probing the wound. He flicked his eyes up to Spike’s then down again, cast a glance around the room, murmured, ‘Jerk-off,’ and very carefully edged past the offered stake.

Spike watched him leave and stood in the detritus of their battle, wondering who held the field.  

Spike saw no reason to hide his wounds so turned up the next day as he always did. Angel, he was intrigued to see, was also at work, also sporting the evidence of their battle. 

He was about to turn and inconspicuously leave the lobby, intending to continue with their mutual avoidance strategy, when Wesley, Lorne and Gunn, accompanied by a number of other employees Spike vaguely recognised stepped out of the elevator. They came toward Angel’s office looking purposeful, and Angel looked up, gathered some paper and moved around his desk toward the conference room. 

Spike continued to slide quietly away until Gunn hailed him. The entire group paused and waited for him to join them, by which time Angel had come out to see what the delay was.

Innocently, Harmony looked up from her desk and said, ‘Whoops. I forgot to email Spikey about the meeting, Boss. Hey! You’ve got matching bruises!’

Both vampires looked at their feet, and to cover the embarrassment of this, Angel indicated with a tiny flick of his head that he didn’t care if Spike joined them.  Thinking it would be the least conspicuous thing to do, Spike trailed after the other employees and sat as far away from Angel as he could.

It was only after half an hour had passed that he felt steady enough to glance up toward Angel on the pretext of hearing the phone ring in the office. Angel was staring at him.  Spike snatched his eyes back down to the table, frowning. It had not been a look of derision. 
 
For the first time, it occurred to Spike that Angel was thinking about him. Even more startling, it struck him that these thoughts included the fact that they were now intimate. That they included remembrance of what they done only last night, lying in the blood and sweat of their fight. Spike realised that for the first time he was in a room with someone who wanted his body, who burned for it. He glanced up again and caught Angel’s eyes rising from the table, too. 

This time, they held the gaze for a moment, and a shiver consumed Spike’s body, beginning at the back of his neck and running down his spine. It lodged in his balls and made them clench.  Angel was the first to break eye contact.

Spike continued to watch Angel’s lowered head, challenging him to look up again, and eventually, Angel did, his look annoyed, as if he’d been fighting the urge and lost.  Without allowing Angel to look away without losing face once more, Spike lit a cigarette, letting the first drag curl from his mouth, pursing his lips as if blowing a kiss toward the dark vampire. He dangled the cigarette on his lips, toyed with it, and Angel shut his eyes.

Spike smiled, intensely pleased. 

When the meeting broke up, everyone rose from the table still talking, and Angel pushed his chair back, buttoning his coat before he stood.  He watched his employees file past, his eyes downcast and hooded.

Spike stubbed his cigarette out and shoved his chair back. He felt cheated of something he hadn’t been offered and shouldn’t want anyway. 

He trailed out behind the others, wanting to push them out of the way to get away from Angel’s presence.

He passed the dark vampire, mentally giving him one more chance to say something, but Angel kept his eyes lowered to the carpet. Spike swept past, hoping he could feel his anger. 

A hand shot out and captured his wrist. No one noticed. No one turned around. When they’d gone, Angel reached around with his other hand and very deliberately shut the door.

He turned on Spike, twisting his wrist up, rubbing hard on his chest. Spike’s coat slipped off one shoulder, and Angel tore it down, leaving Spike’s arms trapped at the elbows as he sank his mouth into the corded throat. He crashed them to a wall, biting with blunt human teeth into the pale skin.  Spike wriggled free of his coat and caught hold of Angel’s head, tilting it up, staring hungrily at the lips, raising his for a kiss. Angel caught hold of Spike’s hair, ran his fingers into the long locks, then with cold eyes, jerked him painfully away from his lips and held him there, the message clear: no kissing.

Spike tried to pull free, but roots were giving, and he nodded in surrender. Angel only grinned and used the hold to exert enough pressure to force Spike to his knees. 

With the dispassion of a man taking a piss, Angel heaved his heavy cock out of his pants and pushed it into Spike’s face. 

Using the blond hair like reins, he rode past the lips which he had rejected for more loving uses. 

The only time he released his hold was to slap at Spike’s ear, or press his thumbs over the blue eyes to close them. 

Suddenly, Spike’s arm flew up and banged Angel’s away. Before the standing vampire could object, Spike took hold of Angel’s root and licked right down the underside of his shaft, nuzzling into his hair and balls. Very deliberately, he knelt back on his heels and looked up challengingly. His message was clear, too. Angel got it and let his hands rest more lightly on Spike’s head, let Spike take the lead.  When the sensations began to overwhelm him, he spread his hands on the wall, like a man being frisked, the blond head moving languorously on him. 

Only when he began to shudder did he catch hold of Spike’s hair once more, now gently holding him in place as he released. 

Spike stayed on his knees for a moment, then rose gracefully and faced Angel. Very deliberately, he parted his lips, let Angel see the cum glistening on his tongue then came forward for a kiss. 

Angel put his palm over Spike’s face, fingers splayed, then shoved him into the wall. ‘Yeah, like, not.’

He zipped up, even dipping his knees slightly—a man satisfied—turned and strode back to his desk.

Spike had to walk past him to leave. It was more humiliating than what he’d let Angel do. 

It was only when he was in the elevator, heading to the sewers—where he had suddenly felt a very strong desire to be—that he remembered he’d left his coat in a heap on the floor. 

Nothing, nothing could have made him walk past Angel and fetch it.

He closed his eyes and wondered what hurt more: his scalp, his throat or his feelings. It was a close run thing.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

Perhaps he would go and get his coat.

A couple of hours later, Spike strode across the lobby, ignoring a slight gasp from Harmony. He shoved Angel’s office door open so hard it hit the glass and bounced back. He strode into the conference room and scooped up his coat. 

Angel watched the whole display with lowered, thoughtful eyes.

Spike grinned as he stepped back into the elevator.   

He ran his hand over his shaved head.

He’d made his point.

He was still grinning when he sauntered down his hallway, rummaging for his keys to the apartment. He didn’t see the dark shadow until he was almost upon it and stopped abruptly. 

Angel peeled off from the wall and folded his arms.

Spike shrugged. ‘So, you know where I live.’

‘I know everything about you.’

‘Is that so?’ Spike opened his door then stepped neatly inside. He turned and put his arm, an immutable barrier, over the gap. ‘Then know this: you’re not invited.’ 

Angel narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips and stepped closer.  One lightest of touches on the inside of Spike’s wrist, and the barrier gave. 

With his assertion crumbling like all his other lies, Spike spun away and flung his coat angrily into one corner. Angel caught hold of the back of his T-shirt, just exerting enough pressure to make clear his intent. 

Spike wasn’t in the mood: his pride beginning to surface from where he’d left it floating in Angel’s imaginary pool.

He batted Angel’s arm off angrily and flung himself onto the couch, flicking the remote to turn the TV on.  Angel came closer, too close, standing between the open thighs.  Spike tipped his head to one side so he could see around the large figure. 

As graceful as a supplicant, Angel dropped to his knees. 

Spike let out a small curse of shock but did not try to stop him.

Angel took his time. He seemed in no hurry to actually do anything else but play with Spike through the soft denim of his old jeans. He cupped the shape of his penis, pressed it with the heel of his hand, worked it a little between two fingers, rearranged it as it began to swell and fill the material. 

When all was tight and hard, Angel pressed his lips to the cotton and mouthed wetly over the place where the tip lay, pulling off to see the effect of his work, murmuring with satisfaction when Spike looked as if his own excitement had overcome him. 

Whatever Angel did, Spike was determined to ignore him, and he resolutely watched his show, turning it up pointedly. 

Angel didn’t seem to care one way or the other whether Spike was engaged with what he did. Just as when he’d ridden his mouth in the office, he made it abundantly clear that loving or sharing was not uppermost in his mind.

The show was halfway through before Angel actually unzipped Spike enough for the purple plum of his cockhead to peek through the gap—just that, he held the cotton around it like a napkin around a drumstick, the foreskin squeezed out of sight. Only then did he glance up with a sly smile to Spike and work his tongue into the deep slit. 

Spike’s finger jabbed reflexively on the remote and the channel changed. He swore and fumbled to turn it back. Angel’s eyebrow rose, amused, and he popped the whole plum between his lips, lashing it with his tongue like a hummingbird seeking nectar.

Spike gasped and arched back on the couch. Angel rose up on his knees and opened his mouth wide, pressing down with his lips so Spike’s cock emerged from the teeth of his zipper like a missile rising from a silo, blasting hotly into Angel’s cavernous mouth.

Angel’s hands flew to Spike’s knees, and he pushed them open, lifting them onto the couch, dragging Spike down and further into his mouth. 

Spike felt as if he was being eaten from the cock up. Angel looked and sounded like a monster from a medieval fairytale: grunting, feasting, slavering. He rose off the wet shaft, saliva glistening his lips like opaque blood. 

Very deliberately, he took Spike in his hand and curled his fist around the veined length. As he stared with an unreadable expression into Spike’s eyes, he jacked him off, an expert, fast, slurpy hand job that made Spike’s eyes roll back in his head, his fingers curl and uncurl in the soft material of the couch, and finally, his body rise to a contorted arc of quivering flesh as an erupting climax propelled streams of come high into the air.

Spike did not soften even then, but he rolled to one side and climbed with difficulty to his feet, tripping over Angel in his haste to put some distance between them. Angel allowed himself to fall to the floor, theatrically abandoned. Then, with an amused sigh, he hefted himself onto the couch, got comfortable and changed the channel, examining the wet remote with amused interest.

Spike went to the small kitchen area of the apartment and fastened his jeans, his back to Angel. He gripped the edge of the counter. His body still betrayed him, tingling with tiny after-tremors of pleasure. It had done that with Buffy, too, even as she was spitting her hatred at him, gathering her clothes, running away to shower and wash his fluids out of her. He’d come all this way, only to end up back where he had started. 

He glanced over at the figure on the couch and, for the first time, seriously considered leaving L.A. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on like this. Was it brutal loving or loving rape? It hung somewhere in the middle of those uneasily. 

Straightening, he fetched one beer from the fridge and made a point of sitting on the couch as if the large vampire were not lying on it.  

Angel casually reached over and relieved him of the beer. ‘Thanks.’

Spike kept his expression neutral, fetched another and sat back down. 

He watched the dumb programme Angel had turned onto, his eyes taking in the images, his mind thinking about the future. He had a depressing vision of them still locked in this destructive relationship in another century. Now, he could not get a soul to change the dynamic. He’d done that for Buffy. Couldn’t do it again.

With a deep frown, Spike felt Angel’s fingers on his head, rubbing around the stubble that was all that was left of his hair. He swore, twisted around and banged them away. After a suitable amount of time had elapsed, they returned, now the whole palm, rubbing and swirling erotically over his sharply delineated skull.

Spike jerked his head away and hissed between gritted teeth, ‘I did this to piss you off!’

There was a pause, and Angel said with a small laugh, ‘I kinda got that.’ He went back to his game.

Spike shot to his feet. Angel had to go—now! One more minute and he’d lose what little pride he had left. If he cried in front of Angel now, he’d be lost. There were only so many times he could come back from death. He said nothing (not trusting himself to speak) but held the door open.

Angel sat up, still seeming to find the situation amusing. 

He stood and stretched then clicked a finger like a pistol at Spike. ‘See you around.’

‘Maybe.’

Angel stopped. ‘Oh, don’t tell me my little fuck-buddy is thinking of leaving!’

Spike clenched his jaw and nodded toward the hallway.

‘You know that’s a crock of shit, Spike! You aren’t leaving! You’ll never leave.’ He leant in close. ‘You need me! You want me!’

Spike scratched the side of his head, not deliberately reminding Angel of what he’d done to his hair, but nevertheless pleased with the gesture once he’d made it. ‘Seems to me…’ he dragged the moment out for effect, ‘that all the times we’ve fucked and sucked, it’s been you that’s initiated it—just sayin’ like.’

Angel growled. ‘Don’t push me too far, Spike.’

‘Why? What ya gonna do? Try and maybe get it hard enough to finish the job this time! Maybe try Viagra, Angel! ‘S good for flaccid rapists!’

Angel stepped in menacingly but suddenly hesitated. He licked his lips as if tasting the words he’d planned to say. He apparently didn’t like them, for with only a token push at Spike’s chest, he left.

Spike stood frozen to the spot for some time after. He wasn’t sure whether he’d maligned Angel’s manhood or obliquely told him that he missed him actually being inside. More to the point, he wasn’t sure which of these he hoped he’d said.

Chapter 15

Spike’s resolution to leave L.A. lasted as long as the next show he watched on the annoyingly empty couch in the depressingly silent apartment.

He didn’t like or understand what was happening, but it seemed better and less confusing than the prospect of being out alone in the world with a soul. 

He flicked between channels mindlessly for a while, debating whether he had the energy to go shower. 

The knock at the door startled him. He sat up, genuinely bemused. No one ever came here.

Cautiously, he opened it a crack. Wesley looked mildly anxious, then smiled when he saw Spike’s face. ‘Good evening.’

‘The end of the world must be upon us.’

‘Yes, well, if you were a little bit more hospitable and invited one…?’

‘And you throw so many parties….’

‘Can I come in so we can continue this childish disagreement in more privacy?’

Spike stood to one side.

Wesley stepped in and went immediately to turn off the television, as if he were allergic to mindless noise. He turned and stopped up short. 

Spike blanched and went into the bedroom. He came back out wearing dry jeans and a T-shirt that did not appear to have had a baby puke milk all over it.

Wesley had made himself comfortable in the couch and was reading Spike’s book. Spike went to the fridge, took out two beers and handed one to him. ‘Well?’

‘I’ve been thinking about the demon that was manipulating Angel.’

‘You did kill it.’

‘Well, yes, that’s what I was thinking. Nothing alive can be unique. By definition, it must have others like it.’

‘So… where does that leave Harmony?’

Wesley quirked up his lip. ‘I’m glad to see you can still joke.’

‘Mr. Entertainment, me.’

‘I’m intrigued by the theory that these demons may be responsible for many cases of sleepwalking or night terrors. What if we could harness that ability?’

‘Huh?’

‘Have you ever read…? Never mind. Better than life…. It’s a staple of so many science fiction fantasies: the idea that you can send the brain into a status where it can create a fantasy world that it can’t tell apart from real life.’

‘Like the Matrix.’

‘Well, yes, that’s an example where it was used destructively, I suppose. I’m talking about humans deliberately able to harness the power to create their own better-than-life fantasies and leave them as well.’

‘You’ve kinda blown your own theory there, Pet. They wouldn’t leave, would they? Angel and I sure weren’t intending to…. I mean….’ 

Wesley laid his hand on Spike’s thigh. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to lie to me, Spike. Why do you think I intervened?’

Miffed at how transparent he was being, Spike said brusquely, ‘There you go then. If we were too weak to break free, how the hell do you think a human would?’

‘Nothing is insurmountable. If I could synthesise the drug—or whatever it is they do it with—I could make it time-dependant: have it dissipate after a time.’

‘What’s all this to do with me?’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah. Ah.’

‘I need your help—firstly to find another of these creatures….’

‘Why me?’

Wesley looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Because you don’t have anything better to do. Why do you think?’

Spike grinned. ‘Whoa, hold back the flattery there, Mate.’

‘I would never flatter you.’ There was an edge to Wesley’s voice. 

Spike watched him for a moment then nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s do it. I need something to keep me busy.’

‘How are things going? I’m assuming this’ he brushed the back of his hand lightly over Spike’s stubble, ‘would be some sort of clue—if I knew how to interpret it.’

‘Nah. I just got tired of the bleach. Needed a change.’ He did not catch Wesley’s eye, and the human leant back in the couch, thoughtful. 

‘He seems relatively normal.’

Spike nodded and shrugged.

‘You seem a little… distracted?’

Spike twisted his head around and gave the human a withering look, and Wesley added quickly, ‘But less battered.’

Spike leant back, too. ‘Yeah. Less battered.’

‘Visibly, at least.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Spike. Having a soul works two ways: you give and you take. It’s not all about you being a good person; it also entitles you to love.’

‘No one has entitlements, Pet. You earn what you get in this life.’

‘And for God’s sake! Who’s earned a little affection more than you?’

Spike’s face crumpled, but he held things together and took a long swig of his beer. ‘I’m a bad man, human. Don’t romanticise me.’

‘I’ll make my own judgement on that if you don’t mind, and it has nothing to do with being romantic. I choose to be your friend. It’s a gift freely given.’

Spike swilled the bottle around and around in his hands. He frowned in surprise that he was sharing something so personal but said softly, ‘I’m trapped, Wesley. I can’t leave him, and I can’t stay like this. When it got like this with Buffy, I went to the end of the world and got my soul back—so I could change and be what she wanted. I think I’d have to lose it again to be what he wants.’

‘No. You’re wrong. Angel takes things too much to heart because he won’t, or can’t share his feelings. But inside, where it really counts, he is a good man. He would never condone or desire someone becoming evil.’

Spike turned his piercing gaze on the man. ‘He told me that he tried to kill you once.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Yes, but he was Angelus then, and he’d been tricked and drugged. That wasn’t Angel.’

Spike felt that this did not match Angel’s version but held his tongue. 

Wesley patted his thigh again. ‘Come and work with me down in the lab on this project. You’ll hardly see him. Some time apart might do you both good.’ When he saw Spike’s glum reception of this suggestion, he said hesitantly, ‘Can I suggest something else?’

Spike dragged sad eyes over to the darker blue ones. 

‘Copious amounts of alcohol, something with a large number of calories and a mindless film?’

Spike pouted. ‘You and me. Watch a vid with a takeaway?’

Wesley nodded.

Spike smiled shyly. ‘I get to choose the film.’

‘Thank God. That leaves me selecting the food.’

It was the most peaceful, normal evening either of them could remember for a long time. Once the macho barriers had fallen—Spike realising that Wesley was neither pompous nor boring, Wesley seeing that Spike was very different beneath the front he habitually wore—they bonded like old friends. Exiles, both from an earlier time—albeit an emotional attachment for one of them—both trapped in an orbit of love by Angel’s dark gravity, they found an easy acceptance they had not expected to find.   

They munched happily on too much junk food, watching films that required nothing more taxing than keeping eyes open, and talked endlessly, fuelled by the alcohol, which they drank steadily with considerable enjoyment.

When the credits for the final film were rolling, sitting side-by-side on the couch, feet on the empty pizza boxes on the table, Wesley said curiously, ‘If you could have better-than-life—I mean, if this thing I want to attempt actually works—what would it be like?’

Spike pouted. ‘Dunno. ‘S not something I’ve even given much thought to. What about you?’

Wesley fiddled with the remote in his hand for a while. ‘I think it would be much like here sometimes—when things are at their best.’

Spike tipped his head back thoughtfully. ‘I guess Angel’s was like, too—so bloody normal, ya know? He wasn’t a rock-God or a movie star; he wasn’t even a superhero. He drew for a living, and he lived in a house with a wife and a baby.’

‘It doesn’t seem much to ask, does it?’

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t his life. He’s what he is, and he has to sort of accept that.’

Wesley rolled his head over, regarding Spike thoughtfully. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s the essence of how you do it: you accept and you adapt.’

Spike smiled ruefully. ‘I wasn’t too accepting of that incorporeal thingy.’

Wesley sighed. ‘I’d better be going, I suppose.’

Spike nodded toward the bedroom. ‘Stay. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

Wesley nodded gratefully, made a weak protest about taking Spike’s bed, which was ignored, and handed Spike half the bedding before stretching out gratefully on the small bed. 

Despite his assertion that he’d sleep fine on the couch, Spike didn’t sleep at all. He was plagued by thoughts of Angel, veering wildly from one view of him to another. Wesley’s question—what would better-than-life be like for you?—haunted him. He knew very well what it would be like; it would be like this night, but with Angel, and the bed would be bigger and… Angel would be what he was not. His better than life depended upon Angel—the real one, not a fantasy one he could call up in his head. It amused him to think how Angel had adapted Buffy to suit his purposes, turning her into a flower-arranging, perfect wife. He didn’t want that. He wanted Angel as he was, just more… just without… just… he wanted Angel loving him.  This thought then alternated with ones where he hurt Angel, badly, giving him back some of the pain and anguish he was now causing. 

It made for a restless night, so when Wesley began to stir, Spike was glad for the excuse to get up. He’d resolved nothing. He made some breakfast for the human, still having long conversations in his head that had no beginning and no end, but which revolved endlessly around Angel. He woke the human and handed him his breakfast, wondering what Angel was doing and whether he was thinking about him. He went into the shower, angry at the endless waste of his capacity to love. He came out, smiled at Wesley’s pale, sweaty countenance, and imagined another man with pale skin in his bed.

Still, nothing was resolved, but he had decided to accept Wesley’s offer to help in the lab. 

At least not seeing Angel at all would make things temporarily easier.

A towel around his waist, amused that he’d picked up another to rub non-existent hair, he jumped slightly when a knock sounded on the door. That knock he did recognise.

Wesley looked up from his hangover-induced slump over eggs to frantically shake his head, until the effort made him turn green.

Spike pouted but opened the door, completely confused by his reason for doing so: he wanted something to happen, only he wasn’t too sure what that something was. 
 
Angel nodded and his face, for once, was open. There was guilt and confusion in the expression and something else, something that could have been longing. He opened his mouth to speak then took in the scene. Spike could see it from Angel’s eyes and was very aware it didn’t look good: Wesley having breakfast-in-bed in his bed, he obviously having just taken a shower, and the detritus of a very pleasant evening filling the living room.

Wesley climbed out of bed, trying to point out that he was fully dressed, without actually stooping so low as to point this out. 

Spike turned back to Angel. ‘What do you want?’

Angel’s eyes were raking the room, his thoughts now completed veiled. Then he turned his gaze on Spike, his eyes automatically roaming over the shaved head. ‘I don’t care where you sleep or who you fuck, Spike.’

Spike looked up sharply. He seemed about to say something then he laughed. It was full of genuine pleasure. ‘I never thought you would! But as you just felt the need to assert that so quickly, I actually do now. You care! But you are so full of denial, Angel.’ With that, he shut the door in Angel’s face.

Wesley winced and stepped back, watching the door anxiously. ‘He could break that down.’

‘Sure he could. But he won’t.’ He was still smiling. 

There had, at last, been some resolution in that small exchange.

Chapter 16

His smile began to irritate Wesley by the time they got to work, as the human had seen only an angry Angel who had misunderstood what was happening.

Spike couldn’t help smiling but didn’t enlighten Wesley as to the reason. Whether this was because he wanted to keep Angel’s confusion over him private or because he was afraid to shine the cold light of someone else’s more rational assessment on his pleasure, he wasn’t keen to examine.

They went to the lab, and Wesley showed Spike, on a replacement machine, how he’d tracked the demon’s presence. He had already analysed some samples he’d brought back from killing it, and he worked on these while Spike mooched about, annoying the rest of the staff.

After a couple of hours, Wesley called up to his department and requested some books.  A young man arrived with them after a few minutes. When he saw Spike, he said, ‘The Boss is looking for you.’

When he’d left, Wesley said casually, ‘Are you going to see what he wants?’

Spike grinned and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Nah. I know what he wants.’

‘It might be serious.’

‘It might be by now, yeah.’

Wesley lifted an eyebrow and murmured, ‘He’ll probably be down here soon enough, in that case.’

Spike pouted, lit a cigarette and toed the ground for a while then said craftily, ‘So, where did you find this demon, Pet? I’ll go check out the area—case you missed something.’

Wesley shook his head at the gamesmanship but gave him the address.

Angel arrived three minutes too late. He made as if he were interested in some of the equipment, spoke to one or two of the lab-coated assistants then sauntered over to Wesley. ‘What are you working on?’

Wesley began to speak, but Angel interpreted. ‘Someone said Spike was down here.’

Wesley nodded. ‘He was. He’s gone out.’

‘Oh. Where?’

‘I’m not sure. Why? Was there something you wanted with him?’ He’d punish himself later, but sometimes Angel was a very easy target.

Angel looked impressively nonchalant. ‘Tell him to come see me when he gets back.’

‘Will do.’

Trying to carry an air of calm authority, Angel left.

Spike was next seen in the canteen. Harmony spotted him sitting with his feet up and came bustling over. ‘And where have you been all morning? Have you seen Angel yet?’

‘Tall bloke? Kinda angsty?’

‘Spike! He’s had me looking everywhere!’

Spike felt a pleasant clench where it counted. ‘Really?’

‘Go!’

He pushed her the remains of his mug of blood and sauntered out.

He took a detour up to the next floor, along to the elevators at the end of the hallway and down, to emerge just outside Wesley’s office. 

He went in swiftly and nodded at the man. ‘Any progress?’

Wesley was sitting at his desk, reading, tapping a ceremonial dagger against his lips. He looked up then fished a teabag out of a mug with the dagger. ‘Not really.’

‘Cus I’ve had an idea.’

‘Ah. During your I’m-avoiding-Angel day?’

Spike smiled. ‘Don’t be facetious.’ He went over to Wesley’s kettle and began to make himself some tea, too. ‘It’s not the demon we should concentrate on, maybe, but its victims.’

Wesley rose and handed him the dagger, which Spike used to squish his teabag.  ‘If he’s drugging them, or even if he’s just using some sort of spell, there’ll be traces. There always are.’

Wesley perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? But not Angel—I don’t want him to know about this yet.’

‘Know about what?’

The conspirators turned as one. Wesley went toward Angel in a conciliatory manner. ‘We’ve had some ideas about the rival firm—how we can best monitor their….’

‘What are you doing?’  

Wesley could have been incorporeal for all the notice Angel took of his presence. He directed his calm question at Spike and kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other vampire.

Spike laid down his tea and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m helping Wesley.’

‘I… want to… discuss something with you.’

Spike made a pained face. ‘I’m running kinda late, Angel. Can it wait until tomorrow?’

Even Wesley seemed to pick up on some tension in the room, for he perched nervously on the edge of the desk, sipping his tea, glancing between the two.

Angel folded his arms and examined the carpet for a moment. ‘It won’t take long.’ It was the closest Spike had ever heard Angel come to begging.

He sighed and craned around Wesley’s monitor, saying in a shocked voice, ‘Jeez, look at the time! Sorry, Pet, I’ve gotta run,’ then proceeded to throw himself into an armchair and say with mock seriousness to Wesley, ‘So, fancy doing something tonight? Club?’

Wesley didn’t appreciate being used as a foil for Spike’s games, so stood up and went to the window, pointedly not replying.

Angel went to the desk and pretended to be interested in some of the books.

Spike rested one ankle casually over his thigh and began to chat to Wesley’s back, recalling many of their topics of the night before—any and all that excluded Angel.  

After a few minutes, Wesley turned, annoyed with Spike, but before he could shut him up, he stepped forward, his voice high-pitched with shock. ‘Angel!’

Spike dried up and glanced over at the silent vampire.

Angel looked up as if surprised. 

He had driven the dagger through his palm and was twisting it around and around in the soft, bleeding flesh.

Spike got up. ‘You bloody….’

Angel stared fascinated at the crucified palm. 

Wesley silently handed him a handkerchief, which he took with a small nod.

There was a moment of awkward silence then Angel ripped out the dagger and left. He didn’t look at either of them.

Wesley sighed and moved a book over a drip of blood on his desk. ‘Do you know, it doesn’t matter how awful he is sometimes, I find it almost impossible to stay angry with….’

Spike seemed to share this assessment because he was gone before Wesley could finish.

He caught Angel up as the bleeding vampire was waiting for his private elevator to the apartment. 

He stood alongside him, not commenting on the fact that he was there. He cast a glance at Angel’s hand, and his withering gaze said all that needed to be said.

Angel thrust his hand in his pocket and stepped into the elevator.  

When they emerged into the apartment, Angel grabbed hold of Spike’s arm with his good hand and began to manoeuvre him toward the couch. Spike pulled free. ‘Go do something about your hand.’

Angel glanced toward the elevator as if afraid Spike would bolt then went out of sight to the bedroom.

When he came back out, bandaged, Spike was standing in the window, looking at the view. 

Angel came and stood behind him then took the collar of his duster and began to slide it off his shoulders. Spike shrugged him off and shifted away. ‘I’m not staying.’

Angel grabbed his arm. ‘Yeah. You are.’

Spike looked directly at him for the first time. ‘Be very sure you can take me before you start something, Angel. You caught me off-guard last time—thought we were friends, see? Now I know different, and I’ll take you down as surely as I did in the desert.’

Angel seemed at a loss. He had clearly not expected Spike to take a stand now. His expression seemed to say that stands should have been taken earlier. He shifted his hold to one of Spike’s buttons instead. ‘You want this as much as I do.’

Spike shook his head and lied. ‘You don’t have anything I want.’ He began to move toward the elevator.

‘Why did you come up here then?’ Angel’s voice was a shade too high to maintain his fiction that he was calm and in control.  ‘What’s this?’ He suddenly pressed Spike back into the wall, cupping him, grinding the heel of his hand into the rock-hardness he discovered.

Spike pushed him back, hard, and balled his fists, well aware his body always betrayed him around Angel. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Tell me that’s not because of me!’

Spike stepped up close, too close. ‘It was the blood, Angel. So, yeah, there is something of yours I want: your blood. But the rest? Keep it.’

He walked to the elevator, stepped in and punched the down button. 

That he regretted his newfound independence as soon as the elevator doors closed pissed him off so much he punched the wall, broke a couple of bones, and thereby felt much better.

The next day, Spike followed up on his idea to track evidence of the demon activity by finding people who were being plagued either with sleepwalking or night terrors. It wasn’t as easy as he’d anticipated. Either people accepted these conditions as normal and therefore not reportable, or they knew they were not normal and didn’t report them for that reason.

He returned to the firm at midday to meet up with Wesley. They rendezvoused in the lab, where Wesley had started to analyse the blood he had taken from the demon. Before they could exchange notes, Harmony stuck her head around the door. ‘You’re wanted upstairs, Spikey.’

Spike said cagily, ‘Why?’

Harmony grinned. ‘Big box for you in the lobby.’

Even more warily, Spike sidestepped Wesley and faced her. ‘I’m not expecting anything.’

She nodded happily. ‘Boss said you’d know where to put it.’

Spike stepped back. ‘Is it ticking?’

‘Huh?’

Wesley put a hand on his arm. ‘Go see what it is, then we really must get on.’

Spike trailed behind Harmony, admiring her assets, as they went up to the lobby. He stopped with a low murmur of surprise when he saw the size of the box. ‘What the fuck is it?’

Harmony went over to her desk and read off the delivery note, ‘The Samsung PPM63H3 63-inch Wide Screen Plasma Monitor brings excellent video images into your home or boardroom. With a maximum resolution of up to 1366x768 pixels and 1.02 mm pixel pitch, the PPM63H3 enhances….’

‘Angel’s bought a TV?’

‘Seems so. Said to ask you where you wanted it.’ If there was an edge to her voice as she said this, she kept her face neutral. Spike narrowed his eyes at her warningly. She looked unconcerned. ‘Well? It can’t stay there!’

Spike nodded at this assessment and eyed the bored looking deliveryman. ‘That hydraulic thingy fit in an elevator?’

‘No, I flew it up here.’

Spike gritted his teeth. ‘Follow me, funny man.’

He watched as the man unboxed the television and set it up. It took two hours, but it was worth it; Spike had never seen anything more beautiful. It was the only good thing in Angel’s apartment and seemed utterly incongruous for that.

The deliveryman stacked the remains of the crate and packing onto his trolley and made his departure. 

Spike hovered in front of the screen with the remote control in his hand. 

As he was about to test it, he heard the elevator so dropped the remote as if it were contaminated. He moved to the window and tried to appear unconcerned. 

Angel stepped out, eyed the TV and said flatly, ‘Good. It’s here. Well… put it on.’

Spike jerked his head back. ‘What is this? Is this what you thought I meant?’

Angel didn’t seem to hear him. He picked up the remote, studying the buttons.
 
‘Angel! What the fuck do you intend this to be? This isn’t what I meant when I said there was nothing here I wanted! Did you think you could buy me a TV to make me want to be here with you? Did you really think… oh… hey… that’s a great show. Turn it up….’ He sank onto the couch, already absorbed. Angel tossed him the remote control and with a small, private smile of pleasure, went into the bedroom to change.

When he emerged, he was wearing a pair of thin black cotton sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His hair was wet, and he was combing it with his fingers. He watched Spike for a while then went slowly behind the couch. 

Spike leant forward on his knees, trying to ignore Angel, which was exactly what Angel had intended. It gave him room. He stepped over the back of the couch and sat behind the slim figure, his thighs outstretched around him. Spike pursed his lips and twisted his head around with an annoyed expression.

Angel raised an eyebrow. ‘Watch your damn show, Spike.’ He took hold of Spike’s head and turned it back. Purposefully, he began to slide Spike’s coat off. When it was half-mast, caught around his waist, he leaned into him, sliding his hands around to the front. He breathed onto the back of Spike’s stubble-short hair and nuzzled into his neck. 

Spike gave into the feeling of being enveloped by Angel and lay back against him. Something seemed to give deep within the invulnerable vampire, a tension that dissipated on Spike’s small gesture of contrition. Angel turned the nuzzling into licks, caressing his tongue up over the downy bristle of Spike’s scalp like a mother cat cleaning a prodigal kitten.

Very gently, his hands slid into Spike’s lap, where age-soft denim clad iron-hard flesh. Angel murmured something, a sound of surprised pleasure, and he traced the ridged outline under the cotton with one inquisitive finger. ‘Good show?’ 

Spike jumped, as he was meant to, and went back to his fiction of being interested in the TV. Under his breath, confused, but amused by this confusion, he muttered, ‘Bastard,’ and Angel bit his ear lobe, just hard enough for the sensation to lie erotically between pain and pleasure. Spike put a hand back to push him off, but somehow his fingers became entwined in dark hair, and he tugged gently instead. 

Angel’s exploratory fingers became bolder in Spike’s lap. Having found the lay of his erection, they attempted to alter it: to make the blood-heavy cock lift and rise, twitch and swell under their ministrations.  

Spike took his hand off Angel’s head and lowered it, sliding it behind him along the line of one solid thigh. Angel let out a low groan and helped him, fitting Spike’s fingers around an unencumbered cock. Spike didn’t know when Angel had freed his own erection, but he wanted to give his the same privilege. With one hand each, they negotiated his zipper, but before Spike could relieve the tightness, Angel plunged his hand in, groping blindly around, mushing hardness with warmth and softness, grinding and enjoying the way Spike wriggled and squirmed in his arms. 

With sudden clarity, Spike knew that he was moments away from tearing off his jeans and impaling his body on the hardness he held in his fist. 

As if his thoughts were being read, or Angel had come to this conclusion on his own, the powerful vampire wrapped his other arm firmly around Spike’s chest, preventing him removing his clothes. 

This was different from the No Kissing rule, though. Spike felt Angel wasn’t acting out of spite. It seemed his flaccid jibe had hit home. He couldn’t believe that Angel could be anxious about being hard enough. The cock in his hand felt like a tree branch, like a stake that could reach solid all the way to his heart. He pictured his guts recoiling at its vastness as it pushed inexorably into his body and on this thought came so hard and fast that Angel wasn’t even prepared. Shot after powerful shot of come, unable to escape the confines of his jeans, wet Angel’s still exploring hand. Angel cried out and crushed Spike to his cock, jerking against him, as he rolled his fist around in the sticky mess in Spike’s jeans. 

Grunting with the effort of freeing himself, Spike twisted around. Kneeling, facing Angel, he began to work him expertly, taking over the effort of making him come. Angel held onto the bony shoulders, his neck stretched back like a man on the rack, and when he came, Spike was afraid a tendon would snap, so hard did Angel strain and buck his body beneath his unrelenting fisting. 

When Angel was done, Spike stilled his hand and sat straddling the broader thighs. He looked up and found that Angel’s dark eyes were watching him thoughtfully. Thinking he had very little to lose one way or the other, Spike asked calmly, ‘Why do you find it so hard to admit what you really want? There were cheaper ways to make me want to be here with you than a TV.’

Angel didn’t explode or withdraw sullenly into himself. He ran his fingers through his hair then cursed when he remembered what coated them. Equally calmly, he said, ‘Go take a shower.’

Spike shook his head. ‘Tell me.’

Angel didn’t catch his eye. He took a small breath and said uncertainly, ‘You assume that I know.’

Spike kept his eyes fixed on Angel’s profile. ‘Why don’t you let me help you find out?’

Angel suddenly chuckled ruefully. ‘I kinda thought that’s what I was doing.’

Spike smiled. ‘Kiss me.’

Angel pouted then stood up, lifting Spike effortlessly to the floor. ‘Go shower. I’ll….’

‘You come, too.’

Angel’s body language betrayed him, giving lie to any refusal he might have made. Spike laughed and tucked his fingers into the waistband of the dark sweats, tugging him gently toward the bathroom.

Their clothes were done for: Spike’s jeans soaked and tacky on the inside, Angel’s running with rapidly drying cum. They peeled them off, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Angel put Spike’s in the hamper along with his. 

Naked, they stepped into the shower. 

It was a whole new level of intimacy. So far, most of their encounters had been furtive, partially clothed, or hidden. Now they saw each other in the raw, saw cocks swinging beneath thatches of dark hair and glimpses of pendulous balls. After a moment, holding the soap loosely in his hands, Angel said quietly, ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’

It was as if for the first time, this nakedness forced Angel to see the man beneath the skin, see the vulnerable beneath the surface of Spike’s demonic hardness. He lowered his brow and repeated, ‘I’m sorry.’

Spike’s reaction surprised them both. He’d imagined such an apology a number of times since Angel tortured and raped him, and each time he’d been so pleased that he’d shrugged at the confession and reminded Angel how many times they’d done similar things to each other in the past. 

So, when Angel finally did apologise, his anger surprised him. Instead of shrugging it off, his face creased, and he said bitterly, ‘I thought we were friends—if nothing else.’

Angel’s brow lowered more. 

‘I came to help you!’

Angel eyes lifted and they glittered with suppressed malice. ‘Did you? Or did you think it was payback time at last?’

Spike stared him out but finally nodded. ‘Okay, I admit: at first I thought it would be kinda cool ripping you out of your humanity.’

Angel seemed wrong-footed that Spike admitted this so readily.  He nodded briefly. ‘Okay then. We know where we stand.’

‘But whatever I did, or why I did it, you had no reason to…. I mean…. Shit, Angel, you fucking raped me!’

Angel stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel around his waist. ‘I know. You don’t have to remind me.’

‘Don’t I?’

Angel whirled around and gripped his upper arm. ‘I know every single evil thing I’ve ever done. Every one and I regret them all. All of them, Spike. A lifetime of regret. But where does it get me? I still hurt the people that mean the most to me!’

Spike looked down at the bruises flaring on his arm, shadow fingerprints, and then back up. ‘Just tell me what you want from me.’

Angel began to shake his arm, his face pained. ‘I want what I had back there! I want what I was there! What you were….’

‘It wasn’t real! We’re real now. Why can’t you have it here with me now? You want me, but you don’t want me!’

Angel released him, and whatever impulse he may have had to share or turn away from the path he was taking was lost. In a flat voice, he said, ‘You’re right. I do want your body. Hell, I’d be pretty damn foolish to try and deny it now. But I don’t want anything else from you. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m dead, but I still need to fuck. I need release not involvement. I don’t want to talk to you or look at you. I just want to get off on you. There’s nothing inside me, Spike. I’m totally dead now, and I don’t want to be brought back to life again.’

For a moment, it could have gone a number of ways. Like parting realities, Spike actually saw different lives play out for a while: the one where he flew furiously at Angel and they went on living their painful lies; the one where he believed Angel and decided that an emotionally dead lover wasn’t enough, leaving L.A. for good. 

The reality he actually accepted he could not see play out, but he did it anyway. He snorted, said ‘Right’ in a derisive tone and waved his hand, amused, at the TV. ‘So, that’s, like, what? No bloody involvement? Get out of my way, Angel; you make me madder than hell sometimes.’ He pushed past the silent vampire and threw himself wet on the bed. Yanking the covers up, he added, ‘You gettin’ in?’

Angel stared at the carpet, his lips pursed angrily at being called on his lies. Eventually, he climbed in alongside Spike, but he turned his back to him and pulled the covers protectively higher. ‘Things will never be as you want them to be. However much you want them, Spike. This is reality, and I control it more than I controlled my dream world. I don’t want you or like you, but if you want this, then fine, I’m not averse to having you around: I don’t like having to seek you out when I want to fuck you. But don’t turn this into something that it’s not. If you need more, find someone else to give it to you.’

Spike listened to this from his vantage point the other side of the resistant back. He raised his eyes and said thoughtfully, ‘I’m thinking Wesley is pretty lonely.’

Angel turned over. ‘Not him.’

Spike kept his smile inside and frowned as if thinking deeply. ‘But you’ve just said….’

‘I need Wesley focused on what he’s supposed to be doing. Don’t distract him with your games.’

‘I wasn’t going to play with him. He’s more than capable of knowing what he wants.’

‘I’ve said no.’

‘I’m really scared. And isn’t this nice? A little cosy bedtime chat. Kiss me goodnight, Darling.’ He laughed at Angel’s expression and turned his back. ‘‘Night, Pet.’

Angel was silent for a while but finally said tightly, as if only just controlling his jealousy, ‘If you need more, you rent a movie and jack off. Got it?’

‘You are so romantic.’

‘Spike!’

‘Go to sleep, Angel.’ He turned over and said with blunt clarity, ‘Right now, I don’t need more than this. When I do, I’ll break down another of your barriers and have it with you. I told you in the dream, Angel: family and Buffy. That’s all there’s ever been for me.’

Angel licked his lips and picked at a nail for a while. ‘I lied about Buffy. I haven’t spoken to her, and she doesn’t know you’re back.’

Spike felt a layer of pain in his heart dissipate and knew it had nothing to do with Buffy but everything to do with Angel’s confession, providing as it did that something fundamental was changing between them. He flung himself down on the pillow. ‘I’m thinking she wouldn’t be all that bothered if she did know.’

Angel glanced over. ‘She never calls me either.’

Spike smiled softly. ‘Careful or we’ll actually be talking.’

Angel turned his back and stiffened his shoulder in silent reply.

Chapter 17

From that small beginning, something like a relationship began to develop. It was unsatisfactory for Spike, but it was something. Something was never to be lightly dismissed. What it was for Angel, Spike never really knew for sure. He suspected that Angel felt much as he did—that he was desperately confused and lonely and wanted a great deal more than this—and occasionally, Angel would do or say something that proved this theory. Most of the time though, Angel maintained his stance that he only wanted someone for relief, and anything else Spike had to offer was resolutely ignored. 

When he wasn’t helping Wesley, Spike spent most of his time in Angel’s apartment, either on the couch watching TV or in the bed. Angel tolerated his presence by ignoring him until he was aroused, at which time he wanted either to be sucked or fisted. Sometimes, he just wanted to play with Spike, and it was at these times that Spike most clearly saw the fictions that Angel maintained. It wasn’t possible to play gently and inquisitively with someone’s body whilst purporting no interest in them, and he nuzzled, licked, and occasionally kissed Spike’s body with an interest that belied all his claims otherwise. He never allowed their lips to touch though. This intimacy was refused. 

They never had full-blown sex either. Angel rarely fully undressed when he took Spike, keeping that part of his body off limits. He apparently showed no interest in Spike there either, but again, the concentrated disinterest only fuelled Spike’s belief that the whole of their relationship was a fiction.

Sometimes, when he sat watching shows during the day, Angel would come up from the office and join him. The vampire’s pain seemed to scream out to Spike. He longed to take him in his arms and physically tear his defences down, but he didn’t. He’d pushed things far enough.

He believed that things would develop naturally, however hard Angel tried to stop them. They were virtually living together, and Angel could not keep up his pretence of surly silence. Normal, everyday things had to be said and discussed—are you hungry? Want a drink? Where’s the freaking remote? Do you even know how to pick up a wet towel?—and Spike knew that gradually, he was changing from Angel’s beloved enemy into his hated lover. There was a subtle and very pleasing difference in this that made him hold his tongue at Angel’s provocations, made him shy away from pushing for more when they played, hot and needy on the couch. 

He would wear down Angel’s resistance until dream merged with reality, until they were living the dream here, in L.A., amidst all the things that were so un-dreamlike for both of them. For the business of the agency went on. Wesley was getting closer to his aim of synthesising the drug; Angel fought the daily battles that came with being the CEO of the biggest, baddest law firm in the city. These battles had increased, possibly coincidentally, since the arrival of the rival firm. No one really believed it was coincidental, and when Angel did make an appearance in the apartment, he was often too tired and depressed to make much use of Spike’s presence one way or the other. However much he needed to share with someone, his guilt over what he was doing to Spike increased the guilt he felt about everything else—deceiving his friends, Fred’s death, Gunn’s pain trying to recover from his stint in hell—until it was all his fault. This much pain was too heavy for the fragile confusions of their relationship, so he kept it to himself.

Therefore, when Spike would ask softly, ‘What’s wrong?’ Angel did not reply: “Illyria grows strong on our despair” or “Gunn tried to kill himself today” or “The whole edifice of Wesley’s life is built upon my lies”, he merely grunted and changed Spike’s channel to the news, relaxing into the easy presence of his childe.

They often found themselves sprawled on the couch watching the TV without any need for sex at all. 

Despite Angel’s reticence to speak of his pain, Spike found these times immensely encouraging, as it seemed to him that you could not do this with someone you actually derided. 

It was during one of these quiet evenings—Angel seeming particularly ill at ease and fidgety—that they deepened considerably the intimacy of whatever it was they were doing.

Angel flicked channels, clearly not watching them; he paced; he made an excuse to shower when he didn’t need one; he read a book, resolutely ignoring Spike’s presence. 

It was only when Spike began to think about going back to his own apartment for once, just to have some respite from the jarring atmosphere, that Angel said, in relation to nothing, ‘The new law firm are impressive.’

‘Is.’

‘Huh?’

‘Is impressive. Firm is singular.’

‘There’s more than one person working there, moron. Whatever. They’re making overtures.’

‘And that’s…?’

‘That’s good.’

Spike had no real answer to this. He sensed Angel was getting at something and assumed he’d get there in his own time.

Angel turned a few more pages. ‘They’re courting us—so to speak.’

‘Us?’

‘Well, me. No, all of us, I guess.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Hmm.’

Spike changed over to the news. It would be slightly more informative.

‘They’re holding a party.’

Light began to dawn. Spike just smiled and held his peace. He was cruel like that.

‘Hmm. Big party. Of course, Wolfram and Hart are invited.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I see.’

‘Hmm.’

Spike flicked again.

‘So, of course, Wesley, Gunn and Lorne will come.’

‘Will they. Good.’

‘And me… of course.’

‘Well, duh. CEO, an’ all.’

‘That’s what I thought: CEO.’

Spike was feeling particularly mean. ‘So, I think I’ll be off. Time to air the old apartment out.’

‘What?’

He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m going home tonight.’

‘No! I mean—. I’m telling you about….’ Angel gritted his teeth. ‘It’s a party.’

Spike nodded, as if remembering such particular pleasures.

Teeth almost locked, Angel managed to say, ‘I don’t do parties well.’

‘Shame. Gonna be a long, hard night then.’

‘Are you going to make me say it?’

Spike smiled beatifically. ‘You know? I actually think I am.’

Angel tipped his head back, closed his eyes, gripped the edge of the couch, and said distinctly, ‘Come to the party.’

‘Are you asking me on a date?’

‘Don’t push your luck, Spike.’

‘But I’m curious. Are you asking me out?’

‘Spike!’

Spike dodged behind the couch, well out of lunge reach.

‘Seriously, Angel…. You just have to say: come with me. And put the emphasis on the with….’ He smiled mischievously. ‘Or the… come.’

Angel didn’t turn his head. He stared resolutely ahead. ‘Come with me.’

Spike leant over the back of the couch and whispered in Angel’s ear, ‘I want you to suffer. So… no.’

Angel’s eyes flashed for a moment, but Spike saw it was not with anger. He was efficiently hauled over the couch, and Angel pinned him down. As so often these days, Angel’s expression gave lie to the fact that he was either angry or disdainful with his lover. He made an appreciative sound and ran his hands up Spike’s arms, holding his wrists.

‘You tread a dangerous path.’

Spike gave him a look through lowered lids. ‘You’re there with me, step for step.’

Angel ground his hips against Spike, and they both breathed softly with pleasure.

‘I don’t want to have to make small-talk to lawyers all night.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘You’re my childe.’

‘I’m a lot more than that, and the answer’s still no.’

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

Spike licked his lips and pushed his tongue provocatively into his cheek. ‘Go on, you’ve got my full attention.’

‘I’ll pay you.’

‘Oh, that’ll be a first then!’

‘I pay you now!’

‘Actually, you don’t.’

‘Well, okay then. Simple transaction. You come to this party. You work the floor. I stand in a darkened corner looking surly, and I pay you well.’

‘What’s well?’

‘More than I pay you now.’

Spike began to thrust his hips slowly into Angel. ‘I’ll name my price.’

‘I’m not buying you a Ferrari.’

‘Nah. My dick’s big enough. I want something that’ll cost you more than that.’

Angel narrowed his eyes and lifted himself away from the seductive thrusting. ‘I’m listening.’

‘I want you to kiss me.’

Angel pushed off and walked to the bar, his arms folded across his body.

Spike waited a moment to test the air then said softly, ‘Not now. When it’s over. If I do a good job.’

Without turning around, Angel said dully, ‘That doesn’t seem… much.’

‘It’ll be enough.’

Angel turned his head and regarded him for a moment then nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘A real one, not just some peck….’

‘I know how to kiss, Spike.’

‘I know you do. Why do you think I miss it so much?’

Angel frowned slightly then said in a low voice, ‘Maybe you should go back to your place tonight.’

Spike nodded. He had not realised how much his half-jokey deal would affect Angel. He saw with startling clarity that Angel got that there was far more than just a kiss at stake. He wondered, just for a moment, if Angel had been missing his lips, too.

The day of the party dawned. Which was a huge disappointment to Angel, as plan A had been the emergence of a flaw in time that would prevent dawns of any kind. 

He rolled onto his back with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was trapped. Whether the party went well (he got to stay in a corner and not talk to anyone) or it went badly (he was forced to do a karaoke turn), he was doomed. He flicked his glance over to the figure burrowed under the covers next to him. As usual, he felt a moment’s disorientation about the lack of hair before his more usual feelings kicked in, but as these had been wildly out of kilter for some time now, he quickly reverted to thinking about the hair: what it felt like, how soft it was to touch, how it delineated the scalp, the hardness beneath…. Hardness in general… and who cared about confused feelings? Angel slid down in the bed and woke Spike up. Sucking the long, semi-tumescent cock deep into his throat kept thoughts of the party at bay. Such activity had kept all other thoughts at bay since he’d returned—been dragged back—so why not just obliterate all known thought? He didn’t much like his thoughts these days. He liked the way Spike wriggled beneath his mouth. He liked the smell of him and the feel of him. He didn’t like thinking any further: why he was doing this thing with him; what this thing was they were doing; what he had done to Spike in that dark time; what Spike had done to him to cause that darkness. He banished the thoughts by hard sucking. He drove them out with flicks of his tongue over the soft cockhead. He kept them distant and defeated by plunging swiftly to the root of all this pleasure and slowly drawing up, dragging his lips over swollen veins and rigid column.  Still they crowded on the edges of his mind, mocking him, whispering in malevolent tongues of his betrayal. He didn’t care to clarify this: he betrayed; he was betrayed. It reminded him of conjugating Latin verbs in stuffy rooms that smelt of youthful arousal. Only when slim, strong fingers pushed into his hair and stroked him, did the voices cease. Spike’s touch always silenced them. 

He knew Spike was close now. The wriggling had become more urgent: pained jerks of hips, sleepy grunts of pleasure-heavy need. Through his lips, he could feel an orgasm hovering, muscles quivering like a finely tuned race car idling, waiting for touch on the pedal to spark it to life. He removed his mouth and took the shivering shaft in his fist. One jerk, two. Spike erupted, his hips heaving off the bed, his heels drumming, fingers dragging painfully on Angel’s hair.

Angel rolled the pliant figure so his own pleasure was concealed, and with a soft grunt, like footfalls in snow, he released against Spike’s backside.

The sleep-warm bed began to heat the tacky fluids, the air smelling salty, like sea-blown fog. Obscuration was good. There was nothing Angel wanted to see. There was nothing he wanted. Sometimes, he thought, there just was nothing. Nothing he could afford to want, anyway.

He couldn’t afford to love again, that was for sure. Not again. Buffy, Cordelia, Connor—all loved, all gone. Each time he had allowed one of them in, it had been a conscious decision to let down his defences. Not again. He kept his armour intact now, worked on it, polished it, mended rents until no chink was left to allow love in. To allow Spike in.

So, he really ought to remove his thumb from Spike’s hairline right about now. He ought to take his hand off the bony hip, stop it sliding to explore on the sticky trails, tracing curving lines to an enticing entrance. Going inside was bad. Inside was where the heart lay. The love. He should roll away onto his back. A grunt of dismissal would be good. Anything but this slow stroking over the bristly scalp. 

He needed to think about dressing, not penetrating to the core, separation, not claiming by a slow implanting of seed.

When he brushed the pad of his thumb up Spike’s head, each tiny, cropped hair caught the light. 

Let Spike decide for him—go or stay; let his reaction, his expression, decide for him.

Spike turned, and his eyes were full of amused adoration. Angel saw a depth of love in them that surprised him, even though he knew full well now how this man felt about him. He’d seen this love grow in inverse proportion to the hate that he’d spewed forth. 

Spike decided him, therefore.

Angel separated them with a disdainful shove and swung his legs off the bed. He checked the clock, grunted, and walked, scratching, to the shower.

Only under the water’s all-forgiving embrace could he allow other emotions to surface, but evidence of their passage was washed away on the heavier stream. He was lucky Spike loved him so visibly; that look was precisely what he needed to avoid on his face.  The emotions that gave it life exactly those which he needed to quell. 

He could not afford to love again. Not again. 

Chapter 18

Spike noticed the change in Angel’s mood as a mother notices a pinprick of red on a baby’s skin: with obsessive interest. He was becoming something of an expert on all Angel’s moods. Did Angel assume that he couldn’t feel the pain of such confusion and doubt? He felt it in every stroke of the thumb over his head, every trail of an errant finger towards his centre. He knew Angel was resisting with everything he had. Resisting him.  The troubled vampire’s pain was palpable; how could he not feel it?

He watched him now, covertly coveting, through half-closed eyes. 
 
There was nothing like stoking the fires. ‘So, party time, hey?’

Angel flicked him an evil look but went back to heating some blood.

Spike stretched into the pleasantly damp bed and went in for the kill.  ‘What ya gonna wear?’

Angel stared morosely at the revolving bloodbag. He pouted as if something in its slow circling bothered him. Nonchalantly, nothing to do with Spike’s question, he wandered to the closet. 

Behind his back a small, evil smile accompanied a casual, ‘CEO, an’ all—wanna get it just right.’

For some reason, this didn’t appear to help. Angel fingered the sleeve of a pinstriped suit. Spike nodded, enjoying the wise, helpful gesture, even if Angel couldn’t see it. ‘Good choice. Says: stable, mature, to be trusted.’ That got dropped, and Angel then ran his finger down the silk sleeve of one of his favourite shirts. 

‘What are you wearing?’

The quiet question caught Spike unprepared. It wasn’t like Angel to engage him in conversation that didn’t relate to mess around the apartment or work. Anything more intimate apparently hinted at… intimacy… and that Angel would not allow. Spike climbed off the bed and came to stand beside him, naked, feeling more vulnerable than this familiar state would normally engender. ‘Haven’t got a Scooby. Literally… haven’t really got much.’

‘Maybe we could…?’

Spike was so shocked at the voluntary (albeit possibly inconsequential) we that he missed the rest of Angel’s suggestion and, much to his chagrin, had to ask, ‘What?’

‘Go shop. Maybe we could go shop.’

Confused, pleased, angry for no apparent reason he could think of other than that this kind of thing made him see how inadequate this relationship really was, made him see how he wanted it to be, he replied sulkily, ‘Case you forgotten, you don’t pay me.’

Angel sighed. ‘Shit, Spike, I’m buying! You’re coming to this damn party for me, after all.’

‘With’

‘Huh?’

‘Not for you…. With you….’

To Spike’s disbelief, a wry smile creep around Angel’s lips, and the dark vampire said meaningfully, ‘Yeah, with me….’

For one moment, Spike thought that Angel was about to reach out and embrace him, but after an initial twitch, his arm stayed at his side. Spike nodded ruefully, and as he passed Angel, he nudged him with his shoulder, a gesture that could mean as much or as little as Angel wanted it to.

They pulled on their everyday clothes; Angel summoned a car, and they went to the mall in some style, albeit in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable though: a quiet acceptance between them that the party had changed things. Angel was grateful that Spike was willing to come with him despite… things. He liked the idea of arriving with something so fundamentally attractive. Even if no one knew that they were…. Whatever, he still liked the idea of walking into the room with Spike at his side. Even more, he liked the idea of watching Spike, knowing that they were… that they could… that they would…. He just liked the idea of going with Spike. Did he have to explain it anymore? Spike was just aware that the distance between them was closing. Angel didn’t need him at this party. Angel was far more skilful an operator than he liked to admit. Angel wanted him there because he wanted him. It seemed fairly simple to Spike, but he admitted that it might not seem so to Angel just yet. 

It was weird but oddly right, somehow, that they swept along, driven skilfully through the city, cosseted in the rear seat. It was the fulfilment of a promise of eternal life and power, a promise that had all too frequently been broken on the more normal squalor and hardship of this demon life. This was how it should be. Spike relaxed against the soft leather and closed his eyes to the warm sun. 

He felt something brush his hand and looked down. For a moment, he thought that Angel was about to hold his hand, but then he saw the slim card being pressed between his fingers. He glanced over, and Angel said with a shrug, ‘I’m thinking we’ll hit different stores, so that’s for you. It’s pretty much… inexhaustible… but I wanna see receipts.’

Spike held the card up to his eye line. ‘And you have no problem with spending the profits of evil?’

Angel turned his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with the firm. It’s my private account.’

‘Oh.’ Spike frowned. ‘Why haven’t I got one of those?’

Angel was unsuccessful repressing a smile, so he turned and stared resolutely out of his window. There was something so pleasurable in thinking of Spike spending his money that he was unable to speak for the confusion it caused. 

When they arrived at the mall, they separated as Angel had predicted, seeking different kinds of purchases.

Occasionally, one would catch a glimpse of the other across the galleries, or in one of the glass elevators, and their gaze would lock for a moment, both seeming startled by the juxtaposition of location with emotion. It was hard to look at a man carrying bags, knowing it to be someone you were intimate with, in such a normal, human surrounding, and not see that something far more than mere fucking was going on. The thought “There’s Spike” took on far more significance when Angel spotted the neo-nazi hairstyle emerging from a record store. Just the sound of the name in Angel’s mind created a vortex of swirling emotions: scents, sounds and the remembrance of hot touch.

As if sensing that he was being watched, Spike turned and scanned the crowd. His eyes raked over Angel’s dark presence and then returned, settling on him with pleasure. He gave a small tilt of recognition to his chin, held up a bag clearly bulging with other things than clothes and, with a cheeky grin, marched into a jewellery shop.

Angel felt foolish smiling at nothing, so repressed the feelings Spike’s little display had brought forth and went back to trying to find something to wear.

Spike sipped his coffee appreciatively. Being souled made things taste better. Weird, but true. Being souled had brought him Angel; Angel made him happy; being happy made things taste better. Not so weird. He grinned and dunked his chocolate-coated doughnut into the bitter liquid. Without looking up, he sensed that he was being watched. 

He relaxed back into the chair, slowly licking his fingers one at a time, staring at the swirling black drink.

It seemed like an age passed, but finally Angel came forward and sat opposite him. He put a number of bags beneath the chair that held Spike’s. He looked around the café for a moment then gestured to the girl. When she came over, he ordered coffee and looked pointedly at Spike. Spike eagerly pushed his empty plate toward her. ‘’Nother of these, Pet. And another coffee while you’re at it.’

She grinned wide-eyed at him. ‘Where’d ya get that accent? You’re killing me!’

Spike leant back and folded his arms with an interested look. ‘Killing you. Now, there’s something I’ve not thought of for a while.’ Angel placed his foot over Spike’s boot and kicked him sharply in the shin. Spike smirked. ‘Guess it’s your lucky day. Just coffee and doughnuts then, Luv.’ 

Angel waited until she was out of hearing and opened his mouth to speak, but Spike said slyly, ‘You were checking her out.’

Angel reared back. ‘I was what?’

‘Legs…. Tits….’

Angel clenched his jaw. ‘And you were practically drooling over her.’

‘From a purely predatory standpoint, Pet.’

Their order arrived, and they leant back in their respective chairs. They kept their eyes resolutely to the front then realised at the same time that they were doing this and laughed. When the girl left, Spike shook his head slowly. ‘’S been a while since I’ve seen you laugh. ‘S nice.’

Angel didn’t reply but held out his hand expectantly. Spike feigned ignorance then dug into his pocket and brought out the card. With a rueful pout, he placed it in Angel’s palm. ‘Do I want to know the damage?’

Spike raised his eyebrows innocently. ‘Prob’ly not.’

Angel nodded and tucked the card into his wallet. ‘You bought clothes though?’

Spike looked bored. ‘Yeah.’ He peeled off the chocolate icing and dropped it into the coffee, stirring it thoughtfully. ‘Why’d ya come and sit with me?’

Angel was watching small, greasy lumps appearing in Spike’s coffee with horrified fascination and said distractedly, ‘Huh?’

‘Why sit here with me?’

Angel tore his eyes away from the cup and replied snappily, ‘Coffee? Me drink?’

Spike nodded. ‘But there’s maybe ten foodhalls in this mall. And there’s over thirty tables in this one, most empty. So, why that particular chair?’

‘Do you want me to move!’ Angel actually stood up until Spike put his hand down to snatch the bags, knowing Angel wouldn’t leave without them. ‘Sit down, Pillock.’

Clearly annoyed, Angel did, but he pushed his coffee angrily away, cursing when it slopped over and messed the table.

Spike broke the remains of his doughnut in half and with a small, wicked smile held it towards the stiff figure. ‘Peace?’

Angel seemed about to snap another reply but stopped when half the offering fell off and plopped into his cup. His lip quivered, and he rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes, hating you is so damn hard.’

Spike ducked his head to his coffee and said in a low voice, ‘An’ I’m glad you sat here, too.’

That elicited an actual smile. Angel relaxed, waved the girl back and ordered fresh coffee. 

He stared thoughtfully at Spike’s lowered head for a while until Spike twitched under the scrutiny. Jokingly, without looking up, he murmured, ‘Thinking ‘bout that kiss, Mate?’

Without missing a beat, Angel replied seriously, ‘I am.’

Surprised, Spike looked up and held his look. ‘You’re going to have to pay up. I’m going to behave impeccably, and you’ll have to pay me. We agreed.’

Angel held his gaze locked with Spike’s for some time then said very precisely, ‘I’m thinking I might pay you in advance.’

Chapter 19

The words shot into Spike as if he’d been electrocuted. His balls clenched urgently, tingling and tight. 

Coffee appeared on the table, but neither of them noticed who’d brought it. Spike was the first to break eye contact. Angel shifted in his seat then in a slightly high-pitched voice said, ‘I could call the car back early.’

Spike rose and grabbed his bags. Angel did likewise. He threw far too much money on the table, and they strode side-by-side toward the exit. Angel fumbled with his cell phone and barked an order. Like royalty, they swept into the secluded confines of their luxurious transport and back towards Wolfram and Hart. 

Spike stared at the partition to the driver and whispered, ‘Is that one-way glass?’

Angel replied equally softly, ‘Go down on me, and we’ll find out.’

Spike snorted with amusement, and the urgency that had driven them from the café turned into warm anticipation of pleasures to come. Spike leant back in his corner and lit a cigarette, sliding his boot toward Angel’s shin. Angel glanced at the driver then allowed his skin to graze the errant foot. 

Spike made a small, hissed sound and pulled his coat over his lap. ‘Let’s get out—go through the sewers.’

Angel was staring at Spike’s covered lap, and he swallowed deeply. ‘Faster like this.’

‘Wasn’t thinking ‘bout speed. Wasn’t planning on going anywhere once we got there.’

Angel folded his coat discreetly and stared fixedly through the window. After a few minutes, he murmured, ‘I don’t deserve this.’

Spike laughed. ‘I’m gonna take that as a compliment and not in the what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this way. And no, you don’t.’

Angel pouted but didn’t turn around. ‘I want to make it up to you.’

‘Not gonna give you an argument on that one.’

Angel turned, smiling softly. ‘Guess what?’ Spike frowned. ‘We’re there.’

As he climbed from the car, discreetly adjusting his coat, Angel flicked his head at the elevator, and Spike’s eyes widened. He had absolutely no doubt what Angel intended to do as soon as they were alone. His lips actually began to ache in anticipation of the first kiss. 

He got there before Angel and slammed his hand on the button. He sensed Angel behind him, just too close to pass as someone also waiting for an elevator. Then Angel stepped away, and Spike sensed someone else. He turned to find the driver sucking his teeth and staring in that vacant watching-elevator-numbers way. He caught Angel’s expression and almost laughed: if thoughts could kill, the human would emolliate in front of them. 

They rode together, all three of them, until the human got off on the floor below theirs. Angel waited until the doors closed and then slammed his hand on the emergency stop. He turned to Spike, realised they were still moving, turned back incredulously and hit the button again. ‘Fucking cheap crap!’ The elevator continued to rise. ‘Shit!’ 

Spike leant over to help, but before Angel could take advantage of the close proximity, the doors opened, and they were facing a relatively crowded lobby. Angel winced and whispered, ‘Upstairs.’

Spike nodded, and they tried to make an inconspicuous exit, both holding coats strategically closed.

They were halfway to safely when they ran into Gunn—literally. Looking over his shoulder at something, he bumped into them and swore. Angel, very distracted, nodded and murmured, ‘See you later tonight.’

‘I’m not freaking going! I told you! I’m not confused like you seem to be ‘bout where the evil in this city comes from! And you know what? I’m guessing why you’re confused, Vampire!’

He stepped around them, pushed past a couple of eavesdroppers and stormed away. Despite having something else on his mind, Spike murmured, ‘You gonna let him talk to you like that?’

Angel nudged him closer to the office. ‘He has his reasons.’

‘Still….’

‘Angel!’

Harmony was on the phone, and she waved at them, beckoning them over. Angel hissed, ‘Ignore her,’ and continued, but Spike said hesitantly, ‘She looks….’

‘Boss!’

Angel rolled his eyes and diverted. ‘What?’

Harmony listened for a moment more then giggled, relieved, and put the phone down. ‘It’s okay, they managed to bring him back.’

Angel appeared to be counting slowly then he said, ‘What?’ again in a patient voice. 

Harmony giggled some more. ‘Sorry. Only Wesley’s dead. Well, died, because they….’

‘What the…?’

She looked puzzled at his incomprehension. ‘Wesley? The British guy who….’

‘Harmony!’

Spike put a hand on Angel’s arm, which wasn’t the best thing he could have done. Angel appeared to sway slightly, and he caught the desk. Harmony, watching with eagle-eyed interest said curiously, ‘Have you taken some as well?’

Angel could only manage a weak, ‘Harmony…’ but she seemed to respond to this better than the shouting and said contritely, ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Wesley took some kind of drug thing and died. It was so cool. They brought him back, but he hit his head, totally ripped off his hair. And that’s not really cool when you think about it… kinda, eww! that is so gross. Anyway….’

‘Harmony.’ Spike’s voice was calm even if his stance betrayed some other emotion. ‘Where is he?’

‘Oh. In the lab, I guess. Maybe they couldn’t move him because of the hair thing, and that really is…. Hey! You’ve both got no hair now! And how weird is that?’

Angel nodded at Spike, and they re-entered the elevator, the presence of a number of people putting paid to anything other than the briefest of conversations. ‘Drug?’

Spike shrugged and lied. ‘Dunno.’

Angel gave him a penetrating look, and Spike had the distinct feeling that now that was the only penetrating he was getting that evening. He wondered why he’d lied and wished he hadn’t, debating just saying, ‘Could be the better-than-life drug we’re working on,’ but heard something behind the words he didn’t like. Why had he agreed to help Wesley make something so fundamentally dangerous? He didn’t know, and he was very sure Angel wouldn’t. So, instead, he let the lie stand and hoped Wesley was bleeding badly enough, and lying close enough to death, to distract Angel from untangling his part in their schemes.

Wesley wasn’t bleeding, and he hadn’t been scalped, but he was looking decidedly pale and slumped on a chair, which was odd enough to draw a look of concern from the otherwise closed-off vampire. Angel put down his bags, pouted and inspected a cut on the human’s forehead. ‘What happened?’

Squinting with pain, Wesley glanced to Spike. ‘Have you told him?’

Spike tried killing him with a look, but it didn’t work, so he mumbled, ‘Sort of.’

Angel glanced at Spike and said steadily, ‘Why don’t you fill me in on the details, Wesley. Spike has been kinda sketchy with his.’

Spike smiled as if he appreciated Angel’s private humour and then lit a cigarette, feeling the need for some obscuring smoke.

‘Well, as you know, I decided to work on synthesising the drug that the demon was using to keep you under.’

Spike winced, waiting for the explosion, and was surprised when Angel said, ‘Why?’ It wasn’t the question he’d expected.

Wesley nodded, missing all the subtleties of the vampires’ exchange of looks, and replied, ‘Well, it occurred to me that in the right hands it could be a very useful tool. Think of its application to the science of anaesthetics. You came back from all that time away with no side-effects at all.’

Angel turned sharply away and went over to the bench, apparently to examine a trace of blood. 

Even Wesley, in his slightly pain-fuddled state seemed to regret his last, and he murmured, ‘Well, physical ones anyway.’

Angel just said neutrally, ‘Go on.’

‘Well, I managed to isolate the drug, with Spike’s help…’ another killing death-ray look didn’t even shut him up, ‘I was at the stage of mixing it with carriers to determine just the right strength, when I was careless with that vial. A tiny—and I mean tiny—amount of the bloody stuff got on my skin, and I just went down, I suppose. Hit my head—as you can see—and when they found me, my heart had stopped, apparently. Of course, we have a crash team, and I was back in a little under a minute. If I am back, of course. Although, I sincerely hope that my better-than-life fantasy isn’t sitting with a headache in the lab of Wolfram and Hart talking to your very resistant, very angry back.’

Angel turned, held Wesley’s look for a moment then dipped his head in a small gesture of apology. ‘What about the drug?’

Wesley stood shakily. ‘Well, I still think that what I’m attempting to do is quite feasible. I just need to find the right carrier and the correct strength. But clearly the full strength is dangerous—to humans at least.’

‘And to a vampire?’

Everyone suddenly seemed very interested in the answer to Angel’s simple question. Spike turned to watch not the human’s reply, but Angel’s response to it. Wesley hesitated, staring at Angel equally intently. Angel only folded his arms and repeated, ‘And to vampires?’ If anyone noticed the slight change in emphasis in this near repetition, they didn’t mention it, engrossed as they were in the answer.

Wesley lifted his eyebrows and said quietly, ‘I’m working at the cutting edge of an entirely new drug taken from a mystical source, and you ask me something so precise that….’

‘Its effect on a vampire. It’s a simple question.’

‘I’m trying to tell you that….’

‘Could a vampire take it and live?’

‘Yes, Angel. A vampire could take it and live until they didn’t. It would suck them into a permanent world of dreams, from which they would, in all likelihood, never return.’

‘Never?’

‘I think the dream state would be so deep that any attempt to rip them from it would kill them. Eventually, they would starve back in the real world.’

Despite what Wesley or Spike expected from Angel, they were surprised when he said calmly, ‘I want that drug destroyed. It’s too dangerous to hold.’

Wesley seemed relieved and annoyed in equal measure. ‘It’s contained in a Wolfram and Hart secure facility. You thought that good enough for the likes of Pervane. I think one small vial of liquid is pretty safe.’

‘I am still the CEO of this company. I want the damn stuff destroyed.’

Wesley nodded. ‘All right. But I’ll have to put some thought to the best way to do that.’

Angel glanced at Spike then back at Wesley. ‘In the lobby for eight. We’ll all ride together.’ 

Spike made to follow him out, but Angel stopped when he’d picked up his bags, staring thoughtfully at nothing. Eventually, he said, ‘I’ll see you at eight,’ and left.

Spike waited until he was out of sight and earshot then spun around, flinging his bags into the corner of the lab. 

Wesley winced. ‘You hadn’t told him.’

Spike turned slowly and incredulously. ‘You told me not to! You said, and I quote: don’t tell Angel!’

‘No, well, I mean… I rather assumed that you’d passed the listening to me stage and were onto the tell Angel everything stage. Sorry.’

Spike shook his head sadly. ‘I think we were just about to get there tonight.’

‘Well, maybe if I can get this damn drug balanced just right you could.’

Spike jerked his head back. ‘You’re not going to destroy it?’

Wesley looked horrified. ‘You can’t treat science like a toy you’ve suddenly become tired of!’

‘But Angel said….’

‘I’m not too sure Angel is thinking very clearly about this just now. I have no intention of letting his minor squabble with you affect my better judgment.’

Spike stared at him for a moment then let a slow breath out through his teeth. ‘You really do have balls.’

Wesley blushed then groaned holding his head. ‘That hurt.’

Spike grudgingly retrieved his bags, and they began to walk back up to the offices together. After a few moments, Spike said, ‘So, where did you go? What was it like?’

Wesley sighed. ‘It was perfect, and really rather ghastly.’

‘Huh.’

‘Good grief, Spike, I’m English. You of all people should know that we find anything pleasant very hard to take. I kept thinking I ought to be off doing something noble and self-sacrificing. We do not come from a hedonistic race, I’m afraid.’ He rubbed his head. ‘I feel much better from having been wounded in the course of my investigations.’

Spike eyed the wound. ‘You’re not gonna be very pretty for this party tonight.’

Wesley smiled faintly. ‘As if with you two there anyone would notice?’ He turned and stilled Spike with a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry if I cocked things up for you back there. I thought—over the last few days—that I’d noticed a thawing in your relationship.’

Spike sighed and patted his hand. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before, but yeah, we were gonna do a bit of thawing tonight, Pet. Had some pleasant thawing all planned. But then we called down to see the mutilated, scalped body of some English git in a lab.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Scalped? God—Harmony. So, what are you going to do now?’

Spike shrugged. ‘Change into these dumb clothes and go pretend.’

Wesley carried on walking slowly. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

Spike laughed. ‘Buffy would agree with you there, Mate.’

‘I’m not sure I would have your persistence.’

Spike sniffed and lit a cigarette. ‘’S hard to explain. You’d have to see one of those looks he gives me sometimes, or hear him laugh when he knows he’s being dumb, or maybe….’

Wesley laughed ruefully. ‘Not all that hard to explain then: I think it’s called love.’ He stopped outside his office. ‘See you at eight.’

Despite what he’d told Wesley, Spike went straight to Angel’s office and rode up in the elevator to the apartment: he’s was love’s bitch; he knew this, but knowing it didn’t make him less susceptible.

Angel was in the shower; he could hear the water and the faint sounds of flesh on flesh. He pushed aside the erotic thoughts this conjured and laid his bags down on a chair. He’d wait until Angel finished. He had the distinct thought that just getting in the shower with him wouldn’t be welcome at all.

He stared out at the city lights, musing on erections and other interesting topics as he waited his turn. His—the achingly hard stiffness that had assailed him in the café and threatened to rip through his jeans in the limo—had subsided to a pleasant, anticipatory throb. He felt sorry for it. It was anticipating nothing more than a handjob. Angel, he felt sure, would not be on the menu that night.

‘Fuck off, Spike. I don’t want to see you.’

Spike turned, surprised and not a little embarrassed that he’d not heard Angel come in, but mostly amused that Angel’s words so uncannily echoed his own thoughts. Interestedly, he noted that his erection was showing more enthusiasm again, and figured it was as much a sucker for Angel’s naked, wet skin as he was.  Dressed only in a towel, hair streaming wet, fastening a delicate gold chain around his neck, Angel watched him from the doorway.

Spike began to shed his coat and unbutton his shirt. ‘I needed somewhere to change, tosser.’

‘You’ll never change, Spike. That’s your problem.’

‘This is about me not telling you what I was doing with Wesley, isn’t it?’

Angel cursed and pulled the chain fastening to his eye line. Spike made a small impatient noise and held out his hand. Angel dropped the chain into it and turned around, obediently, head bent.

Spike froze.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the chain. 

After a moment, Angel twisted his head around. ‘Well?’

Spike shook himself slightly and came forward. 

Angel held his wrist. ‘What?’

Spike ripped away and began to fasten the chain. ‘It was just kinda…. Bugger.’

‘What?’

‘Domestic, Angel. It was kinda domestic. Wesley asked me what better-than-life would be like, and for a moment, it was this. That’s all. And I really don’t know why I tell you these things and then put myself into a position for you to hurt me more.’

He finished the fastening and began to pull off his boots. ‘I’m gonna shower.’

Angel watched him hop toward the bed with a thoughtful expression darkening his already dark eyes.

Spike held his face up to the water, trying to shake the impression that not only had he seen a glimpse of his perfection, he’d seen it all. Complete. Over. One second. It would be a suitable irony for someone eternal: to have one second of perfection. 

He sensed he was being watched and turned his head, not taking it out of the stream of water. Angel was leaning on the counter, studying him. Spike turned his face back to the water. ‘Like what you see, pervert?’

Unseen by Spike, Angel nodded. ‘You know I do. Not trying to pretend I don’t.’

‘What are you trying to pretend then, Angel? Don’t seem to me there was much pretence going on in that café. Wasn’t just my body you wanted.’  He fumbled for some of Angel’s shampoo and began to scrub as if he still had hair that needed washing.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because Wesley asked me not to—although I’ll grant you that don’t sound too truthful after the dozy pillock’s slip.’

‘Do you do everything Wesley asks you to do?’

‘Don’t be dumb. I didn’t tell you because of this: I knew you’d freak out.’

‘I’m not freaking….’

‘Whatever. See, I can’t ever win with you, Angel. I tell you or I don’t tell you, but either way, I lose.’

‘Is it a competition?’

Spike began to rinse, turning his head this way and that, soap running down his lithe body to swirl in the stall. It reminded him of the foam at the ocean, and suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to be at the beach again, where things were simple. Where things were a long way from Angel.

Angel was watching him closely, as if he could read these thoughts, so Spike clamped down on them and thought instead how much of a wanker Angel was, and the watching vampire smiled, amused, as if he could read this, too.

Slightly spooked, Spike stepped out the stall and made to pass Angel, but a hand shot out and held onto his arm.  ‘I think I was going to pay you early.’

Spike looked at the hand curled around his arm. There was something fundamentally erotic about one man’s fingers tight around another man’s bicep. He couldn’t decide whether this was because it was so right, or so wrong, or because it was fraught with a resonance of power and fight and the ringing sound of battle.

He carefully pulled his arm out of the strong grip. ‘I’m not for sale, Angel.’ He walked past and into the room where he’d left his new clothes. If his heart could pound, it would, like a cartoon, popping out of his chest. He’d said no. For the first time since all this started, he’d said no. He wasn’t afraid to turn around and see Angel’s expression; he was just busy dressing; nevertheless, his ears strained to catch any sound from the other room. 

Still, he didn’t hear the other vampire enter until a breath, like a ghostly finger, brushed the stubble on his neck. ‘I could make you.’

Spike saw his paths fracture once more. The one where he reacted to this, they fought, and Angel probably made good on his threat, spiralled off into an unknown future of pain and discord. The other, the one where he laughed and carried on dressing seemed the better route to take, but by the time he’d decided this, he realised it was the one he’d already taken: the laugh laughed, the clothes pulled onto his shower-warm body. As an afterthought, as he’d chosen this path, he added, ‘I can’t do this anymore with you. It stops tonight.’

Angel came around to the front and perched on the back of the chair, watching him through narrowed eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘This….’ As he had no words for any of it, and suspected Angel had fewer, he only indicated the bed, the shower, the clothes, the whole fucked-up little incestuous intensity with the sweep of his hand. ‘This. It’s over. I’m not doing it any more with you.’

‘I’m not sure that’s for you to say.’

Spike flicked him a glance. ‘Get dressed. It’s nearly eight.’

Angel lashed out his hand and caught Spike a stinging blow across his face. ‘You brought me back here! You’re gonna Goddammed share it with me!’

‘No!’ Spike banged his arm away when he saw it rising for another hit. ‘I’ve played this with you, Angel, cus somewhere, in here, in my damaged brain, I was trying to sort though some things—‘bout me and Buffy. All the things I did wrong with her—for her. Tried to help her, too, see? When she got brought back and so sad an’ all. But I couldn’t help ‘er no matter what I did for ‘er! I laid down and covered the puddles she had to step over with my own bloody body, and all I got was wet! So, no more! Yes, you had a shit deal in life, Angel. I get that; I really do. But don’t put all your fucking angst on me! I’ve had a shit time, too, and I don’t need it! Now, go get on that bloody suit, which we spent all fucking afternoon buying. This is your life now. You don’t choose it, but you do have to live it.’

Deliberately turning his back on Angel and on anything that might fly from his lips or his fists, he shrugged on his new shirt and began buttoning it, calm inwardly even if his fingers were stiff and slow.

‘You’ll be back here tonight.’ Angel walked back to his bedroom, and Spike couldn’t tell if this was a promise or a threat.

Chapter 20

It wouldn’t have taken something as sharp as a knife to cut the atmosphere in the car.  Spike and Angel sat at furthest ends of the roomy seat with Wesley between them, attempting not to feel like meat in an unpleasant sandwich of animosity. That the vampires were both so beautiful, in clothes that seemed to float on their steel-hard bodies, only made the atmosphere more ironic: looks said love should be in the air, but it was something far more choking than that. 

They drew up outside a Wolfram and Hart clone building with a number of other limos depositing a variety of human and demon occupants. Angel squared his shoulders, looked up and said pointedly to Spike, ‘We do what we came to do. Leave other crap in the car.’

Spike pursed his lips and glanced back at the vehicle as it glided away. ‘Too nice to crap in. Think I’ll take mine with me.’ He shouldered past Angel and went into the building on his own.

Wesley coughed, embarrassed. ‘Shall we go forth and conquer? They are only lawyers, after all.’

Angel was still watching Spike’s back. ‘I thought the expression was go forth and multiply.’

Wesley patted his arm. ‘Well, yes, but that hardly seemed tactful, given the circumstances.’

Angel turned to him, frowning. ‘And that means…?’

Backtracking faster than a movie on rewind, Wesley murmured, ‘Well, you being a…. demon…. No children. That’s all I meant.’

‘No children.’

‘Is something wrong, Angel? Other than life in general, which always seems to be wrong these….’

‘No. There’s nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong, and there are no children. See? Life is very simple for me. Let’s go.’ Hearing none of these lies, Wesley followed him into the bowels of the new firm.

Spike was outside the doors to the room where the party was being held, lighting a cigarette. It didn’t appear to be a ploy to ensure he didn’t have to go in alone, but nevertheless, when Wesley and Angel appeared, he latched onto them, and the three went in together to a crowded room full of noise and the smell of power.

Someone Angel vaguely recognised came over to them and shook his hand. When the man turned away to summon them drinks, Wesley murmured, ‘Philip Grately. Left Wolfram and Hart last month to work here.’

Angel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why?’

‘They pay more and extract less, I believe.’

Angel took a drink and nodded at the man. ‘Where’s the CEO?’  Grately turned and scanned the room then gestured toward a tall, impressive looking man in one corner. He was talking with great animation to someone and seemed unaware of the rest of the assembled guests.

Angel began to move toward the man but stopped so suddenly that Spike, who had been following, walked into him. He seemed embarrassed, but Angel didn’t appear to notice. He only said, ‘Cordelia,’ in a voice that sounded as if summoned from a place of great pain.

Spike followed his gaze to the man and to the women he was talking to. She had her back to them, but to Spike’s eyes, it was undeniably Cordelia. As she was dead, he knew it wasn’t, and turned to Angel to remark on the coincidence but stopped at Angel’s expression. Instead, he said concerned, and hating himself for being so, ‘’S not really her, Luv.’

Angel didn’t appear to hear, or didn’t want to hear. He pushed through the crowd with a dazed, hopeful expression on his face. 

Just before he reached the couple, the woman turned. She was Cordelia from the back: hair, figure, height, stance, clothes, shoes, tan, jewellery. From the front, she was someone else, and as if a child fooled by trick box, Angel blinked and shook his head. She smiled and held out a hand. ‘At last. You must be Angel. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ Dismissively, she waved a hand at her admirer, and with a last, longing glance, the distinguished man moved away.

Angel was still staring, so Spike came closer and held out his hand. ‘I’m Spike.’

She repressed a smile, but it still illuminated her face. ‘I rather guessed that.’

Something implied in this—some secret knowledge, some familiarity—animated Angel enough to say annoyed, ‘And you are?’  It was blunt, even for him.

She only laughed delightedly. ‘Yes. Sorry. I’m Charisma Coombs. My father, Christopher, founded this firm and, until today, was its CEO.’

‘Until today?’

She lifted one eyebrow. ‘He died this morning.’

As bluntly as he had asked her name, Angel said, ‘Did you kill him, or did you use a minion?’

She paled and stepped back. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Dead men’s shoes. Works for me.’

‘I—.’ She looked genuinely distraught and glanced at Spike as if for support. ‘He had cancer of the throat. He’d been ill for years. I—. Killed? You thought I’d have my own father killed? To run his firm? My God, what they say about you is true.’

Angel faltered and said almost contritely, ‘I’m sorry.’ He ran his fingers through his hair in an agitated manner. ‘Look, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.’ She nodded, still pale. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

She glanced around the room. ‘Well, as it’s my firm, I think I’d be paying. But, yes, thank you.’ 

He smiled, a rare engaging smile then offered her an arm. ‘I’d like to meet some of your people.’ As they began to walk away, Angel turned and cast Spike a look over one shoulder. The look clearly said that he had not left their argument in the car either, and that now he had found the perfect revenge.

Spike held Angel’s spiteful look for a moment then turned deliberately away. He didn’t need to be told any more clearly that Angel was not to be the one standing alone in the shadows at this party.

He watched Angel’s act for a while, watched him working the floor, making contacts, being entertaining where he had to be, cold where that was more suited, laughing on cue when his humour was required, like oil, to smooth the joining of the two firms. It was a good act; Spike had to give him that. It seemed that Angel was a good actor in lots of ways.

After an hour, Wesley came to stand alongside him. He was frowning, but Spike did not particularly feel like indulging the human by asking him what was wrong. Wesley supplied the information voluntarily. ‘I can’t find any evidence of demonic partnerships in this firm at all.’

‘You saying they ain’t evil?’

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t go that far. They are lawyers, after all. And mostly Republicans, as far as I could tell from the conversation. So, evil most definitely.’

If he was attempting a joke, it fell on stony ground. Spike was quite willing to accept that the whole damn firm was evil, especially the CEO who was now his personification of evil. It didn’t help his mood when Wesley said wistfully, ‘She really is very beautiful. They seem to be hitting it off.’

‘Yeah. Big hit all round.’ He dropped his cigarette on the immaculate cream carpet and ground it out with his heel. ‘I’m going.’

‘Going? Why? Where?’

‘Dunno and dunno.’

‘What about me?’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, you can’t leave me here like a lemon.’

‘Watch me. And, Wesley, that came over as really kinda… gay.’

‘It came over as someone who doesn’t want to be left in a room talking to a bunch of republicans.’

‘You’ll be okay. You’re white and English and vaguely straight. Actually, celibate is probably better than okay.’

‘I’m not celibate. I’m just unlucky.’

Spike smiled and lit a cigarette, not consciously glancing over to check on Angel’s progress around the room, but suddenly noticing he wasn’t there. ‘Fuck.’

‘I’m not that unlucky.’

‘Pillock. Where’d they go?’

Wesley’s eyes lifted to the ceiling thoughtfully, and he completed his tactless comments for the night. ‘I wonder if she has an apartment up there, too.’

Chapter 21

As Angel was nothing more to Spike now than the demon that had once bitten him, he wasn’t in a position the following day to ask where Angel spent the night, nor had he verified in person that Angel hadn’t spent the night in his own apartment. Alone. That place was now off-limits, but it didn’t stop him cruising past the entrance to Angel’s office from early morning, on the off chance that he’d catch his emergence. Alone.

On his third stomp past, just after nine, Angel was at his desk. There was no outward sign that he’d done anything but sleep all night. Alone.

Before Spike could think up an excuse to go in and talk to him, he heard voices and turned to find Wesley escorting Charisma Coombs toward them. In daylight, she was even more beautiful than under the artificial light and makeup of the evening. Dressed in casual slacks and a silk blouse the colour of blood, she looked like a Goddess come to earth to recruit armies of worshipers. Spike, however, reckoned he could see surgery scars and collagen, and was determined to be neither impressed nor recruited. 

She nodded at him with a smile, and the traitor took her into Angel’s office.

Angel was all smiles and politeness, preparing to show her around. 

Spike wasn’t spared a glance, although he knew very well that Angel knew he was there. When they came out, however, Angel suddenly put his arm over Spike’s shoulder, as if they were about to do something heterosexual with a ball, and said in his best jock-voice, ‘Hey! We’ll bring Spike. He knows the damn place better than me.’

Spike corrected, ‘I’ under his breath, but if Angel heard, he didn’t let on. He did give him a smile: private, malicious, and behind the woman’s back as they walked away.

Spike gave him a suitable English response then went in the other direction. He felt in the mood to help Wesley with the drug research.

He was now very much in favour of Wesley continuing to work on it. His motives on this were varied: one minute being simply that it would piss Angel off if he knew, and the next being more complex, as if the promise of better-than-life were seducing him.

Inevitably, the beautiful couple (as Spike had heard someone refer to them) came into the lab. Angel began to explain some of it to her, but dried up fairly quickly and covered by waving over one of the white-coated assistants. While she was being briefed, he wandered over to Wesley and Spike. Wesley was only watching some lines on a machine, which he knew Angel would neither understand nor be interested in, so was not unduly worried. Spike couldn’t care less what Angel did, of course, so he just lit a cigarette. For some reason, though, he was uncharacteristically clumsy, accidentally knocking over Wesley’s mug of tea.  This small mishap was not lost on Angel, and his lips quirked up with triumph. Sounding casual, he leant on the wall, watching them. ‘What y’doing?’ Not waiting for a reply, he said to no one in particular (but to Spike), ‘So, great party, huh?’

Spike was grinding his teeth too hard to reply, and Wesley, with a small sigh of martyred effort, replied, ‘Very pleasant.’

‘So, Spike, did you get to meet Charisma? I forget—kinda preoccupied.’

Spike moved away from Wesley and leant on the wall the other side of Angel. In a low voice, he said pointedly, ‘Won’t work.’

Angel narrowed his eyes, watching the woman as she flirted with the lab assistant. ‘Huge… brain. Amazing.’

‘What she see in you then?’ Spike could have bitten off his tongue. In his head, this had sounded so much less like a cue for Angel to point out exactly what the women did see in his perfect body, Angelic face and very large… car.

Angel refrained and only shrugged modestly. Spike bit through his cigarette and ground it into the floor. ‘You’re pathetic, Angel. You play these games, thinking people will always want you enough to put up with the shit you throw at them. One day, someone will call your bluff, and you’ll be left all on your own with your unfulfilled promises and pseudo life.’ 

Angel looked impressed. ‘You should have been a poet, Will. And you’ll never leave. You can make your dramatic exits—yeah, like we’re gonna actually stop fucking. You don’t fool anyone either, Spike. You’re the one who’s pathetic.’

Spike didn’t turn to look at him but kept his face forward and his expression neutral. ‘One day, it won’t be a crowbar I hit you with, Angel. It’ll be the truth.’

‘Whoa, I’m gonna tear up in a minute. The only truth here is that I’m what you want. I’m what you crave.’

Spike suddenly smiled. He turned slowly to the beautiful profile. ‘Then how come you’re the one doing this pathetic thing with her to make me jealous and get me to come back?’

He pushed off the wall and sauntered out, fairly sure who’d taken the field that day.

Angel got his revenge fairly quickly. 

He called Wesley up to the office, and somehow in the call, it was implied that Spike was required, too. 

Sceptical, but having nothing better to do, Spike tagged along as Wesley made his way up.  ‘Do you think he noticed anything—in the lab?’

Spike shook his head. ‘There was only one thing he was noticing. Relax.’

When they entered the office, Angel and Charisma were having a drink, and Angel immediately poured them both one. Wesley took his, still looking slightly nervous. ‘What’s the occasion?’

Angel, watching Spike intently, said, ‘We’re becoming partners.’ Very deliberately, he laid his arm over the woman’s shoulders.

Spike shook his head wearily and put his drink down. ‘It’s been a long day in the kindergarten, Wes. I’m going home.’

He got halfway down the hallway before Angel caught up to him. They rode in the elevator together. ‘You don’t believe me.’

‘No, Angel. I do. I really do. I believe that you are so up your own arse about wanting me that you’ve spent the entire day….’

Angel slammed his hand on the emergency stop, and this time, the thing worked. Spike cursed his luck then winced slightly when Angel planted his hands either side of his head. Angel was watching his lips with an expression that hung uneasily between lover and predator. He licked his own and grinned, raising his eyes. ‘You still don’t get it. What more do I have to do to prove that I don’t want you? I don’t even like you, Spike. Jesus! Put yourself up against her! What the freaking hell have you got that I would want?’

Spike kept his gaze locked on the dark eyes. ‘I don’t know. Most days I hate myself more than you ever could. You tell me.’

Angel faltered, and for a moment, Spike saw something moving behind the closed-off, hateful expression. It rolled and curled, as if bound and trying to be free, but before he could say anything that might give it life enough to break through the resistance that held it in check, it was gone, locked down once more behind eyes that were now only predator. 

Spike almost cursed out loud. So close. They’d been so close to breaking out of this destructive trap. So close to admitting what lay behind the cruel games that they played. For one fleeting moment, he saw himself breaking the barriers: telling Angel how he truly felt. But in doing that, he would surrender the entire war. He’d invested too much in it to do that. So, instead, he dug deep into his reserves of pain and said, ‘You really need to get over me, Angel. Move on, yeah?’

It was only as he heard his own words, that he remembered their provenance. It was only as Angel pushed angrily off the wall, released the door and stormed away that he remembered the consequences of those words when said to him—and all that had followed after. 

It was too late to take them back and say the better things that had been hammering in his heart to escape: that he loved Angel and that he wanted the war to end.
 
Angel strode away without looking back, and thus saw none of the regret and pain crossing Spike’s face.

It was only then, standing in the elevator, feeling utterly vulnerable and wretched, that Spike realised he didn’t have his coat. He needed it like he needed comfort, and he decided one out of two was better than he deserved.

Then Spike had a very happy thought. 

He lifted his eyes and stared intently at the ceiling of the elevator.

His clothes were still up in Angel’s apartment. 

Obviously, he needed his coat. It was so obvious that it also made obvious that going to the apartment wasn’t actually going to the apartment. Not at all. It was something quite other than going to the apartment, or seeing Angel. It didn’t affect the fact that they were stopped, or that they were mortal enemies now, engaged in a battle, the rules for which had been drawn up over a century before. And it was nothing to do with the fact that he felt like a complete shit for allowing Angel to walk away from that final comment. 

Pleased with his decision not to go up and see Angel, therefore, Spike strode out of the elevator and headed for the apartment.

Later, when he had time to remember, all he could focus on were the echoes. They’d started when he’d walked in, grinning shyly at this not-seeing-Angel strategy to see Angel. For a moment, he thought someone had bled out on the floor. Angel? Him? They had shed so much for so long that the bright crimson pool confused him: out of time, out of place. Then his brain caught up with his eyes, and he saw it for what it was: a discarded silk blouse. He suddenly wished that it were his blood. 

That was something he was prepared to lose.

Then he heard the echoes, distorted ones: the first sound low and harsh, the echo higher. 

He followed the sound because it was what had to be done.  How had Buffy felt, watching him through a camera, moving on? Why had he repeated her words to Angel, knowing where they would lead? Where bitterness that deep always led. 

So he went forward into the place of echoes, knowing it was pre-ordained for him to have this pain. He was a bad man, and he deserved to be punished. Getting his soul back in reparation for what he had done was nothing compared to this. 

The echoes continued, rhythmically.

It was gloomy in the bedroom, despite being high afternoon. Perhaps Angel had pulled the shades to give the illusion of romance, despite the haste with which he must have brought the women up here. 

He was on his back, and the beautiful figure rode him. Arched, her head thrown back in ecstasy, the long black hair that had reminded them of someone else hung down so far that it brushed the dark place between Angel’s thighs, mingling with his.

With her back to the door, engrossed with the thick length that was buried deep within her body, the woman didn’t hear Spike. 

Had Buffy been able to back away? Or had their secret trapped her, forcing her to pretend a nonchalant watching of something that hurt her so much. He didn’t deserve the freedom to back away, but he did. A soldier in retreat from the battlefield of his life, he made no pretence of victory. He was only glad that they did not know he was there. He would not wish the pain he had felt, knowing that Buffy had been forced to watch, being inflicted on Angel.

Then, he saw the amused eyes.

Not only were they fixed on him, Spike knew that they’d been waiting for him, staring eagerly at the doorway. With a flash of delight in their unfathomable depths, Angel murmured, ‘I’m glad you came. I knew you would.’

The woman moaned her agreement to something of which she was no part.

Very deliberately, Angel put his hands up and cupped the softly quivering breasts, caressing them. Then he slid one hand around her neck and grasped the hair, twisting it like a strangler twists before death. A thick, dark coil in his hand. 

It was enough.

Spike gave him a small nod and for all the fighting and loving and talking and screaming and pain over the last twelve decades, that tiny movement of his head was the most telling gesture of all. 

He was defeated, and he surrendered the day.

He began to laugh, a hollow silent sound that was trapped in his throat and made him swallow urgently. He turned and walked away just as she had, heart torn. Every shard of pain he’d given her, was now returned. This was the reason he’d been allowed to regain his soul. Not so he could die for the world, but so that he could live and suffer. So that he could understand the pain that he gave to other people. 

It hurt so bad he didn’t think he’d be able to physically keep walking. 

He was in a car before he realised that he’d even taken one and driving out of the city without taking in one single moment of the journey. All he could see were Angel’s eyes as they mocked him. All he could hear was the sound they made together. All he could feel was an aching emptiness where his love for Angel had once been.

It was a strange afternoon, the sky hanging low over the city, yellow light saturating the walls, casting an eerie glow over skin. It was oppressive and suited his mood. 

Without conscious thought, he drove toward the ocean.

By the time he arrived, the wind was blowing straight in off the sea, whipping the waves to frenzy, crashing them to the shore. 

He sat for a while in the safety of the car, sensing the storm approaching.

He was a bad man. The very sky seemed to bear witness to his iniquity. He had deliberately said those words to Angel to precipitate that final showdown, even though he had not seen that deliberation at the time.

He was a bad man, and he should suffer for it.

But he was weak as well as bad, and he didn’t want to suffer any more. 

It was such a small thing: opening a door, walking on the sand in the daylight. People took it for granted. 

He wouldn’t.

He would savour every moment, until he could savour no more. 

He wanted to see if he could make it to the ocean. He had no intention of entering it. He didn’t do water, not voluntarily, and besides, he wanted to remember the last time he had done water. With Angel. He smiled at the memory. 

He lit a cigarette then opened the door. 

Gracefully, he stepped out into the lowering afternoon, buffeted by the wind. The cigarette fell out of his hand, but he didn’t notice for he’d begun to smoulder.

He began to walk toward the sea. 

It hardly hurt at all, not even when the smoke erupted into flames. 

There was no great rush as there had been the first time, when the light that had burnt him had saved the world. This was a more private death and, he hoped, more permanent. 

By the time he reached the sea, flames were licking at his heart, and he knew it wouldn’t be long. 

He turned slowly around, one last look at the world. 

Echoes. 

Another fireball was coming toward him.

Had he brought the echoes with him or had they been here waiting for him? In his pain, he could not work it all out.

Suddenly, his echo collided with him, hard and fast, and he was propelled into the water. 

He fought to die like a man desperate to live, struggling in a stronger hold, clawing his way back toward the sand, but dragged powerfully into the sea.

He was submerged, waves crashed around him. He swallowed seawater and gagged like the weak demon he was. Flames were extinguished until a swell left his head exposed, and they sprang back to life like a joke candle given to a distressed child desperate to blow them out.  Then he was pulled deeper, sucked into the ocean where it was still and calm under the storm.

His eyes began to focus, healing even as he hung suspended in the cold water. 

Angel’s arms were locked around his neck, and they were standing at the bottom of the ocean, the light a faint blueness six feet or so above their heads.

He could not see Angel’s expression, only his hair, which rose like hope to the surface, swirling. 

He could feel him though—the arms that locked on his neck, the body that pressed trembling with pain against him.

Time seemed to accelerate and stop at the same time, and suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, Spike knew that he was dead. 

The flames had taken him, and this was his hell, to be forever suspended in dark, cold water with an Angel that he couldn’t see or speak to or hear.

Whether Angel sensed something of this, or whether his own pain drove his actions, Spike suddenly felt a surge of pain in his throat. Fangs tore his muscles, and then nothing but pleasure as his blood began to flow home.

This wasn’t death.

This was life. Eternal and damned though it was. It was life, and he craved it.

With a huge intake of water, he cried out and began to kick from the powerful form, but it held him tight in its embrace. The mouth lifted from his neck, but legs wrapped around his body, imprisoning him even tighter.

A hand found his. 

Spike fought again. Not now! Not holding hands now! Then he felt something being pressed against his fingers. A watch. Angel’s watch, and he got it: Angel was holding him under until the sun went down.

Panic surged again, but he was locked tighter, hands now pressing his face into a shoulder so broad that legions could cry on it and not diminish its strength.

They were shaking badly, burnt skin cooling rapidly and defeating their preternatural bodies. 

He thought Angel so invulnerable but then saw the dark head stretch back in an attempt to fight panic. Or maybe Angel’s shaking wasn’t fear at all. 

For the first time, Spike’s brain stopped churning with uncontrollable emotions; questions flooded in on their wake. How seemed the most pressing, but why tore his heart. He dreaded the answer to that.

At the same moment, they knew that the sun had gone. Angel just let go.

They rose, swimming to the surface as if they needed air. Old habits died hard. Old enmities even harder.

The waves were more powerful than when they’d sunk into the depths, the storm at its zenith, the tide high.

Half-swimming, half victims to the tidal power, they emerged to the sand, dark forms flopping wet and exhausted to the relatively warm, dry land.

Before he could defend himself, Angel was punching at him, albeit weakly, without the strength to do more. He was black from the burning, his hair standing straight up, looming over Spike like a figure from a nightmare. But his words didn’t seem to match his actions. He was crying something over and over again, but against the surf and the storm, Spike couldn’t hear. He grabbed at the hair and yanked, pulling Angel down, trying to grab his wrists and prevent the punching, but Angel rolled and pulled him over on top on him. Only then did Spike hear the ragged litany, ‘I love you! I love you! I love you!’ 

He wanted to stop the words for he knew they weren’t true, and he tried to free his hand to clamp it over the deceitful lips. For a moment, they struggled, until Angel seemed to sense what he was trying to do. 

Sharply, seizing the back of Spike’s head, Angel crushed their lips together. 

Nothing could be mistaken in that kiss. 

It was every kiss that Angel had denied them. It was every tender moment that he’d resisted. It was the love that he’d locked inside himself to keep it safe.

A seventh wave washed over them, powerful, rolling them like the flotsam of life, but they neither heard its angry hiss nor felt its icy touch. The storm, the ocean, the beach coalesced in two hot mouths: two tongues and two souls willing to admit that the war was a sham and that passion had better ways of being expressed. 

Gradually, however, the world began to intrude on their private reconciliation. The questions began to surface. The abandonment to mouth and tongue and lip faded to a quieter enjoyment of the feel of the other, the knowledge that the other was there: owned, wanted, needed, loved. That awareness led to ones of cold, discomfort and sand, and then, once more, the need for answers to questions. 

Reluctantly, they climbed to their feet, and only touching occasionally at the arm, they made their way to Angel’s car. 

By the time they reached it, the few shreds left of their clothes had fallen away. Angel reached into the trunk and passed Spike a blanket, wrapping one around himself.

Sitting in their dry warmth, cocooned in the luxury of the expensive car, they looked as if they’d escaped the fiery pits of hell, which emotionally, Spike reckoned was about right.

He began to question, but Angel just cupped him around the back of the neck and retuned them to the most important question: how intensely he could show Spike that he loved him.  It took a long time for this question to be answered, and then the only language they used was one of tongue and saliva and soft lip tasting the truth on soft lip. Angel reminded them both how sterile it had been without kissing, this kiss now giving life back to places that had died in the bitterness of the preceding weeks.

Finally, Spike slid his hand reluctantly between them, even then having his fingers kissed and sucked until he laughed, a low, melodic sound that seemed so contrary to his demonically frightening appearance. Angel looked at him from bloodshot eyes and said calmly, ‘I didn’t think I’d hear that again.’

Spike swallowed, feeling the painful rawness on the inside of his throat where he’d sucked the burning air. ‘How are you here?’

‘Because I love you, Spike, and I….’

Spike smiled indulgently. ‘I meant how d’ya find me?’

‘Oh. The cars are all bugged.’

‘Huh? Jeez.’ He leant back in the seat, pondering the fact that his life had been spared by the evil paranoia of Wolfram and Hart. 

Angel took his hands, playing with the blistered fingers, not looking up. ‘I have to tell you something.’

Spike squeezed Angel’s fingers lightly. ‘I know she meant nothing.’

Angel looked up, confused, then shook his head, rapidly changing this to a nod. ‘Yeah, she didn’t, but not her. I don’t mean that.’ He looked down again. ‘It wasn’t a dream, Spike. See, that was point—why what you did hurt so much.’

‘Huh?’ Spike tilted Angel’s chin, so they were staring at each other through heat-damaged eyes. 

‘I didn’t dream it. It was real. Connor was my son, Spike. I had a son, and I loved him more than I’d ever loved anything. He was the height my soul could reach. Do you get what I’m trying to say? He wasn’t a whimsy created by a demon-induced fantasy. I gave him back his life as a baby and lived it again with him.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

Angel closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I had a child with Darla—I know, I thought it was impossible, too. But he was very real, and I loved him. When he was only a few weeks old, he was stolen from me. So, when I had the chance, I got him back.’

‘Oh, God, and I took you away from him again.’

‘Yes. I went a little insane, I think.’

Spike turned and stared out of the window at the surf. 

Angel laid his hand on the blanket-clad thigh. ‘Hey.’

Spike hunched his shoulders but didn’t reply. 

Angel put the car in gear and drove slowly back to the coast road. He kept glancing over at the silent figure next to him. He put his hand back on Spike’s thigh, waiting to see what would happen. He was immensely relieved when Spike took his fingers and began to play with them thoughtlessly.

Suddenly, Spike turned and said, ‘Why did you come tonight?’

‘I told you, the car was….’

‘No, I mean: what is this now? What’s going to happen now?’

Angel twisted his hand so he was holding Spike’s fingers. He squeezed them gently. ‘Who’s idea was it, Spike?’

For the first time that Angel asked that question, Spike answered honestly. ‘Wesley articulated what I already knew. Nothing based on hatred could be as passionate as what we always had together.’

‘Yeah.’ Angel sounded as if a great weight of truth had been taken off his shoulders. ‘That’s what I think.’ He took his eyes off the dark road and turned his intense gaze on his companion. ‘I know it sounds trite, but I wanted you the first moment I saw you, at that damn card party—remember? And, yeah, I don’t deny that I wanted your soul and your pain and your blood, but if it was only that, I would have just killed you, not turned you and kept you by my side.’

‘Angel…?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Eyes front, maybe? Done all the dying I’m gonna do tonight.’

Angel snatched his gaze back to the fortunately empty road but said angrily, ‘And we’re gonna talk about that later, at our leisure.’

Spike pursed his lips, decided silence was best for a while, and went back to playing with Angel’s fingers, this time though with a great deal more concentration.

‘So, you still haven’t answered my question: what now?’ 

Angel jerked from the exhausted, autopilot driving he’d slipped into and realised they’d reached the city limits. 

He sighed and didn’t try to hide his confusion. ‘I’m thinking one step at a time.’

Spike nodded. ‘Sleep first then.’

Angel smiled. ‘Shower and ointment before that.’

It hadn’t been meant as a cue, but nevertheless, Spike asked in a low voice, ‘Want some company for both those?’

Angel closed his eyes briefly and nodded, and once more that night, a small nod spoke more than all the preceding years of emotion could.

Chapter 22

Under the influence of the hot shower, they were brave enough to examine their bodies and smiled at the preternatural healing that had already kicked in. The burns still hurt enough to need treating, though. Slowly… with cool ointment and gentle hands.

Although they had not planned it, this quiet nursing of each other healed more than their burnt skin. When Angel ran his palm over Spike’s chest, swirling it over his heart, some bands around his own lifeless organ snapped free. It began to well, not with life, for that was now denied him, but with love. For the first time, when he said the words, they had a deep wellspring of vulnerability behind them. He did what he’d promised himself he’d never do again: he let himself be in love.

Spike felt the change in the slow, rhythmic rubbing on his skin and opened his eyes. Angel caught his gaze; his eyes dilated, heavy. One thumb began to stroke Spike’s nipple, and it wasn’t for healing. 

Spike caught his breath at the need he felt charge between them. 

Before they could stop, they were kissing, and there was no doubt in either mind where they were going with it. It was utterly wrong in so many ways: hardly slow steps as Angel had planned, and fraught with dangerous associations.

If they discussed what they were doing and worked maturely through the rape and all the bitterness that followed, then they did it silently by hands parting thighs and fingers pushing in through tight heat that ached to be penetrated. They didn’t really care about the past now. It was as if they had died out in that deep ocean and were reborn. On this new start, they made their own rules, and the first was that they wanted to fuck. They’d always wanted to fuck, and a hundred years and counting was too long to wait for something so fundamental between two men.

Angel pushed into Spike more on instinct than experience. Spike clenched too hard from total inexperience, and they had to start again, his scream of pain scaring them both. Angry that he’d been so pathetic, Spike snarled and pulled Angel down for a vialent, needy kiss, and on the intensity of that, Angel pushed back in. This time, he squeezed and rubbed Spike’s shoulders instinctively, and it was exactly what Spike needed to allow the vast intrusion into his body. Angel timed his entry to the tiny flickers of concern and pain in Spike’s eyes. When one flared, he stopped and played gently, teasing Spike balls and pain-softened cock. When the eyes returned to their steady blue, he urged himself deeper, forever seeking some elusive core that he’d always dreamt of taking, but now understood could only be given freely. 

At last, the joining was complete. Angel lay over Spike, braced on strong arms on either side of his shoulders. The slightest twitch in his cock was now shared: Spike’s eyes widening as his guts replied with a spasm of pleasure. 

Very slowly, with as much care as he had once handled his other child, Angel clenched then relaxed his buttocks, causing his cock to pump once in the tight channel. It was his turn to cry out. Neck taut, back bent in a graceful arc, he sent a ragged sound of pleasure to the heavens. He thrust in again and swore, clutching Spike around the neck and pulling him closer, farther on, needing to go deeper.

Suddenly, they both felt some final resistance deep inside Spike’s body give, and whether this was a fearful, last grasp on his dignity by strong muscles, or something emotional ripping apart to let Angel in, they never knew. They only knew pleasure. 

Spike began to buck, demanding Angel’s penetration, his fingers clawing at the broad back, drawing blood. 

Angel found a rhythm of long hard thrusts into the tight tissue that clamped around him with a pressure he’d only experienced alone, fucking his fist. 

Then Angel opened his eyes and saw that he was fucking Spike, and all the pleasure that welled inside him began to flood, pouring into his brain and his heart and all the places that had died. He cried out with the intensity of it all and pushed Spike’s thighs back so he could watch the entry, see where they joined, take in what it was that they were doing. The magnitude of seeing his red, swollen, angry shaft stretching Spike made the pleasure flood even to his eyes, emerging as tears, streaming down his blistered cheeks. When he pulled out, a tiny ring of muscle unfolded and came with him, tucking back in when he pushed back. It seemed to him like lips, and he pulled out, falling to them and kissing them, tasting them with his tongue.

Spike jerked and tore at Angel’s hair, beyond caring that Angel’s tongue was acquainting itself with a place no tongue had ever touched—his inside walls. 

Angel could not go deep enough. He rolled Spike into a tight ball, flattening and spreading his cheeks, mushing his mouth wetly to the swollen opening. He probed with his fingers, stretching him so his tongue could wriggle in. Neither heard that they were panting and moaning; the sensation of touch overrode all others.

With a cry, Angel flipped Spike over onto his hands and knees, and hissing his encouragement, Spike dipped at the waist, offering up what Angel so desperately wanted. 

It was nothing they’d experienced before. So slick and hard, Angel glided into Spike’s body like sword returned to sheath. Relaxed, opened, wet, Spike received him as easily as a woman and didn’t find anything in this that bothered him one jot. He wasn’t offering Angel what a woman did; he knew exactly what Angel wanted; he wanted it himself and felt a clench of desire in his balls that he would soon know Angel so intimately.

Angel fucked Spike’s face into the mattress over and over, both loving the position. Kneeling to the spread backside, he discovered a pleasure that he had not even known he’d missed. He was so hard with desire that when he pulled out at the end of each long, slow fuck in, his cock bounced high onto his belly and had to be coaxed slowly back into the slippery red flesh waiting for it.

Instinctively, Angel put his hand out to find Spike’s hair, wanting to ride into him on those reins of control, but his greedy fingers found only air and stubble. 

Suddenly, his hand was seized, and Spike entwined their fingers.   

And everything slowed. 

They came back to a stunned awareness of what they were doing.  Angel pulled Spike up, crushing him against his chest, arms wrapped possessively around him. He slipped out of the tight body, and they twisted around, kissing; now enjoying this joining as much as the other. Moaning, tasting tongues, mouths irresponsible and greedy, they tumbled into a mass of aroused flesh. 

Then Angel was on his back, and Spike lay on him, holding him in the hot hollows of his armpits, stroking the luxuriant, silky hair.

Without thinking, Spike sat up, and suddenly, they were re-enacting a scene that had already taken place in the bed that night. Angel didn’t even hesitate. He just cried out, ‘Fuck, yeah!’ and sat up, trying to feed his cock into Spike.

When they were docked, Angel lay back down with a sigh of deep contentment and said very distinctly, his fingers gripping Spike’s thighs, ‘This is what I was looking for in all their softer flesh.’

Spike spread his fingers on Angel’s chest. ‘What? This?’ He lifted up until only a thin chain of Angel’s precum joined them, then plunged back on, unerringly seating himself on the hard protrusion of Angel’s body.

They both said, ‘Oh, fuck!’ simultaneously, and Spike repeated the exercise over and over until Angel bit through his lip, so hard was he trying not to unman himself by screaming out in his pleasure.

Blood aroused them further, and now, peaking on the edge of total exhaustion, Spike leant down to suck Angel’s lip into his mouth. His saliva dripped onto Angel’s tongue, and they mashed their mouths together, sharing all these fluids—not consciously aware of their great providence being as they were, but somehow subconsciously appreciating their preternatural bodies as they never had before.

They were awash with bodily fluids, slick with sweat and spit and Spike’s precum, which Angel began to milk from the heavy cock laying between them. He squeezed and milked with his fist, occasionally putting his hand to his lips to lick the palm like a cat licking a very different kind of cream.

Spike’s head bowed with exhaustion as he rode Angel’s hard body. 

Sensing that they both needed to come soon or not at all, Angel suddenly rose from the bed, dislodging his eager rider. He dragged Spike into position—hands and knees on the edge of the bed—and stood between the open thighs.

For a moment, he indulged himself with fingers, scissoring them inside the friction-hot ass. Then he lifted his heavy cock and positioned it against the slick, stretched edges. 

With hands spanning the slim waist, he brought them both off. 

Only another preternatural body could have withstood the battering Angel gave it. Legs spread as if on the deck of a ship heaving on waves, feet planted to the floor, massive hands holding with a death-like grip, he was something conjured from the nightmares of Christian bigots: he fucked Spike in the ass with demonic power. Vocal cords tore at the end: cries of orgasm becoming pained and ragged, trying to express pleasure too deep, too fundamental to wholly leave their bodies.

They could not have spoken about the experience even if they had wanted to.

They only gave each other a small look, grunted, then collapsed in death-like heaps on the bed, not even able to pull covers over their sated bodies.

Chapter 23

They lay as they fell, sprawled every which way, in soaked, rumpled sheets. The scents of drying sperm and blood were paramount, but they were carried on subtle undercurrents of sweat and tears.

Angel wasn’t aware of Spike’s restless dreams of flames and pain; Spike did not wake when Angel’s legs began to pound on the sheets as if he were desperately running across a deserted beach to save the only thing he had loved more than the child who had once been his definition of love.

They woke at the same time many hours later, staring at the other’s familiar face in such unfamiliar circumstances. Angel lifted a finger and ran it down Spike’s cheekbone then he pulled the smaller figure into his arms, twitched up the covers, and they both fell instantly back into an almost pleasure-drugged sleep.

The next time they woke, after almost ten hours of healing, dream-free sleep, they were in the mood for more than a look. A lot more…. They immediately starting kissing as if, somewhere in their sleep, this thought had nagged at them: not enough of his lips, never enough.  The kiss was raw and tender, eager and hesitant, but there was no doubt in it. They eased apart and stared at familiar eyes then returned to lips with no confusion at all about what they now wanted. 

Angel’s kisses became almost desperate, as if he were using them to cover something more telling, and eventually, he said in a ragged whisper into Spike’s open, eager mouth, ‘I didn’t mean it: about only wanting to fuck you.’ Then he added hastily, ‘Although I did—want to.’ And even more hastily, ‘Do… want.’ Then despondently, ‘Shit.’

Spike put a finger over Angel’s lips. ‘It’s the past, Luv. We don’t need to dissect what I said to you, what you said to me. We didn’t mean any of it, and it’s over.’

Angel breathed a huge sigh of relief and began to explore Spike’s mouth once more, using his tongue for deep exploration, his lips to examine the pretty surface. Into the kiss, Spike suddenly mumbled, ‘So, tell me why you bought the TV, Pet.’

Angel pulled away. He saw a quickly suppressed glint of amusement and whispered incredulously, ‘You’re gonna make me go over every single thing I said or did, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yeah. So… TV?’

Angel rolled onto his back. ‘I just wanted you here—close. With me all the time.’ He lifted his hand and stared at it as if remembering a knife and the pain of not being able to say this simple thing. 

Spike took the hand in his and began to play with the strong fingers. ‘I thought when you came back to my place…. Why did you? What did you want to happen?’

Angel huffed ruefully. ‘Kinda redundant what I wanted, as you were amusing yourself quite happily without me.’

‘Wesley.’

‘Yeah.’

Spike began to kiss slowly down Angel’s throat, pressing with his teeth just too hard to be human kisses. ‘Tell me what you thought when you saw him there.’

‘You know what I thought.’

‘Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.’

‘Why?’

‘Cus.’

‘I wanted to kill you both.’

Spike slapped at him then bit harder into his collarbone. ‘The other thing—tell me the other thing you thought.’

Angel laughed around the pain of the bite and said with difficulty, ‘I wanted to tell you how I felt—that I hated you for making me love you.’
 
Spike smiled and continued his downward progress. He was aiming for a nipple and planned to stay there a while. 

Angel hastened Spike’s progress by pushing his head onto his broad chest and moaning softly when the lips were where he wanted them. Spike bit lightly and said into the tiny, quivering bud, ‘Go on.’ Then he lifted his head and said with a grin of pleasure, ‘No… tell me ‘bout the party.’

Angel grunted. ‘How about you tell me about your damn hair.’

Spike sat up with a guilty look. ‘Yeah, well.’

‘Exactly. So?’

‘Well… you liked my hair.’

‘I did.’

‘So it seemed a good way to hurt you.’

Angel smiled a smile of deep satisfaction and cupped his hands over the stubble, stroking it with his fingers, ‘But I like this…. I like this a… lot….’ 

There was no more interrogation for a while as Spike’s hair had to be examined: what it felt like rubbed against a sensitive cockhead; how it tickled a shaft; how come could spike and peak even its short lengths.

When Angel was done, he lay with the object of his attention on his chest, just stroking gently, skimming his palm over the newly peaked stubble. He was so quiet Spike wondered if something in the perfect ease between them had sparked thoughts of the dream world. It was the one thing they’d not yet discussed, and he was wary of putting their pleasure now to such an extreme test. Thoughts of Angel’s fantasy world did spark another thought, though. He tweaked Angel’s nipple lightly and murmured, ‘Angel…?’

Angel took a deep breath that sounded like pure contentment and grunted that he was listening.

‘I don’t want secrets between us.’

Angel made an amused rumble in his chest. ‘If you think I’m gonna tell you….’

‘We didn’t destroy that damn drug. I—.’

‘I know.’

‘You know?’

‘I know everything that happens in my firm, Childe. I’m not as dumb as I appear to be.’

When Spike didn’t make the expected contradiction to this, being deep in his own thoughts, Angel said, ‘Hey!’ in an aggrieved tone and punched him lightly in the shoulder. That led to more activity that prevented speaking for some time. 

Angel was the one to stop the kiss this time. He held a hand between them, wincing when Spike bit it. ‘I never wanted him to destroy it. I only said that to make him mad. Misery needs company.’

‘You were… miserable?’ 

The genuine wonder and delight in Spike’s tone made Angel laugh, and he said slowly, as if his audience were impaired, ‘Yes – Spike – I – was - miserable. All I wanted was…’ he stopped and frowned deeply ‘this.’ His thoughts began to speed up, tumbling over themselves in their haste to get spoken. ‘Spike, all I wanted was this and…. Is this real? Have we just actually talked about… feelings? Are we…?’

‘Hey! Angel! One step at a time…. ‘S what you said….’

Angel nodded relieved. ‘Yeah. I did. What happened then?’ He grinned, a feral smile that split his face. ‘Oh, I remember.’  He lay over Spike, teasing him over onto his belly. He put a finger down to Spike’s perineum and began to stroke him. ‘Are you… okay?’

Spike lifted his thigh and hissed, ‘I’ve been okay for this for a hundred years.’

Angel made a choked sound of delight and stroked his fingers gently up to Spike’s hole. Spike tensed, and Angel repeated softly, ‘Okay?’

Spike nodded and murmured, ‘Can’t think why I’m sore.’

Angel chuckled and licked his fingers, returning them to fondle the still swollen edges. 

‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Angel. I wanna know.’

‘And you know that’s not gonna happen.’

‘Try?’

Angel removed his hand and, beginning in the hairline, trailed his fingers down Spike’s spine until he reached the soft indentation once more. Spike’s whole body trembled under the erotic touch. As Angel swirled around and around the tight muscle ring, pushing softly with his thumb occasionally to test resistance, he said in a low voice, ‘I’ve always wanted you, I think. Wanted to possess you somehow—more than I had, which was possessing you like a demon. I wanted you as a man.’ He kissed down Spike’s spine, leaving a trail of saliva then drew a deep breath and blew in a sweeping, graceful line on the glistening skin. He laughed. ‘I guess I wanted to see you react like that.’

Spike put his hand back and began to help Angel stroking and getting him ready. ‘Have you ever done this before?’

Angel put his mouth to the back of Spike’s neck and bit. ‘Stop asking me questions.’

Spike twisted his head around. ‘I wanna know. Have you?’

Angel hesitated. ‘No.’

‘Oh, and that’s gonna convince me!’

‘What does it matter? You know I’ve had women! Most of them the same ones as you!’

‘Angel!’

‘No! Okay! Jesus. No, I’ve never done it before, and it’s so…. In my head, something telling me I’m a Goddammed pervert. Just what I need. Shit. Demon, pervert….’

Spike rolled back over and took Angel’s head in his hands. ‘I don’t care about the women. But if you’d done this before… with a man. It would…. I’m jealous where you’re concerned.’

Angel looked interested. ‘Jealous…?’ He seemed to be tasting the idea. ‘I thought that was just me about you.’ He grinned and squeezed Spike’s buttock affectionately. ‘I like you being jealous of me….’ He rolled him onto his back once more and levered over him, just rubbing them lightly together. ‘Considering how much I want your ass now, I’m kinda surprised I have never done this before. I’ve had lots of… opportunity.’

Spike grinned. ‘Yeah. Lots of wriggling, crying men, bathed in their own blood….’

If he’d meant to lighten the moment, it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Angel lifted one slim thigh, pitched his cock against the exposed hole, then punched through the resistance. Spike gasped in pain but arched to receive him. 

‘Fuck! You’re so tight. Christ, but I love your ass.’

‘I can’t believe I’m letting someone inside me. Bloody hell. Harder. Yeah, like that….’

‘Tell me… what – this – feels – like…. Fuck….’

‘Uh…. ‘S better than feeding.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. Slow down… I wanna watch.’

Angel dragged some pillows over for him, raising his head. He leant on Spike’s knees opening him wide, and they both looked down and watched the erotic sight of Angel’s angry erection slowly fucking the tight hole. 

Angel pulled right out and said huskily, ‘Wanna watch something else?’ Before Spike could reply, he slid back, laying on his belly, pushing his lips greedily to the wet ring, which was stretched and waiting for him.

Then he lifted his eyes, and when he was sure he had Spike’s attention, he let his tongue creep slowly forward, making sure it eased its way with a great deal of flicking and tasting around the soft, pink walls. 

Spike arched off the bed with a huge bellow of disbelief. Angel only held on tighter and buried his mouth deep as if he were feeding. He alternated his tongue with fingers, probing higher and harder, loving the panting and wriggling he elicited. 

He would have stayed there for hours, licking and nibbling, but Spike’s moans and his cock drove him with mindless need. 

He knelt back up and put the weeping head to the wide, flushed hole. Spike flung the pillows away and lifted his legs, wrapping them around Angel’s neck. ‘Bloody do me, Angel. I want you to come inside me—deep.’

‘Oh, God…. Tell me again.’ Angel began to thump into the body he craved.

‘Fuck me.’

‘Yeah. Again.’

‘I want you in my body. I want your come inside me.’

‘Christ. More.’

‘Make me feel it. Soak me from the inside.’

‘Shit! I’m—‘ He hung his head, sweat dripping off his forehead.

Spike arched to every thrust, meeting him. The pain was everywhere and so good he was afraid he would come too soon, and then suddenly, on one thump in and one arch, they found their faces only inches apart. 

Angel moaned and leant forward. Spike opened his mouth, and they fell like starving men to food, mumbling around swollen lips, trying to match with tongues what was happening below. 

Neither could have sworn who said it first, but suddenly they were repeating it endlessly—I love you, I love you, I love you—and of all the things they were doing, it was the only thing that didn’t seem strange or new. They’d been saying it for so long in so many other ways that finally admitting it was like a release from torture. 

Angel only stopped telling Spike how much he loved him when he said raggedly, ‘I’m gonna come.’

Spike stopped long enough to cry, ‘Yeah,’ and shoot a high, long stream of sperm between them that hit Angel’s neck and ran sluggishly down the sweaty skin as he shuddered his sperm just as high and as hard as Spike had wanted. Spike swallowed deeply, and for one moment, Angel thought his sperm had flooded even that far.

This time, Spike locked his legs to prevent Angel pulling out when they’d finished. Soaked in Spike’s sperm, they lay panting, that sound having taken over from all the newfound need for speech but spilling their secrets just as effectively.

It was the first time they’d lain with someone after an orgasm and known exactly what the other was thinking. It was incredibly restful, and Angel actually articulated this by saying wryly, ‘Do I need to say something profound, or can I just go to sleep?’

Spike laughed. ‘Fuck, yeah… that pressure. Can you remember? Should I tell her she was good, or would she hear whore? Should I say how good I felt or ask her how she felt? What a bloody nightmare.’

‘So... how do you feel?’

Spike slapped him, and they fell into a contented sleep, Angel’s still hard cock buried deep in Spike’s abused tissues, and twitching occasionally, giving them both erotic and highly pleasurable dreams.

Angel woke with a jerk to find that Spike was already awake and stroking gently through his hair. With a sigh, Angel rolled off and pulled out, and they both let out a low, ‘Whoa’ at the same time as they separated. Laughing at the coincidence, Angel scratched and said cautiously, ‘Shower?’

Spike looked curious. ‘Why the hesitation?’

‘Kinda…. Yeah, okay, now I feel like a total cunt. It just seemed intimate—ya know?’

Spike quirked up his lip. ‘It is. And… yes.’

They were both stiff and tired and out of their normal, easy bodies, so the water was particularly welcome. It made them laugh that they washed everything but what they really wanted to wash, so with a small grin of wickedness, Spike took over the responsibility of making sure Angel was clean: gently easing back his foreskin and running a soapy finger over the privacy beneath. Almost undone by this, Angel’s hand was shaking when he bent Spike over and probed with soapy fingers into his anus, reaching high around the soft, hot walls of his rectum. It all needed careful rinsing, too, and that seemed best to do with a clean, wet cock. 

Fucking slowly in the shower was almost too much pleasure. It made them feel strange, as if all their lives there had been this pleasure hovering on the edges of their consciousness. It made them feel angry that they’d wasted so many opportunities, and that anger drove them to exquisite orgasms, Spike moaning and biting his arm; Angel stretching his neck so far and crying out so loudly that his voice was hoarse for the rest of the day.

With legs shaking slightly, they pulled towels off the rail and went back to the bedroom. The whole world smelt of spilt sperm, and they almost rose once more to the deliciousness of the scent. Almost.

With a rueful laugh, Angel went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bloodbags. He watched as Spike dried off, his expression thoughtful. Eventually, he said softly, ‘About that step at a time….’

‘Go on.’ Spike had known this moment would come. He’d almost been looking forward to it in his masochistic way. Angel would tell him how things stood between them: saving the world first, saving the world second, saving the world end of story.

Angel took a small breath. ‘I want you to move in here.’ He heard denial in the silence that greeted this and added in a strangely tense voice, ‘I meant, please. Please will you move….’

Spike took hold of his jaw, silencing him. ‘I was just surprised…. I thought you were gonna…. Yes. Just yes. But this isn’t the world, as much as I’d like it to be. What about all the rest of it—all the rest of them… downstairs.’

‘One step, then another.’

Spike nodded, and they touched fingers briefly as if sealing some kind of pact. Then Spike glanced up from lowered eyes, his long eyelashes sending shadows onto his cheek. ‘But just so’s you know. If we argue, I’ll be imagining your dick sliding into me.’

Angel swallowed. ‘And that’s gonna dissuade me from the fighting.’

‘Just thought you’d like to know.’

‘Oh, I like….’ He came closer and twitched the towel away, pressing them together. ‘Will I ever get tired of kissing you?’

Only the ping of the microwave made them stop. Angel sighed and went over to it, running fingers distractedly through his hair. ‘I guess I’ve got a new partnership to dissolve today.’

‘She’s gonna be pissed at you.’ Spike went up behind Angel and laid a hand affectionately on the small of his back. ‘You hustle her up here… fuck her….’

Angel repressed a smile. ‘You should have seen how fast I hustled her out, too. I had to damn well catch you up.’ He turned. ‘Don’t ever do that again, Spike. You get that I’m pissed at you for that.’

Spike pushed his tongue cheekily into the side of his mouth. ‘Nah. You lurve me.’

Angel had him pinned against the wall before the words had formed in the air. He shook him. ‘Do you get what I’m saying here?’

Annoyed, Spike tried to push away until he saw the glistening in Angel’s eyes. ‘Hey! Luv! I’m not—.’

‘You were gonna burn up, Spike! Right until the end, as I was running for you, I thought you’d go into the water. I thought: That’s why he’s picked the ocean. But you fucking just stood there! How could you do that to me?’

‘I don’t know! It was just too much! I didn’t want to love you so much any longer!’

Angel reeled back, his eyes wide with shock and pleasure. Then he came back and seized Spike furiously.  

They hugged fiercely, kissing passionately. Angel broke them apart. ‘Never again.’

Spike was tempted to reply, “Then don’t hurt me again!” but didn’t. What was the point? They were demons: hurt was kinda par for the course.

They dressed, the irony not lost on Spike that he was putting on the clothes he’d come to the apartment to retrieve the previous night and in that other life when Angel didn’t love him. He could not see it as anything other than another life. Now was so different to then. Now, Angel reminded him of the charismatic demon that had emerged in the dreamtime. But he was real, and that made all the difference.

Their one step at a time policy seemed good until they actually rode down in the elevator. The alteration from the men they could be upstairs alone to the men they needed to be under the public scrutiny of the employees of Wolfram and Hart seemed almost too great to attempt. At the very last minute, before the elevator came to a rest, Spike cupped a hand around a cigarette and bent his head to light it. 

‘Don’t.’

Spike glanced over at Angel, puzzled by the tone.

Angel was staring not at the cigarette or the lighter, but at Spike’s lips, pursed to take the slim column between them.

Angel swallowed deeply. ‘I’ve never told you but… that thing you do… with the cigarette and the lips….’ He slammed his hand onto the emergency stop button, and for the first time, it did exactly what both of them wanted: it stopped them dead.

Angel removed the cigarette from Spike’s fingers and took its place on the soft lips with his tongue. As if wetting a roll-up, he ran it warm and slick over Spike’s bottom lip. 

The kiss ruined them for the office, kisses never remaining kisses for long: hands wandering, bodies grinding together, juices flowing and emotions spilling over, wetting them with lust, desire and need.

Fumbling, Angel pushed the up button, and they rose once more to the apartment. They weren’t subtle. They fell out onto the floor of the living room and didn’t even bother to remove their clothes. Angel just arranged access to what he wanted by yanking Spike’s jeans half-mast and then unzipping his own pants. 

In the bright light from the windows, they marvelled at their own bodies: Spike’s hard pale backside, fondled and spread by Angel’s powerful hands; Angel’s red-rawness, oozing proof of his desires. Best of all though was watching where they joined, watching the heavy roll of bone-hard flesh burrowing into the paleness that spread, welcoming it.  

Spike sat on the very edge of the couch, his legs drawn up and wide. Angel leant over him, hands either side of the shorn head, dipping his whole body down to work their joined places together, each able to give the other so much pleasure. His tight hardness enabled him to pull right out and re-enter each time, a movement that constantly stretched and worked Spike’s muscles, causing them to spasm, the quivering glistening only enticing Angel more. Each time he pulled out, a steady pulse of pre-come dripped into the spread pinkness, winking like a teardrop before it trickled further down Spike’s hot flesh. 

Toward the end, Angel stopped plunging deeply into the long, hot tunnels of Spike’s willing flesh. He held himself against the open walls, mushing his cockhead around in the slickness, fisting his bone-hard shaft. Spike wrapped his legs around Angel’s backside, trying to pull him back in, his pleasure spot throbbing and needing to feel the bone rubbing it erotically to fulfilment. Angel resisted the call to re-enter and with a huge shudder of release, spilled long squirts of milky fluid into the centre of Spike’s pink well. It filled the small indentation, a rippling pool of thick juice. With a sigh of enormous satisfaction, Angel then dove his still rigid cock into the pool, through the slurpy thickness and on, into the dreamland. He carried his come on his shaft, worked it into the soft walls, caressed it over Spike’s pleasure and thrust it deep in his body. All was spermy and sticky and slick. Their mouths wet with the anticipation of tasting. Angel grabbed Spike’s cock and dragged it down, squeezing it with his balls, then crushing it all down to rub against his driving cock. It was hard to hold Spike down; he thrashed like a man drowning: orgasm as necessary as air. 

Finally, Angel let Spike have release. He took the long erection in his hand with the same grip he used on other, more conventional weapons and brought him off with hard, remorseless fisting that seemed to break some resistance within the writhing body. When the sperm came, it flooded, an impossible amount propelled up onto Angel’s shirt and neck.

Even then, Angel did not withdraw. He captured Spike’s release, wetting his hand, roughly grinding the salty fluid with his around Spike’s spread thighs. Panting, sweat dripping, he reached a second orgasm, and this one he buried deep against the quivering walls of Spike’s rectum. Spike felt it as his, so powerfully did the thick cock throb, spilling its urgent load.

Chapter 24

Work was cancelled for the day by mutual consent. 

Instead, they cleaned up and went for a drive. A long one. They drove to Sunnydale and witnessed the devastation neither of them had seen before. They drove to the ocean and argued. They went shopping and argued some more. It was the best day either of them could remember for a very long time. Ever. The best day and it was real; it was normal, and it was theirs.

They returned to the firm in the early evening, depositing the things they’d bought to make the apartment more habitable for two. Peaceful domestication didn’t seem too much to ask after four hundred combined years of nothing but strife and pain. 

Spike watched telly. Angel cooked. They argued some more, and before they could believe it, night had fallen, and they actually felt tired, like real people: tired without the exhaustion of death and evil, demons and killing. 

Bedtime though was something very new. 

They sat on the couch, mindlessly watching TV, neither wanting to break that intimacy to start another. Angel lay sprawled, one leg up, one hanging down to the floor, Spike lying along him, his head propped on his elbow, one leg hooked over Angel’s. They played with fingers, touched hard flesh on thigh or arm, trailed hands lightly over sensitive skin and talked. Always the talk, endless talk, trying to re-write their history, examining in minute detail who’d done what to whom and why—the real why, the why given life in this newfound love and trust. Spike admitted how jealous he’d been of Angel and Buffy. Angel admitted the same, which amused them both. Spike got up the courage to tell him about getting his soul—what had precipitated it. Angel only stroked gently down his arm and told him how he’d tried to kill Wesley. They plunged into sad memories, feeling they could not hurt them now. They felt invincible, armoured, safe.

The feeling stayed with them as they eventually risked the bed, leaving the warm, comfortable embrace. Within minutes, they were wrapped together in a tangle of tired limbs and not even the most precise instrument in the labs of Wolfram and Hart could have said where one began and the other ended, or have attempted a separation of those powerful, matched bodies.

Angel woke, saw immediately by the light that it was late, and realised he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He smirked and snuggled closer into the warm hollow. He wasn’t a morning person, and it took very little to tempt him to stay a little longer in bed. Spike was more than a little temptation. He was warmth and ease, delicious scent and intriguing tastes. He begged to be played with, and Angel indulged himself. Sleepy and warm, half-asleep, he idly plugged Spike with a finger or massaged his wobbly sac. Spike grunted, made himself more available then went back to sleep. The spread backside woke Angel some more—enough to slide down and replace finger with tongue. But tongue required too much effort, and he fell back asleep with his mouth open, drooling slightly into Spike’s shallow valley.

When he woke again, he sensed that Spike was already awake. He grunted quietly and righted himself, pulling the pliant body closer without opening his eyes. 

‘Mornin’.’

Angel only grunted again and tried to tip back over into the peace of sleep.

‘You gonna think about maybe going to work?’

‘Nope.’

‘Uh huh.’

Angel sighed and twisted his head round to check the alarm. It puzzled him. Time appeared to have gone backward. As he was puzzling this small phenomenon, Spike said amused, ‘It’s tomorrow.’

Angel sat up. ‘Shit!’ After a moment, he mumbled, ‘So much for being the damn CEO….’ He peered down at Spike then shook his head in despair. ‘Do you always look that good in the morning?’

Spike nodded happily. 

Angel shook his head again and swung his legs out of bed. There was a moment of disappointment between them, as if Angel should have done something other than this small movement away from the warm, spread figure. Then he picked something off the nightstand, looked at it for a moment, then stretched his hand behind to Spike.

When the incongruously delicate gold chain landed in Spike’s upturned palm, Angel bent his head, like a supplicant, like a man awaiting an axe that would surely change his fate.

With a small murmur of wonder, both at the simplicity of Angel’s declaration and at the fact he had remembered this at all, Spike knelt behind the bent figure, his thighs spread around Angel’s naked hips. His better-than-life moment repeated—only this time it was real, and it was his. Spike’s hand trembled slightly as he placed the chain on the smooth skin. He fastened the clasp then straightened the gold links, running a finger around the thin track. Before Angel could lift his head, Spike bent and placed one kiss on the warm skin at the back of his neck. With a smile, Angel put his hand back and cupped him around the neck, rubbing affectionately with his thumb on the short-cropped hair. ‘You coming down?’

Spike kissed him again. ‘Yeah. Maybe later.’

Angel nodded, no need to speak his thanks. Appearing together was still too soon. Their feelings lit them from the inside, and he feared that the glow would shine through their pale skin, betraying them to the world. 

All morning, the chain on Angel’s neck warmed him. He could still feel Spike’s fingers where they’d touched. His feelings scared him slightly, but it was good fear. It made him want to rise to some unspoken challenge. It seemed ironic, but he wondered if he was finally about to discover exactly how he could be a champion: in deserving Spike’s love.

They did not see each other again until the late afternoon. Even then, it was only in passing: Spike entering an elevator that Angel was exiting. They nodded at each other in much the same way they had always done. It was a test, and they passed it. If it set up a ache in belly and balls that needed to be relieved, if it made Angel’s chain burn with a fierce need to feel fingers on his body once more, if it made them insensible to all that happened around them for the next hour, then all of that was kept private. Outwardly, they passed, nodded, and carried on. That was enough for now.

Angel was surreptitiously watching the minute hand on his watch, trying to make it move faster with the power of his will, when Wesley knocked questioningly on his door.

Angel glanced up and flicked his eyes to the chair in welcome. ‘What’s up?’

Wesley suppressed the desire to suggest that Angel probably knew the answer to that better than he did and said dejectedly, ‘I’m worried about Gunn.’

Angel sighed and got up to pour them both a drink. He handed Wesley one and then sat back in his chair, swivelling it so he could put both feet up on his desk. ‘I know.’

Backs to the door, neither saw Spike approaching across the lobby.

‘I didn’t tell you, Wes. He tried to kill himself.’

Spike, standing in the doorway, his face paling, went unobserved.

Wesley replied to Angel’s declaration calmly. ‘I suspected as much—but a cry for help only, surely?’

Spike leant on the wall just to one side of the door. This was fascinating. Really fascinating. He’d never believed that old adage that you should never listen to friends talk about you. There was a rustle in response to Wesley’s observation, and Spike actually saw Angel shrug, so intently was his mind’s eye fixed in that room.  ‘It looked pretty convincing to me.’

‘Ah. And that’s why you’re giving in to him like this?’

‘I’m not… I’m… letting him down gently. There’s a difference. I understand his pain.’

‘He thinks you value him more than that. Keeping him on here like this will ultimately only hurt him more.’

‘I do value him, Wesley.’

‘I know. But he used to be a bloody good operator. Like this, he’s useless. He’s dangerous. You have to tell him. You have to let him go.’

‘I can’t. I owe him more than that. We have a long history.’

‘He’s unstable.’

‘I know. It’s why I’m keeping him here with me—keeping him close. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if I push him away. But be very clear on this, Wes; if he hurts me or mine again, I will end it.’

Spike rolled slowly off the wall. It was too much effort to do more. He walked toward the elevators. For some odd reason, he had the desire to get blindingly drunk. 

Wesley leant forward and replaced his glass on the desk. ‘You’re more vulnerable now, Angel. You have a lot to lose.’ He paused and adjusted his glasses. ‘Spike, for example.’

Angel swung his legs off the desk. ‘Is that a tactful English way of asking if I’m in love with Spike?’

Wesley chuckled. ‘As if I actually need to ask.’ He rose and began to walk toward the door.

Angel frowned deeply and just before the man went out of earshot, said softly, ‘Do you approve?’

Wesley turned, surprised. ‘Since when do you need my approval?’

Angel lifted his eyebrows but continued to stare at something on his desk. ‘I made an error once assuming your approval. I don’t intend to make that mistake again. Be very sure where you stand in this, Wesley.’

Wesley came a little forward. ‘I’m not entirely sure I get what you mean, but I’m very sure where I stand: if I could, I would surround you both like a bastion. You are owed this. Both of you.’

Angel smiled down at the desk then raised his eyes. ‘Good.’ He smiled, that enigmatic smile that kept the human a willing slave. ‘One day, I may tell you why that means so much to me.’

Wesley swallowed, more caught up with Angel’s eyes than his words. 

It was on the third drink that Spike got they’d been talking about someone else. It cheered him up until the fifth when he got that they hadn’t. Tried to kill himself? That kinda pointed the big old finger of suspicion at him. 

So, Angel was letting him down gently. It hadn’t seemed to him, from his position, that Angel had been doing that at all, but he allowed that face pushed into the pillow, arse stuck up like a bloody bulls eye, he’d not been in the best position to judge. Seemed to him that Angel had finally made that transition from someone he could only love in his head to someone he could love passionately out loud. But, once more, he allowed that he might not be in the best position to judge—being as he was in love, and love clearly clouded your mind.

By the tenth drink, he’d decided to help everyone out and go before Angel had to ask him to leave. After all, Angel hadn’t said he hated him—far from it; he’d seemed genuinely fond of him, in his own way: like a dog that’s been abused by previous owners, maybe. Like an old shirt that’s outlived its style. 

But Angel had agreed that he was dangerous. To whom? Spike had no wish to hurt anyone, except himself, and maybe Angel. Possibly Wesley now, the sneak. He wasn’t too fond of the cunty bitch with the crimson silk, either. 

By the twelfth drink, Spike had the whole of Wolfram and Hart burning in a vast conflagration of hate. He watched the flames rise to the night sky, but when he saw a vague and disturbing similarity between this and his burning (twice), he switched it to a tidal wave, which was equally satisfying, if a little improbable. The comet he crashed into it next was much more probable. Or on the fifteenth drink it was.

He was getting pissed that he couldn’t get pissed. Trust preternatural constitution to kick in when he didn’t want it. He tried to remember how many drinks it had taken to him to muster enough courage to return to Sunnydale and tell Angel that he was love’s bitch. More than this. And he had a soul now. Maybe that absorbed the alcohol, like hollow legs on sailors. He began to wonder if it was working, when strange thoughts of sailors began to creep around his defences. That would piss Angel off. Or would it? What had Angel said? I value him. It wasn’t: I’ll tear him a new one if he skanks off with a sailor. Not that Angel would know a good skank if he tripped over one…. 

As if on cue, someone offered to buy Spike his next drink. He wasn’t drunk enough to refuse a free drink, nor sober enough not to check out the man that offered. When the thought, ‘Hmm, nice,’ crossed his mind, he laughed and began to think that he’d put Angel behind him. Like the devil. It was a nice thought, until Angel began to undress and do bad things to him….

‘Yeah. Sure, why not?’  He played this back in his head, and it sounded okay. Sober enough.

The man attracted the bartender then sat down. ‘You come here often?’

Spike lifted his eyebrows. ‘Even my chat-up lines are better than that!’

The man jerked his head back. ‘Who the hell said I was chatting you up?’

‘See? That’s much better.’

The man looked confused and glanced at his own chair as if wondering whether to return to it. Spike laid a hand on his arm. ‘And no, I’ve never been here before.’ Suddenly, he began to laugh. ‘Oh, bloody hell, I’ve never left. I just circle around and around and wind up shit-faced in some bar with my heart broken.’

‘Okay, I’m thinking maybe you really need to be on your….’

‘No.’ He increased the pressure on the man’s arm. ‘I don’t wanna be alone. I’m sorry. I’m not drunk. Honest.’

The bartender overheard this last and, as he’d poured the beautiful, pale man drinks all night, raised his eyebrows sceptically. Spike put his face into one of his innocent expressions. ‘I’ve got a hollow soul, see?’ He turned back to the man and raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’ The bartender rolled his eyes but left the bottle, which was all Spike cared about.

The other man nodded and picked up his glass. ‘So, do you have a name?’

Spike shook his head, sadly. ‘Nope. Thought I did, but that must be someone else.’

‘Okay.’ The guy blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, I’m Nick. What do you want to be called? Here’s your chance for a whole new name.’

Spike’s eyes widened. ‘I’ve had two of those already. A new one? Huh. Okay.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Nope, can’t think of one.’

‘Then I’ll call you Sean.’

‘Ugh? Bloody Sean? What the fuck?’

Nick laughed and ran his palm over Spike’s head. Now on his sixteenth drink, Spike still didn’t get it, but he got the touch. He lifted his eyes seductively. ‘That’s a much better line.’

Nick snatched back his hand. ‘Maybe I’d better go.’

‘What do you want?’

The man immediately found something fascinating in the bottom of his glass. ‘You looked….’

‘What?’ Spike was genuinely curious. Perhaps he could find out what it was in his face that made him so unlovable.  

‘Unhappy.’

Yep, that would do it. What had Angel said? Misery likes company. He and Angel—matched misery. 

‘So….’ He ran a finger lightly over the back of the man’s hand. ‘You thinking of cheering me up then?’

Nick bit his lip. ‘I think I’ve made a huge mistake, Sean. I’m sorry. I—. I’m kinda new to this, and you looked….’

‘Easy?’

‘NO! Sad—like I said. I kinda thought….’

‘Rebound?’

The man sagged and blushed. ‘Yeah.’

‘Why not?’

‘W—What?’

‘I said, why not? I am on the rebound. Well, I’m not actually bounding anywhere, more like slinking in me own fucking misery, but what the hell? He wants to let me down gently? I’m thinking you’d make a real soft cushion.’

Nick looked down, his face dark. ‘I thought maybe you’d say that I should have more self-esteem.’

‘Hell, no, I’m a bad man. I’m out of control—apparently. Why the fuck should I care about you?’

‘This was a bad idea.’ He got up to leave, but Spike held his sleeve.

‘Don’t. Please. I’m sorry. I’m—. I am drunk, in case you didn’t notice, but I’m kinda out of options here.’

Nick sat back down and poured them two more drinks. ‘I do want more than this, but I can’t work out how to get it. Do you know what that’s like?’

Spike laughed but felt tears of self-pity prick at the same time. ‘Yeah. I do. Believe me, I do.’

‘So…. How long since you… broke up…?’

Spike glanced at the clock over the bar. ‘Three hours, but he doesn’t know it yet.’

Nick let out a breath of relief and at Spike’s curious glance mumbled, ‘I was afraid it might be a girl.’

Spike closed his eyes wearily. ‘Nah. I just died for her. ‘S different. This burning will go on interminably.’

‘Do you want to talk about it? Him?’

Spike kept his eyes closed but put his hand unerringly on the man’s thigh. ‘What do you think?’

Nick moved his leg away with a nervous glance around the bar. ‘Er… do you have a place?’

Spike suddenly brightened. ‘Actually, I do. Yeah, I do. My own place. Come on….’ He ruined his big exit by falling off the stool when he misjudged the distance to the floor, but swept up the rest of the bottle without spilling a drop. Triumphantly, he took a hold on Nick’s jacket and pulled him toward the door.

Chapter 25

He’d sobered enough to feel guilty in equal measure to the mean pleasure he took in guiding Nick down toward his apartment. He had absolutely nothing to offer this man, but he was going to take quite a lot from him. Guilt had been his constant companion for so long now that he shrugged it off and even threw his arm affectionately over the man’s shoulder. 

Once inside the apartment, Nick seemed to panic. The reality of what he was doing hit hard when he saw the unmade bed and the general mess—a man’s mess, a man’s life. He was about to share that and more with a man, and it scared him witless. He began to babble, talking a stream of consciousness about books and movies that Spike didn’t even hear. He only stared at the soft lips and wondered why they weren’t the ones he wanted. 

As he stared at the man, leaning on the counter, finishing off the bottle he’d brought from the bar, he wondered if he should try and make it better with Angel. He was confused. He remembered loving bodies, which didn’t seem to fit with Angel’s declaration that he was only being tolerated, humoured, kept close—a dangerous, unstable enemy. 

Perhaps Angel had been lying to the human. Perhaps Angel had balked at admitting what they were to each other now. 

By the time he’d finished all the available alcohol in the apartment, he’d dismissed this idea. It had not been the voice of a liar. He knew Angel too well now, and that had been the truth. But if he knew Angel so well, why had he not felt that the perfect body had been lying to him all night? 

For the first time, Spike realised he was biting savagely at a cuticle, making it bleed. It took away the feel of Angel’s slim golden chain running through his fingers, and what was a little blood? 

Nick had a lot of blood.

Spike could smell it.

He closed his eyes and saw it: red, moving hotly over striated muscle. His mouth rushed with water, and he began to shake. 

‘What’s wrong?’ 

Too close. The man was too close. A hesitant hand on his chest. 

‘I’m afraid, Sean.’

You should be.

‘What do you want to do?’

I want to give up the effort to be a good man—with you, here, tonight. Let me lose my soul in you.

‘I’m kinda new to this—if you didn’t already know it.’

I’m not. I’m so old, the pages have all been written, the songs all sung. There’s nowhere for me to go now. Lost my soul, got it back, had it trampled on. I’m so sorry, human. I’m so sorry that it had to be you.

The sharp rap on the door made Spike jump more than the human, but it was a close-run thing.

Nick backed off, and his legs collided with the couch, where he sat heavily. 

Spike turned his head to the door, his body moving out of time. For some reason, he said quietly, to no one in particular, ‘He’s come to tell me how much he hates me for making him love me.’

Knowing that he had no option but to follow his script, Spike walked calmly to the door and opened it. 

Angel stood in the hallway, a large pizza box balanced in arms with a number of video boxes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d come back here for the night? Good idea, by the way.’

He pushed past Spike and actually got as far as the coffee table before he saw Nick.

The lack of confusion on Angel’s face for a moment wrenched Spike’s heart. Why wasn’t he confused? Surely he could see what this was. Only someone in love and very, very secure wouldn’t be confused at this.

Spike did nothing, only held the door, waiting for everyone to leave him.

Spike holding the door and not speaking gave Angel his first clue. He looked again at the man he had taken to be someone come to see the apartment—and saw him properly. He actually smelt the fear and the recent arousal, now nothing but a distant memory. 

‘What the…?’

He turned, and Spike saw nothing but genuine pain on his face. It seemed so easy then to say, ‘I’m making it easier for you, Angel. I’m letting you down easy.’

‘Guh? I mean…. Guh?’

Unheeded by the vampires, the human slipped silently out of the apartment, only his fear, like the smell of stale sweat, left behind.

Spike shut the door and went to the kitchen, looking desperately for some more alcohol. ‘I heard you and Wesley talking about me, Angel.’

Angel blushed deeply. ‘I can’t have him taking what I love again. I had to be sure he understood this time.’

‘I understand, I really do.’

‘I didn’t so much tell him about us—he guessed.’

‘I know you can’t trust me. I’m sorry. I thought you did. But I would never hurt you.’

‘And he kinda knew before, I’m thinking.’

‘You shouldn’t have let your body lie like that.’

‘I think he’s gonna be okay with it. Which is good.’

‘You don’t owe me a thing.’

‘Because I do owe a lot to…. What did you just say?’

‘Huh? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m—weren’t we talking about my talk with Wesley tonight?’

‘Yeah. And I understand. Have I just said that already?’

‘Understand what? Spike, what the fuck are you babbling about?’

‘I have no idea. Angel, I heard you! You said you were humouring me! Keeping me close so that I wouldn’t hurt anyone!’

‘Gunn! I’m keeping Gunn close. Why the hell would I be humouring you? And who the hell was that man?’

‘No! You told him that I’d tried to kill myself!’

‘Gunn! Gunn tried to kill himself. I told you! Well, okay, no, I didn’t. But I wanted to tell you! And who was he? Shit, Spike, what’s going on here?’

‘It wasn’t me you were talking about?’

‘I don’t know! I told Wesley that I love you! No, I mean, I didn’t tell him that; he guessed. I think. Oh, fuck, I need a drink. Who was he?’

Spike sat heavily on the arm of the couch. 

Angel watched his expression for a while then went closer and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled the head against him. ‘Shhh.’

It was entirely the wrong thing to say. A huge hiccup of self-pitying vomit rose and splurged over Angel’s belly, dripping in large lumps onto his shoes. Before he could react (by even a scream), another followed it—more watery and propelled further. 

Angel sucked in air as if he needed it and cursed, with curses dragged up from his memories of hell.  He grabbed Spike’s arms and thrust him none too gently into the shower. He was still vomiting, and the stall became slick and sticky. 

Angel didn’t know what to do first and hovered hopelessly, doing nothing. Then he tore off his own clothes and flung them furiously on the floor. Naked, stinking, he turned on the shower over the fully dressed vampire, unheeding for a moment that Spike slid down the wall, still hiccupping and retching quietly. 

‘It lasted all of one night, Spike—some kind of idyll with you. And now this.’ He lifted Spike to his feet, and his loving touch belied the harshness of his words. ‘And isn’t this familiar? How many times have you vomited on me in our acquaintance? Huh? How many?’ The shirt tore in his hands, and he dropped it to the stall. ‘More than I’ve ever sicked on you, which is never!’ He ripped the jeans open. ‘Oh, and I didn’t just dress in my favourite leather pants, did I? And my eight hundred dollar shirt. Fuck you!’ The jeans followed the shirt to their feet. ‘But do you know? Best of all, I like finding you with some other guy.’ He began to turn Spike under the water. ‘Oh, and I’m getting now that he wasn’t a prospective buyer—not of the apartment, anyway. How much you charge now, Spike? Because I’m remembering that time in Paris when you went pretty cheaply. Whoring around those rich old ladies until you could suck them….’ He held Spike’s arms, staring into his face. ‘Whoa! Was that what this was tonight? Were you thinking of a whole different use for a human?’ He brushed a fleck of vomit off Spike’s chin. His hands began to stroke over Spike’s head. ‘Christ.’ He pulled Spike into his arms. ‘Don’t love me this much, Spike. I told you: I’m a shit lover, and I’ll hurt you.’ Spike was too ill to reply. Angel replied for him. ‘I was talking about Gunn, until I was talking about you, and then I was saying that I love you. I think it, so why shouldn’t I say it?’ He pulled Spike out from under the shower and wrapped him in a large towel. ‘When you’re sober, we will talk about that man on your couch.’

He eased Spike onto the bed then climbed on behind him, sitting with his legs either side of the silent figure, one thigh Spike’s pillow.  He stroked Spike’s head, trailing his finger around his ear. ‘I brought pizza. First time I’ve ever done that. Weird.’

There was a small stir on the bed, and Angel leant closer to catch the almost non-existent voice. 

‘What were the films?’

Angel sat back and began to laugh. Spike groaned at the jiggling, so he stopped. He went back to stroking Spike’s head. When he saw that Spike was asleep, he pulled a blanket over him then closed his eyes and rested his own throbbing head on the wall. 

He wondered what would have happened if he’d been a few minutes later.

Angel had not meant to fall asleep—he was too uncomfortable—but he was woken by an urgent shaking. He jerked to full wakefulness and said into the dark, ‘What?’

‘Nothing would have happened.’

‘Huh?’

‘With that bloke. Angel! Nothing! I love you!’

Angel fumbled for the light, but by the time he’d found it, Spike had fallen back into the near-unconsciousness he’d been in up to then, his mouth hanging open, snoring lightly. 

Angel felt a weight lift from his shoulders; bands of fear unwind from his heart. He heard more truth in this confused, nighttime declaration than could ever have been in a more sober, planned confession.

That brief moment of lucidity was the last for the rest of the night and the following day. Perhaps feeling guilty, Spike made little effort to rally and lay in a fug of self-pity and pain, while Angel attempted to sort the mess. He knew Spike wasn’t as ill as he was pretending to be, knew that a pair of blue eyes watched him from the bed when he wasn’t looking, but he didn’t call his childe on his fiction. He just looked after him quietly: bringing him water, making him take some blood; feeding him Tylenol at regular intervals and not mentioning the man on the couch. 

He didn’t demand Spike’s improvement until the evening, when he said calmly, ‘Let’s go home.’

Spike pouted and pulled the blanket a little higher.

Angel sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You told me nothing would have happened, and I believe you.’

Spike frowned deeply. ‘No, I didn’t.’ He seemed surprised at his own voice but added swiftly, ‘I mean, it’s true, but I haven’t told you. Yet. Didn’t think you’d believe me.’

Angel suddenly grinned. ‘You talk in your sleep, Childe. And it’s better than what you say when you’re awake—mostly. Now, get up and find something clean to wear. We’re going home.’

Spike sat up and swung his legs off the bed. ‘I am sorry.’

Angel shook his head wryly. ‘May we live in interesting times.’ He cuffed Spike affectionately on the side of the head and went to fetch his own clothes from the dryer. He wasn’t looking forward to discovering how the leather and silk had fared in the machine.  His back to Spike, he missed the look of extreme pain and confusion that crossed the pale face.

Angel wanted to walk back to the Firm, thinking this would be good for both of them—for different reasons. He glanced frequently at his companion, pondering the silence. It didn’t seem defiant; it didn’t seem confused, but there was something there, some edge Angel couldn’t define.

He was about to tackle Spike and force him to talk, when his arm was suddenly seized, and he was effectively manoeuvred into an alley.

He batted Spike’s hand away and was about to spring to righteous anger when Spike thrust him against the wall, insistent hands holding him pinned. Angel swallowed. ‘Not here for….’

Spike dropped to his knees.

Angel got genuinely angry. ‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake! You don’t know who’s….’

Spike tore frantically at Angel’s waistband with one hand, the other cupping and squeezing him through the leather.

Angel’s complaints died on the soft night air. He tipped his head back, still thinking that this was all wrong, but utterly unable to articulate this thought. He was still soft, so swift and unexpected had been the attack. When Spike swallowed him then withdrew, his lips clamped onto the softness, Angel’s whole penis stretched. By the time Spike released him and went back on, Angel was hard, the rush of blood to his cock so swift that he felt light-headed. He closed his eyes and watched colours, like fireworks, explode as the rush continued downward. Those tiny pinpricks of false light were the only other sense left to him. Everything was focused below.

Now that Angel was hard, Spike treated him to the back of his throat, pushing himself on, ensuring that the smooth, exposed cockhead rubbed on his strong walls. His lips and tongue played their own games until Angel’s knees began to weaken. 

When Spike slid a hand into the opening in the pants and found Angel’s balls, it was all over. With a shudder of intense pleasure, Angel gasped with each release until he was empty. Even then, Spike kept him deep in his mouth, his lips pressed into the soft hair until he felt the hard length soften.

Gracefully, he rose to his knees and began to fasten Angel, not looking at him. When he was sufficiently recovered, Angel put a finger under Spike’s chin and tilted it up. ‘What was that for?’

Spike pouted. ‘Does it have to be for anything?’

Angel finished the job of tidying himself. ‘No. I guess not. But I’m thinking it wasn’t because you were suddenly overcome by my natural charm and wit.’

Spike had the grace to smile, a tiny quirk of one lip that he seemed to regret. Stony-faced once more, he said flatly, ‘I just wanted you. Nothing wrong with that is there?’

Angel decided to pursue it no longer. He heard a lie, but couldn’t quite assign it to any one reason. They began to walk slowly toward the main street again. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat, Angel murmured, ‘You can tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’

Angel sighed. ‘I’m not trying to do anything but love you, but sometimes you make it incredibly hard.’

Spike was silent for a moment then said tiredly, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong.’

‘But something is?’

‘I—.’ He dried up and lit a cigarette instead of trying to find words for something he didn’t understand himself.

Angel hesitated then slid an arm over his shoulders. If he’d studied relationships for all of his three hundred odd years, he couldn’t have done anything that was more perfect.

Without need for words, they continued on to Wolfram and Hart, his arm speaking everything he needed to say.

Chapter 26

Spike genuinely didn’t know what was wrong. He had everything he’d ever wanted, but instead of making him happy, he felt increasingly… wrong. It wasn’t unhappy as such, just… wrong. He felt wrong; the place felt wrong, but worst of all, Angel felt wrong. Yet outwardly, nothing had changed from the perfection they’d created that first night. 

It had taken him the rest of that night to fully recover from his hangover, but he hadn’t let that affect his almost constant need for Angel’s body. After the furious blowjob in the alley, he’d taken Angel as soon as they got into the apartment, forcing him, yet again, against a wall and sucking his sex into his mouth as if Angel were a cure for all ills.

He’d wanted Angel in the shower, demanded him later in bed, woke up needing him, and each time in his head, he heard: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Being sorry didn’t make him feel better. Saying he was sorry didn’t work either, and to give Angel his due, he wasn’t demanding this constant apologising, or particularly enjoying it. He’d accepted that Spike would have gone no further with the man. That he’d been there at all, he’d processed in his own way. He didn’t want this obeisance for an error he partly blamed himself for. It had not escaped Angel’s notice that he had been the dominant one in their relationship and in their bed. Spike was entirely subservient, and it seemed to Angel as he took yet another exquisite blowjob from the beautiful mouth that such a power vacuum left enough emptiness for all the doubt in the world to rush in. When he should have known they were not talking about him, when he should have just laughed and come forward, Spike had stood there and let his trust be punched out by the irresistible fist of doubt.

Knowing something and doing something about it were very different things. Angel knew he should not accept Spike’s spread backside that night. He knew he shouldn’t explore inside Spike’s body with his fingers. He knew he shouldn’t release his seed deep into the willing flesh, and he knew beyond all this that he shouldn’t fall asleep still buried deep in the tight channel, claiming it and all that lay around it as his. He knew all this, but the knowing didn’t stop him. Tomorrow. He told himself that tomorrow he’d reverse things. Tomorrow he’d turn and lift his thigh and let himself be taken like a…. Tomorrow. He didn’t have to think about it tonight. He was inside Spike; Spike was his, and however wrong that was, he wanted it for one more night.

Spike woke knowing that the feelings had not gone away. It was like a mental shadow just out of range of his perceptive abilities: dark, creepy, and utterly unwilling to come into the light. He tried not thinking about it, hoping that he could then seize it when it appeared, take it by surprise, and think it properly, but it stayed hidden, lurking under brighter, better thoughts: that he loved Angel, that he had never loved him more.

Despite never having loved Angel more, Spike rose silently from the warm bed and left before his sleeping bedfellow woke. If he could immerse himself in something other than Angel’s body, Spike felt that the elusive thought might come to him. He sought Wesley out and found him in transit between the office and the lab. 

Spike was curious to see Wesley’s reaction to him, but he could discern nothing beneath the polite exterior. It was unbelievably restful to be with someone who could control his emotions so completely…

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Huh?’

Wesley stormed over to an assistant in the lab. ‘I expressly told you to stand by that canister and not move!’

The young man eyed the three feet from where he was standing to where Wesley was indicating and said, ‘Sorry,’ like someone who wasn’t and who wanted to say something more to the point.

‘Just get out.’ 

When the man left, Wesley murmured, ‘I’m surrounded by oafs,’ and gingerly checked the seals on the slim, metal container.

Spike lit a cigarette. ‘That’s it, I’m guessing?’

Wesley punched in a code, and the lid of the container sprang up. ‘This is the pure solution.’ He pulled a small vial nearer. ‘This is the carrier, which I’ve perfected.’ Very carefully, he lowered an exact measuring spoon into the main container and extracted a tiny amount, which he added to the carrier solution. Before he did anything else, he re-sealed the metal canister, checked it again, then carried it over to a wall safe.

Spike held up the vial. ‘What would this do to me?’

Wesley turned, in the process of shutting the safe. ‘Very little, I should think. Not with your constitution. A human? Twelve hours of better-than-life.’

Spike raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice.’

‘How much would you pay for that, Spike?’

Spike wasn’t in the mood to reply to this, so instead, he asked, ‘So, what are you gonna do with it?’

‘I want to conduct some resistance to pain experiments now. Can it keep someone happily under during an operation without the need for dangerous anaesthetics? But first I’m going to put this full solution safely in… there. Wolfram and Hart’s best.’

‘Over-egging the security there a bit, Wes?’

‘Just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. Right, let’s get on with…. Spike? What’s…?’

Spike flinched. It was hard when your shadowy thoughts finally emerged. 

Without responding to the puzzled human, Spike left the lab and headed up to Angel’s office. 

He stood outside. 

He could still see them sitting there: Angel and Wesley, discussing Gunn. 

He knew it was Gunn now. That wasn’t a problem. Angel said they’d been discussing the human, and he believed him.

The trouble was, they could have been talking about him. Everything Angel had said applied to him equally well. It wasn’t a surprise he’d believed them; it was only surprising he’d not seen it before.

Angel hadn’t chosen him. Angel hadn’t made the conscious decision to start this thing with him. Angel had been forced into it by his increasingly out of control behaviour. He’d actually set himself on fire to force the issue. What had Angel been expected to do? Just let him burn? Of course he’d come for him. Of course he’d saved him. That wasn’t love; that wasn’t the conscious choice of a man with free will. He’d manipulated Angel into a situation that he couldn’t now get out of.

He didn’t even doubt that Angel loved him—in his own way. Lost causes—Angel was the champion of them. Didn’t he help the helpless? Who could have been more helpless?

They hadn’t been talking about him, but they might as well have been; just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.

It seemed so ironic that they should begin their relationship in a dream world where every emotion was suspect, only to find themselves in reality, facing just the same dilemma.

‘Hey.’

Spike jumped and realised that Angel was watching him from just inside the office. 

‘You were out of it.’

Spike nodded. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Angel looked down at his nails, a tiny gesture of confusion that only added to the poignancy of his question.

‘I forced you into this.’

Angel pursed his lips then gestured into the office and shut the door behind him. ‘What do you mean?’

Spike sat uneasily on the couch. After a moment, he said in a rush, ‘Buffy told me once about when you left her to come and live here.’

Angel sat down next to him, not interrupting, assuming this was going somewhere he could eventually follow.

‘She said she nearly died. That she was this close to screaming out and flinging herself on you, begging you to stay—or coming with you.’

Angel kept his own counsel; he already knew all this. He’d been that close to staying.

‘What would you have done if she had?’

Jerked back to the present by the unexpected question, Angel frowned. ‘If she’d begged me to stay?’

‘Yeah. If she’d… threatened to do something dumb maybe….’

Angel suddenly got where they were going before Spike actually took him there. He swallowed and debated what to say. He couldn’t see that anything he said would make this situation better, so he just told the truth. ‘That has nothing to do with us, Spike. I love you, and I want you. In fact, I’ve been thinking that….’

‘But if you had a totally free choice, you wouldn’t.’

‘My choices are my own.’

‘I know that, but….’

‘There are no buts as far as I’m concerned.’ He was about to make an annoyed comment that this was all crap in Spike’s head, but once more, some innate instinct kept him quiet. Once more, he just put his arm over Spike’s shoulders and waited quietly.

Spike’s face was a picture of fleeting thoughts, all equally miserable. 

Eventually, Angel said softly, ‘Maybe you’re just scared, and this is your way of keeping an escape route open.’

Spike turned his head sharply. ‘I don’t want out. Christ. That’s the last thing I want….’ He felt something charge through Angel’s body, felt the muscles in the powerful arm spasm. ‘Angel! Did you think I wanted out?’ 

Angel rose swiftly and went to the window. 

Shocked at the emotion he felt pouring off the silent figure, Spike went hesitantly to his side. ‘I’m sorry’ He wanted to add the word again, but knew Angel heard this anyway.

‘Don’t ever think that I don’t love you and want you, Spike.’

Angel turned and went back to his desk, immersing himself in paperwork they both knew he wasn’t even seeing. 

Spike watched him for a while, intensely sad that however much Angel purported to love him, and however much he actually believed him, it didn’t change the fact that their relationship was based upon the extremity of death. Angel wishing it otherwise, didn’t make it true. 

For Angel’s sake, he kept up the appearance that he was happy.  He didn’t expect Angel to be fooled though and knew that he wasn’t. They were too close physically to hide lack of emotional commitment. He gave of his body, but he held back at the same time. He kept some essential core deep inside himself that he didn’t share with Angel, and that tiny absence flowered in the damp warmth of their love making way out of proportion to its size. Within days, there was an emotional chasm between them that they could not cross. Conversation became polite, laughter forced. They lived together like careful roommates: picking up their clothes, washing their own dishes, putting on TV channels that the other wanted. They had sex, but it involved only their bodies. They could not afford to commit their stronger armoury—their hearts—for, unwished, the battle lines had once again been drawn.

It was so hard for Angel not to feel huge resentment toward Spike. Spike knew this—he even agreed with him. His self-hatred knew no bounds. Hating himself, it became very easy for Angel to hate him, too, and so they spiralled out of control in their polite, precise, little relationship.  

And, as always at Wolfram and Hart, the very walls of the place seemed to feed upon the misery of its inhabitants. Angel sank beneath the waves of evil, struggling to be all things to all people. If the unfairness of the situation struck either of them, they did not mention it, for this only sparked memories of what Angel could have had in that other place—albeit for so short a time.

The unhappiness of his two best friends did not go unnoticed by Wesley, just as their happiness had not, despite his inability to show his feeling in a demonstrative way. He watched, and he waited, a sense of great disquiet nagging at him.

Lying together at night had become exquisitely painful. They still craved the other’s body, but could not find that elusive, all-encompassing passion, which had been theirs for that one incredible night. As soon as they had released the body’s need, one or other of them would get up on some pretext—work, TV—and spend the night on the couch.

It was on such a night, lying alone in the living room, that Spike, once more, reached the bad place, which he had discovered only a few nights before. Now, though, he didn’t even have the righteous anger that had driven him from the apartment to the ocean. Now, he was to blame for this situation, and knowing that only tipped him further into the darkness of his depression. Blinking back tears, one of his particularly fortuitous thoughts occurred to him. He put it down to fate and did not attempt to fight it. 

Stealthily, he pulled on his clothes and left the apartment. He made his way through the dark, deserted hallways of the evil empire. When he arrived at his destination, he stared thoughtfully at the wall for a moment before reaching out a hand. 

The combination was tricky, but with preternatural hearing and an excellent memory, he had it opened within five minutes.

Even then he hesitated.

What had Wesley implied? The land from whence no traveller returned? Sounded good to him: he had no intention of returning this time, and it was so much less painful than burning up.

Cautiously, he opened the safe door and slid his hand into the dark interior.

‘It’s not there.’

Spike gave a good impression of someone who still had a heart to stop. He put his palm over the place that should be thumping in distress and turned, angry. ‘Don’t you know better than to bloody creep up on a bloke like that? And what the fuck are you doing here at three in the morning?’

‘Waiting for you. I had a feeling you might try something like this.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the vaults. Even I don’t have full access to those facilities. I catalogued it as an ancient urn and had it placed there.’

‘Fuck you!’ Spike slammed the wall safe shut and kicked at the wall, the temptation to harm the smug human almost overwhelming.

‘What the hell did you think you were going to do with it, Spike? You know if you take that pure solution you don’t return. Ever. It would hold you in its seductive maw just as tightly as this reality does. No one—demon or human—would have the strength to escape it. No human could even survive it, and you would be trapped until your body faded away.’

‘You have no idea….’

‘Yes, Spike, I do. I had a—. It was a dream, I think, but there was a vampire starving, and he was a very, very unpleasant sight. I sometimes see him still in my dreams and want to feed him my own body. Sometimes I do. I know the power of delusion just as you do.’

‘I just want—. I need—.’ 

‘You need to stop this foolishness.’

At that, Spike did advance on the human, but the man didn’t step back. He took off his glasses and began to polish them slowly. 

Spike, disarmed by the vulnerable human gesture, let arms fell uselessly to his side. 

‘Angel loves you, and to tell you the truth, vampire, it makes me a little cross that you seem to be throwing that away. Some people wouldn’t.’

Spike didn’t miss the wistful tone, but he chose to ignore it.

‘You don’t understand, Wesley. You understand less than you think you do. Angel has lost people—people who were very important to him. If he had them back, I wouldn’t even get a look in. Jesus.’ He rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I actually feel sorry for Harmony now. What a bloody awful thing to be—someone’s substitute.’

‘You’re an idiot, Spike.’ Wesley put his glasses back on and began to walk toward the door. ‘I’m sorry to be so blunt, but frankly, you need to get your head out of your arse, and let someone else enjoy it.’ On that, he left.

Spike dawdled in the lab for a while, not wanting to return to the awkwardness upstairs, but eventually, he had little choice. Staying away from Angel for any length of time wasn’t an option. The powerful figure was like a drug, with all the paradoxes of the best of those.

The bedroom was dark when he peered in, Angel lying still on his back. Spike felt the dark eyes on him, though he couldn’t see them. He nodded and made a faint gesture toward the couch, which he then sat on. It was a long night, and sleepless with misery. He rose at first light, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Angel was still in bed, and Spike really didn’t want to wake him, with all the awkwardness that would entail. He crept past to the shower and hoped that Angel would take the opportunity to rise and leave, as he had a number of times already that week.

He was surprised, therefore, to find Angel still sleeping when he came out. He didn’t appear to be faking either. Spike assumed Angel had suffered a sleepless night, too, so he dressed and crept out, leaving him to sleep.

When Angel had not appeared by lunchtime, Spike returned to the apartment. He had a strange sense of déjà vu as he rode up in the elevator, but shook it off, unwilling to examine its provenance.

He saw the legs first and felt a small jolt of fear in his heart. Angel was lying exactly as he’d left him that morning. 

Spike stepped forward and put a hand on Angel’s brow, but it was for show only. He knew what this was. He’d known what it was going to be as soon as that déjà vu had pricked his consciousness. 

With a shaking hand, he called down to Wesley, and the human arrived in a couple of minutes.

Wesley took one look at the vampire on the bed, turned, and began to run back to the elevator. Spike followed him, and they exited, running side-by-side. Wesley led him to places he’d never been before—ancient book depositories, storage facilities—in the lowest levels of the firm. Outside one, there appeared to be a guard. The man stepped forward with a hand up to restrain them. Wesley punched him unconscious, and they continued running down the darkened hallway.

Eventually, the human skidded to a halt in front of a wall of security deposit boxes. He touched them lightly with one finger then fished a device out of his pocket, running it through a scanner. One box slid out, and Wesley, with a glance at Spike, looked inside.

He lifted out the silver canister and checked the seal. He looked relieved for a moment then punched in a number and released the top. 

His face said it all.

With a moan of distress though, he murmured, ‘It’s half gone. But it’s impossible. I mean—. No one knew but me, and all this security….’

Spike was amazed how calm his voice was. ‘It’s what he does, Wesley.’

Wesley’s brow wrinkled. ‘Why? For Christ’s sake, why would he want to do this—now of all times!’

Once more, Spike’s voice was so calm it actually scared him. ‘He wanted to go back to them—to the ones he really loved. It’s what I’ve been sensing all this time, but no one would believe me.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘This isn’t like Angel.’

Spike mirrored his gesture. ‘No, it is. You just don’t know the whole picture, Luv.’

Wesley’s hand began to shake, and he screwed the cap back on to preserve his precious drug. With one hand, he removed his glasses. ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.’

Spike began to walk back up the long hallway. Wesley returned the canister and eventually followed him.

He was surprised that Spike went to the lab, and he jogged to catch up. Spike said casually, ‘I want the dilute one—on the carrier.’

‘Why for God’s sake?’

‘I want to say goodbye.’

‘No! You’ll try to find a way to stay there!’

Spike laughed. It was a sad sound. ‘I could have had him here, Luv. Give me the one that wears off. I’m just going to say goodbye. He’ll need that closure, or he’ll be unhappy.’

‘Christ.’ Wesley’s voice shook, and he turned away to hide his uncharacteristic outburst. Spike pouted then laid a hand on his arm. 

‘Please.’

Wesley waved him off for a moment to recover his composure then rummaged amongst some bottles and produced the one Spike wanted. ‘I don’t think it will keep you under more than a couple of hours.’

‘That’s all I’ll need.’

Suddenly, Wesley grabbed Spike’s hand and said urgently, ‘It’s still possible that he can be brought back. You could….’

Spike patted the hand on his arm. ‘Nah. I’m going to finally give him what he wants, Wesley. It’s gonna be the last thing I do for him, yeah? I’ve done this before for someone else—let her have her freedom from me. Seems to be what people need.’

Wesley was too wrapped up in his own misery to do anything about Spike’s. He knew that he would not be able to leave Angel lying like that until… the end. One way or another, he would end this for Angel. It was the last thing he could do for him, as well. Sadly, he handed Spike the connecting wires he had put away so thankfully the first time and watched him leave with a strange blurring over the gloom.

Spike took the elevator to Angel’s room one last time. There would only be one final ride down after this—alone. It was fitting, as the rest of his eternity would be suffered alone, too.

Angel had not stirred. Spike had not expected him to. For all the activity they had indulged in their minds in the dreamtime, their bodies in this reality had lain as if in death.

He lay down on the bed and attached the wires, letting his fingers brush lovingly over Angel’s slightly clammy temples. He couldn’t wait to see him again.

He closed his eyes and took the drug.

It was dark, and he blinked. He was not where he expected to be and felt badly thrown. It appeared to be a small cabin, rough-hewn and homely. A few bright rugs were thrown on the floor. The walls were solid split trunks of great pines, and the air was resonant of their evocative scent.

The door of the cabin stood open and intensely bright sunlight streaked in at a sharp angle. Going cautiously to stand on the shady side, Spike peered out.

Angel, stripped to the waist, was standing just outside, chopping wood. He was standing in the bright sunlight, deeply tanned and muscular, sweat pouring off his skin as he bent and swung, bent and swung in a rhythm of activity. 

Spike didn’t even attempt to wipe his tears away. 

Everything he had ever wanted in the whole of his eternity was contained in that sleek package. 

Without turning around, Angel suddenly said, ‘Hi.’

Spike felt his heart flip over, and he replied cautiously, ‘Hi.’

Angel sank the axe into the block and turned, wiping his face on his shirt. He indicated for Spike to follow him and began to walk.

‘Angel!’

Angel turned, surprise on his face. ‘Just make yourself human and step out.’

Utterly confounded that Angel seemed to know that this was not real, Spike replied hesitantly, ‘I can’t.’

Angel laughed, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant sound. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve not always wanted to be human. Be brave, Spike.’

‘No! I’ve never wanted that! I like what I am!’

Angel came forward quickly. ‘You tried to kill me to take that freaking cup away from me! You wanted to be human enough then.’

‘No! I just didn’t want you to be….’ His face fell. He didn’t like giving Angel so much ammunition in this endless battle of theirs. Angel, though, seemed genuinely surprised by this, and he nodded contritely. 

With a sigh, he said wearily, ‘Just step out, Spike. The sun’s no more real than our freaking feelings ever were.’

On that enigmatic note, Angel turned and began to walk away. 

Spike glanced up then stepped out. 

For the first time, he regretted not taking the permanent drug. The sunlight on his skin was better than loving fingers, and he tipped his head back, mesmerised by the sensation.

He heard a cough and looked over to find Angel waiting for him, and then, for the first time, their surroundings hit him. He made a small noise of surprise and turned slowly. The cabin was situated in a sloping meadow full of wild flowers. At the bottom of the hill was a dense forest of pine trees and the occasional sparkle from a stream.  All around them, in the distance, were mountains. Spike knew that if he looked up into the cobalt sky, he would see an eagle lazily circling. It was better than perfect. It was surreal.

Angel gestured again and began to walk down the slope toward the trees. 

Spike stood his ground and said, ‘I’ve only come to….’

‘I know why you’re here, Spike.’

‘Oh. Well, let’s just do it then. I can’t stay long.’

‘I want you to see something first.’ Angel turned and stared at the trees, and faintly, Spike heard the sound of other voices. As he watched, two figures began to run up the slope. From a distance, he thought they were two girls, but when they got closer, he saw that one was a slim, almost androgynous youth and the other a girl of about twelve. Angel held out his arms, and they flew to him, laughing and seeking his love and approval, of which they were given both in large measure.

He turned formally and said with a smile, ‘Spike. I want you to meet Connor—my son.’

The youth grinned and held out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Spike didn’t move. He needed his hands where they were: seeing no reason to take part in this insanity, he was holding onto his fragile reason with desperately clawing fingertips.  The boy didn’t seem put out. He withdrew his hand and said politely, ‘Dad said you were kinda hard to get to know.’

Angel grinned at his son’s genius and then turned to the girl. Shyly, he picked her up and nuzzled into her long blonde hair. ‘And this is Kathy.’

Spike started. Kathy was a creature of myth and long nights of Angelus’s maudlin tears. Angel seemed to read his mind, for he added quietly, ‘Three hundred years of regret, now ended.’  

The girl turned worshipful eyes to Angel and hugged him fiercely until Connor dug her in the ribs and shouted, ‘Race you to the swimming hole!’  She screeched and wriggled out of Angel’s arms, and together, hair flying behind, they ran down the hill through the wild flowers.

Angel stretched out his arms and sighed with intense pleasure. ‘Why did you really come? We don’t need to say goodbye.’

Spike toed the ground, his emotions wretchedly confused. ‘I thought you would—to be happy. Closure or some shit, I guess.’

‘You want to make me happy? Like, I’m believing that.’

‘I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, but you didn’t want me.’

‘Ah. There is that.’

There was silence for a while. Angel eyed Spike narrowly then began to walk slowly up the hill past the cabin. Spike followed. 

‘Maybe you came here to rip me out again. How do I know?’

‘You won’t ever leave here.’

‘Well, I hardly needed you to come then, did I?’

Spike stopped. ‘Perhaps I needed something! Perhaps I wanted to say goodbye.’

They had reached the crest of the hill, and the view from the top was magnificent. But it had all been taken from old editions of National Geographic, so Spike refused to allow himself to be impressed.

Angel folded his arms and looked about him: a king surveying his domain. ‘Everything I’ve ever wanted is here, Spike. I have created every blade of grass, every leaf, every strand of golden hair on Kathy’s head. Everything.’

‘You want I should kneel?’

Angel smiled. ‘Maybe.’

Spike stepped closer. ‘I want to go now, so let’s just… say goodbye.’

‘You sound sad.’

‘You fucker! What the fuck do you think I am?’

‘I think you came thinking you’d find some way to rip me back.’

‘What? No.’ Suddenly, Spike dipped his head, closed his eyes and said quietly, ‘I want you to be happy, and this is… perfect.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Spike…?’

Spike was screwing up his eyes tightly to keep tears at bay, and only moved his head slightly to indicate he was listening.

‘Look. Look at my perfection—what I’ve always wanted and now have.’

Spike sighed, opened his eyes, and lost control on the tears, which ran hot down his face. 

The tears confused his vision for a moment, so he blinked rapidly. One by one, the mountains were greying out until they became as nothing. 

The meadows began to roll up and run away to the faint mountains, like waves receding in a hallucinated ocean.  Tall, rugged pines went back into the ground, as if the earth missed their company. 

And then the children…. Laughing, walking over the fading flowers….

They stood and smiled at Angel then turned and walked away, shrivelling as they went, no illusion left that they were anything but delusion. Finally, the sun went out, and all was bitterly cold and dark. 

Spike, shivering, heard a disembodied voice in the darkness. ‘As if any drug could ever be strong enough to overcome my conscious will. Everything I’ve ever wanted is as naught to you, Spike. You would not believe me, though, however much I tried to tell you. You needed to be shown, Doubting Thomas that you are. And I am a destroyer of worlds now—for you. For you to see this physical manifestation of my conscious choice.’ 

A hand found his in the dark, and Spike clung to it like a life buoy. It was saving him, so it seemed fitting. Then lips found his, and in this place of nothingness, they found all they would ever need. 

Angel held Spike in a tight embrace and kissed him, gentle and needy. The power of the kiss carried into reality, for they woke on the bed their mouths pressed together, no drug able to contain the power of their passion.

Angel cupped Spike around the back of the neck and pressed their foreheads together. ‘My deliberate flaw and my true perfection.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, can we please have just a few hours where absolutely nothing happens,’ he reached a hand lower, ‘except this, of course….’

The End

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