WIP Amnesty, Day 2, Part 2

[dira]

Angel went up to the roof as soon as it was dark. He made himself stare out in the direction of the ocean, so that he wasn’t watching for them, but soon enough he was just sitting against the wall with his eyes shut, not watching anything.

He should’ve told someone. Spike, probably. Wesley. Cordelia. Any of them. He ought to have said, guys, it’s okay, you know I wouldn’t sleep with Spike if I didn’t know it was safe. It was true; he’d double checked with Lorne, and while sex was in his and Spike’s immediate future, Angelus wasn’t.

I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t safe. Except that he had. Except that he was about to again. Except that nothing was ever safe enough, not really.

And that was why he was on the roof, instead of downstairs with the others, waiting in the lobby. Hiding away from their furtive glances and secret contingency plans, instead of telling them not to bother. Because he might be wrong. It might not be safe at all. He knew it. Knew it perfectly well, and had had five days now to think about it; this wasn’t like Darla, a dizzied mad rush, or Buffy, an innocent–-ha!–-mistake. This was nothing less than malice aforethought.

Premeditation. Soul-murder in the first degree, should the patient fail to pull through. But Spike needed this, and he needed Spike, he needed somebody and of all the possibilities Spike was the safest, and the one who needed him back most fiercely.

He leaned his head back, staring at the sky as he thought of Buffy. He hated the sensation of tears dripping into his ears, but he couldn’t bear to stop looking. He’d lost her so long ago, he’d thought her dying wouldn’t hurt so much. Sometimes it didn’t; he could go hours on end without thinking of her being gone. It wasn’t as if they’d been close, as if her dying left a gaping hole in his day-to-day existence the way it did in Spike’s or Dawn’s. But she was gone for real now, no hope of second chances, and he was still here, picking up the pieces when his hands were so shaky he could barely hold himself together, let alone anyone else.

He tilted his head back down, shook it clear. Buffy was gone and staring up at the sky as if he might catch a glimpse of her peering down from heaven among the stars would do no good. He had other concerns now; Spike, but his mind shied from that, as well.

Dawn. He closed his eyes with a wince; that was almost as bad. The demon in him, whose every moment was consumed with the long-denied hunger for human blood, took a special interest in Dawn, in exact proportion for his complete self’s attachment to her. Should his soul slip tonight, Dawn would be...

He pressed his fingers against his closed eyes. It won’t happen. It didn’t. He had wondered, on and off since he’d had his soul returned to him, about the peculiar mechanism by which he lost it. Perfect happiness, and, face it, happy as he might be at other times, nothing quite compared to the oblivion of sex. But sex with Buffy wasn’t the first sex he had since he was cursed with a soul. That honor was Spike’s, or Dru’s, or both of them together, maybe. It wasn’t all perfectly clear in his mind, vivid though the memories remained.

He had meant it to be good-bye. He had meant to destroy those creatures of evil for whom he was responsible, and then perhaps himself, to ease the fresh misery of his soul, so new it still itched. But good-bye had turned into a reunion with his offspring, and within a short time he had realized his own weakness: even seeing truly what they were, he couldn’t bring himself to stake them. Dru and Spike were his own, and he couldn’t let them go. Dru wandered off after a week, the way she did, but Spike stayed, and they had three days, holed up in an opulent house in south China, before Dru returned, with Darla, and everything went back to the way it had been before he ran away. He wondered whether Spike remembered it. He had to have realized that something was different about his sire, though he’d said nothing at the time.

Angel sighed, and ran a hand over his face. *Face it. You just like thinking about that better than remembering the *real* last time you fucked him.*

***

She threw her arms around his waist, pressed herself close against his back, just like she had a week ago. Good. It meant he hadn’t frightened her, however strangely he knew he’d been behaving. She still thought Spike was keeping her safe, and he would. He would.

It was just the dreams, the nightmares. He’d taken to swiping blood bags from the hospital drop off the past few days–-hadn’t he been told to take care of himself? He felt stronger than he had since he’d been chipped, more alert and awake and nearly alive, but the feeling didn’t stop when he staggered home near sunrise and fell into bed. Instead, he’d had barely ten minutes unbroken sleep since he’d gotten back from LA, his days filled with vivid nightmares, and not just of what he’d already done, or not done. Nightmares of what he was about to do.

They’d begun to creep out from his sleep, now. He’d stood there in the living room, watching Dawn reassure the Scoobies, the nightmares flashing before him, full sensory, so that for a second or two at a time he was sure it had already come to pass, his awful dream come true. He couldn’t not think of it, couldn’t shut the sights and smells and feelings away. The best he could do now was argue.

*It won’t happen. It can’t happen. It didn’t, so it won’t.*

A hundred years gone by, and for his sire an extra century in Hell. Buffy loved and lost, Dru gone away, and Spike himself reduced to... whatever he was now, chipped, useless, shivering and close to hallucinating as he sped down the freeway, driving by some collection of reflexes that barely required him to be conscious. No. There was no danger of his nightmares, *dreams*, coming true. Dawn was perfectly safe with him, and he was perfectly safe with Angel. Because Spike wasn’t perfect at all.

He struggled to pull himself together as he pulled off the freeway, winding through the already-familiar sequence of turns. Had to be ready, had to present himself properly to his sire, had to look right for the humans. Must not scare Dawn.

He parked the bike, pulled off his helmet, and immediately latched on to the sound of Dawn’s heartbeat. She was clambering off behind him, pulling off her own helmet, grinning. “Thank God, we’re here.”

Spike grinned back, steadied his shaky hands, unbuttoned Angel’s coat. “Glad to be back, then, pet?”

“Duh.” She was happy, she was calm, she had no inkling of what he’d brought her to, and that was just right. She offered him his coat, and Spike managed to look no more than usually eager to have that familiar armor returned. He could do this. Slayers, sires, not much difference there. Except that no slayer had ever looked him in the eye and said, *You’re one of us now.* Spike’s hand went to his pocket automatically, but his fingertips touched only the empty cellophane crumple of an exhausted cigarette pack. Bloody brilliant.

He made a door-ward gesture, and Dawn grabbed her bag and preceded him in, a bounce in her step, heart pitter-patting with Christmas morning excitement, and Spike just followed, focusing on walking steadily, eyes open, half-smile already in place, concentrating all his mind on the reassuring sound of Dawn.

Through the doors and, oh, Christ, had his sire taught him nothing, that he let his girl go before him into danger? Blood on the walls, and an awful stillness, broken only by the moans of the dying and the laugh of the dead one who drove them and human blood accomplished nothing because he could not catch Dawn back, she was already running, heart rate jumping, snatched up into his sire’s arms and how had it happened? He wasn’t even here, and someone else had slipped in ahead of him and done what he had not, could not, could never, and Dawn was not screaming but laughing.

Spike shook his head, looked again, and saw the truth. Four unharmed humans awaited them, Fred still sitting on the couch with Gunn between her and the door and the just-arrived visitors, Cordelia and Wesley rising to make their polite hellos. Wesley was shooting him a Look, reassuringly devoid of conspiracy, though with a twitch of eyebrow that suggested that Spike had given away something of what he saw.

And Dawn, of course, had bolted, not away from danger but toward her friend, giggling as she was engulfed in Angel’s embrace. Safe as houses. Spike kept still, letting reality surround him, nearly as reassuring as his sire’s arms, and he was concentrating so hard on that that he didn’t immediately notice when those arms appeared in his field of vision. Hand on his shoulder, squeezing, a command that Spike could never wish to resist, and he raised his face.

Angel’s eyes crinkled at him. “Spike? You look... tired.”

Half-smile bloomed into a smirk at that. “Yeah,” he admitted, “could be.”

“Well. Why don’t I just take you upstairs, then...” And Spike blinked, resisted the temptation to touch his ears, but, no, that had been exactly as unsubtle as it sounded. He glanced around; Dawn and Cordelia, hugging hello, wore identical expressions of shocked but tolerant amusement, and Spike mentally awarded Cordelia the acting trophy of her choice. Wesley had simply turned his back.

Spike nodded. “If you like.” Yes, please, it’s been five days, I’ve been good, let’s go. He glanced over at Dawn again. “Don’t forget to call home, right? Only, wait about twenty minutes, and tell them we just got in, or they’ll stake me for doing the reckless endangerment bit on the freeway.”

Dawn nodded, and he could see her filing away that useful tip for future reference as she walked over to him. She pressed her bag into Spike’s arms. “Put that in my room for me?”

Spike blinked, nodded, smiled. Dawn rolled her eyes and grinned back, walking away again, and even as Angel prodded him in the direction of the stairs, he couldn’t resist watching her, stealing one last look, to assure himself she had no idea, wasn’t scared of what he might be doing, had no idea that this might be one last look. Ignorance. Bliss.

***

Dawn managed to hold back the giggles as Angel all but dragged Spike off by the hair. Good. They’d get laid, and then Spike could stop acting so godawful weird. Cordelia was smiling, too, as she watched them disappear upstairs.

“So,” she said brightly, as soon as they were gone. “Who’s up for a girls’ night at the movies?”

Dawn grinned. “No demons to kill?”

Gunn stood, tugging Fred to her feet after him. “Nope. It’s your choice, though, you can always stay and help polish weapons.”

Dawn wrinkled her nose. She got enough of that at home; helping out with cleanup was as close as she was allowed to get to patrolling, but somehow she managed to get that close on a regular basis. “Movie sounds good.”

Fred nodded. “I haven’t seen a movie in, y’know. A really long time.”

Cordelia smiled. “Me neither. I love it when Angel treats.” She glanced at her watch. “Cab should be here in a sec, are you ready to go?”

Dawn blinked. “Um, I’m going to have to call home.”

“You can use my phone, no problem. Just, if we don’t leave when the cab gets here, we’ll miss the previews, and I hate missing the previews.”

Dawn looked around. Wesley was still staring at the now-empty staircase, with a very... British look on his face. Gunn was grinning reassuringly, and Angel and Spike were upstairs. About to start having sex, probably loudly, probably really soon.

“Yeah,” Dawn said, every bit as brightly as Cordy. “Now’s fine.”

***

“So,” Angel said softly, leading the way down the corridor, “you’re here on time. That was the third thing. And Dawn seems all right. That was the first thing. So what about you?”

Spike stared down at the carpet. He’d been feeding well, but more than that went into taking care of himself; Angel probably would have wished him to beg a sleep-charm from the witches, for one, and why hadn’t he thought of that a bit sooner?

“I was good,” he said quietly, though without much conviction. “I was...” He grinned. Had to be good for something, right? “I was nice to someone, you’ll never guess who.”

Angel gave him an assessing look as he opened the door to Dawn’s room and took the bag from Spike’s hand. “Xander?”

Spike didn’t, quite, pout.

Angel smiled. “You would’ve expected me to expect you to be nice to the others, and you wouldn’t have bothered to actually be nice to anyone who didn’t matter to Dawn. So that just leaves Xander.”

Spike frowned down at his boots. Standing in Dawn’s room, talking about Harris, this was not how the evening was supposed to go, and suppose Angel really did intend to just tuck him into bed for a nap? “So, do I get a gold star for that?”

Angel smiled, setting one big hand on the back of Spike’s neck, and Spike couldn’t tell what kind of shiver it was that went through him at the contact, but then he didn’t much care. “A gold star? Is that what you wanted? I probably have some down in my desk.”

Spike looked up quickly, mouth opening to contradict, but Oh, God, please, don’t make me say it, don’t make me ask for this, don’t make it my fault Angel pressed him up against the doorframe, taking Spike’s parted lips in a rough, hasty, no-choice, no-questions, no-more-waiting, kiss.

“Because I was thinking more along the lines of sex,” he said, as he stepped back into the hallway, dragging Spike along in his wake, stumbling and trying to gasp discreetly. He wanted to sob his gratitude at his sire’s feet.

He’d barely had time to consider the prospect of actually doing so when Angel pulled him through the door, closing it by pushing Spike up against it. Spike would have wondered what it was about doorways that got Angel so very riled up, if he’d had any attention to spare from being kissed, hard, his head driven back against the smooth plane of the wood behind him, Angel’s hands tangled in his coat. He raised his own hands, cautiously, as he submitted to this foretaste of what was to come, Angel entirely in control and yet willing to find his own pleasure in concert with Spike’s. Carefully, Spike’s fingers twined around Angel’s elbows. Holding on, he thought, had always been allowed, when he needed to support himself because his legs had given up on the job, whether because his sire’s attentions had driven out conscious muscle control or because he was, say, paralyzed from the waist down. Spike’s fingers tightened, almost convulsively, in memory, but it wasn’t going to be like that, this time. Not with Angel. Not now.

Angel seemed to remember too, sliding one hand down to mirror Spike’s grip and squeezing gently, as he parted his lips from Spike’s to kiss his forehead, lightly, almost reverently, leaving Spike to gasp like a fish, loud in the otherwise silent room. His mouth worked helplessly, gasping in air that he could not use to beg for more. He closed his eyes, so that they would not betray him. Must not ask. Must not want this. Must just let his sire have whatever his sire wanted.

Angel got the message all the same, returning to kiss Spike into silence, but gently now, gently, drawing him into returning the kiss, and surely, his culpability in all of this was not much affected by taking off his own boots? It was such a small thing to do, working off one and then the other as he clung to Angel, hanging from his grip, pressed to the door, kissing and being kissed, and making tiny, involuntary noises for which he could not be held accountable.

Then Angel was falling back from the door, tugging Spike along with him, and Spike stumbled obediently after, barefoot now, quiet. Angel sagged to sit on the edge of the bed, drawing Spike down into his lap, and Spike smiled, settling himself sideways on one thigh, holding on with his right arm while his left hand gravitated to the bulge in Angel’s pants. Hard, and familiar, and... He drew back to look Angel in the face, and met a smile.

“What?” Angel said softly, to cover a breathlessness that left Spike feeling secretly smug, “You’re the only one who can’t be bothered to wear the stuff that doesn’t show on the outside?”

Except Angel almost never went commando. It meant he wanted to be able to undress faster. It meant he wanted Spike, enough to let Spike know it. Spike and apparently the rest of the bleeding world, to judge from the lobby. Spike resisted the impulse to say something stupid, burying his face against his sire’s neck, instead, mouthing the familiar smooth skin as he unbuttoned and unzipped one-handed, because he was in for a penny, and a pound, and all the tea in China. Might as well return a favor while he was at it, and Angel went still as Spike wrapped his fingers around his cock. One stroke, two, and it was like riding a bloody bicycle, until Angel grabbed Spike’s wrist, hard enough to make the bones grind. “No.”

Cold, he felt suddenly cold at that, but Angel’s grip loosened quickly, his hand going instead to Spike’s shirt. “Can’t wait,” Angel gasped, explaining, as if it mattered that Spike understood, but he didn’t feel cold anymore, and that was good. Then Angel flipped him up and over to land on his back in the middle of the bed. The breath was knocked out of him, and he gasped a bit as he writhed on the soft surface, painfully hard in his tight jeans but knowing better than to do anything about it. He watched as Angel stripped with the speed of a man starved, and then he was covered, head to toe, in a thick layer of hard, naked Sire. Angel easily caught and pinned Spike’s hands above his head, crushing both his wrists together with one hand. His hips ground down hard, pressing his erection against Spike’s through that irritating layer of clothing. Angel’s free hand went to the collar of Spike’s shirt, and brown eyes bored down into blue. Spike just grinned. “You’ll have to buy me another one, y’know.”
Angel grinned back, twisted his hand, tore Spike’s shirt open from collar to hem. He lowered his face to Spike’s, lips brushing Spike’s ear as he shared his secret, jerking the tatters of the t-shirt free of Spike’s body. “Already done, boy. You’ve got a whole drawer. Jeans, black shirts, grey shirts, Sex Pistols, Clash, whatever you want. There’s even a blue one.”

Spike whimpered, thrusting up as much as he dared as Angel lifted himself away, giving his free hand room to tear Spike’s jeans from his body. Angel’s mouth moved down to Spike’s throat, only teasing with blunt human teeth, and Spike’s eyes shut as he considered what he’d been told with the handful of higher brain functions he still possessed. He’d spent the past week practicing to kill his sire. His sire had spent the past week buying him things. Someone here was not a good boy at all, and Spike suspected he knew who, but that conclusion was lost in the jerk and burn of denim being broken and dragged from his body, and he was naked now in a shroud of black leather.

Angel’s hand pushed his legs up, and he adopted the pose automatically as Angel settled lower again, his cock brushing lightly against Spike’s before he shifted, and Spike felt that blunt head against his opening, and sent up a little grateful whimpering moan to whichever god had thought vampires were a good idea, for the preternatural muscle control that allowed him to relax for this even when he wasn’t relaxed at all. But Angel only just rocked against him, not pressing in, and Spike opened his eyes. Angel still wore his human face, contorted with more than just lust, and after a frozen moment, Spike’s mouth worked silently around the damning shape of please.

A flicker of a smile to reward him, and Angel’s lips claiming his again, cutting off further words with a kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy, and Spike groaned into Angel’s mouth as his cock sank in, slow and slicker than it ought to be but he wasn’t going to ask any questions. No real pain, just a welcome ache and the stretch of being filled beyond what his forgetful body thought it could take. Spike rocked his hips up, inviting him on until he was all the way in, and Spike was filled, claimed, anchored. Wanted. Taken. Had. He felt the breath of soothing words against his lips, and realized that he was making noises, a frantic wordless litany of thanks and praise to his creator, or his creator’s creator at least, but Angel’s finger against his lips quieted him.

Spike had to close his eyes again, couldn’t watch and let his eyes distract him from the sensation, and he wasn’t sure if it had ever been quite like this before, even at its best, even those stolen silken days in China. Spike had had his sire’s undivided attention for three days then, and for the past hundred and one years, when he thought of perfect happiness, he thought of those nights, but now, now he was going to have to revise his opinion. There had never in all the world been anything like this, Angel inside him and moving so, so slowly. Maybe he wanted to be gentle, but Spike let himself believe, just for now, while it lasted, that Angel couldn’t bear to move from this perfect union of flesh.

Then a hand wrapped around Spike’s aching cock, fingers sliding along the shaft as a dextrous thumb circled the head, and Spike bucked up, just once, before a warning growl, low in his sire’s throat, stilled him. Then Angel began to move, slow thrusts matched by the hand on his cock, and Spike gritted his teeth, toes curling as he kept himself still despite the waves of pleasure pounding through him. He could feel his climax coiling, fire gathering in his groin, and when he felt Angel’s fangs sink into his shoulder, just above the collarbone, he came with a low drawn-out scream, and let himself go.

***

Wesley stared fixedly at the small crystal ball, which was getting kind of... boring. He didn’t look over at Gunn, but Wesley could see his fingers making tiny motions, like he was about to try smacking it, the way he did the television when it got fuzzy.

Finally, he said, “So now what happens?”

Wesley sighed, and leaned back against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “If he loses his soul, it’ll be attracted to the Orb, and then we just have to do the second half of the spell to replace it. Or, if we’re in trouble, break the orb and notify the backups.”

“And if the orb doesn’t get all glowy, he hasn’t lost his soul.”

“Right.”

“Or we did it wrong, and his soul’s floated off and we didn’t catch it.”

Wesley glanced over at his friend, who was politely still staring at the Orb like something might happen. Considered, for a moment, defending himself against the implied criticism, but the same fear was coiling cold in his belly. “Right.”

Gunn looked up. “So, it’s a good thing we got rid of the girls, huh?”

Wesley sighed, and nodded.

From the second floor, the muffled sound of a drawn-out scream. They both stared at the Orb, but nothing happened. “Was that...?”

“Spike, I think,” Wesley said, trying not to picture it. “Didn’t sound like, ah...”

“More ‘hurt me more’ than ‘help he’s killing me’?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Me too.”

Wesley sighed, and wondered why magic couldn’t be done on tabletops. He felt like a child, sitting on the floor behind the couch in the den, door closed because that would preserve them from the attention of a soulless vampire bent on killing them all. Obviously.

“I hope you’re right,” Gunn said quietly, “about it being different.”

Wesley breathed a laugh. “So do I. Not having Angelus make an appearance would be the highlight of my weekend.”

Gunn snorted, and punched him lightly on the arm. “No, y’know. I hope.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m saying this. I hope it works out for those two.”

“Oh.” Wesley hadn’t really considered it on that level, oddly caught up in the business of trying not to be killed by a psychopath. “Well, I suppose someone in the office ought to be getting laid once in a while.”

Gunn made a sort of I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about noise, and then, after a pause, there was a little self-deprecating oh-hell-I-know-exactly-what-you-mean laugh. “Yeah. Be good for him.”

Wes stared at the Orb for a moment, then reached out and poked it gently, not enough to knock it out of place, just... checking.
“This thing is Angel-specific, right? We’re not gonna end up accidentally putting a soul into Spike or something?”

Wesley frowned. “It should be, or else Willow’s curse might have ensouled half the vampires in Sunnydale. Spike shouldn’t confuse it.”

Gunn nodded. “I mean, he’s already got the chip, so.”

Wesley nodded.

“Could you do that, if you wanted to?”

Wesley frowned. “Put a soul into Spike? It must be possible; Angelus was not, in theory, any different from any other vampire when he was originally cursed. But with the chip, it’s hardly necessary.”

“But, I mean. That’d be another way to fight vamps, wouldn’t it? Stick souls into the strongest ones, make ‘em fight their own kind the way he does.”

Wesley shrugged again. The Council had never had much interest in rehabilitating vampires; the Initiative’s work on Spike was unprecedented, and until a few years ago Angel’s soul had been dismissed as myth. “I don’t know,” he said finally, “there’s probably some bright young Watcher writing a thesis on the topic, but they stopped sending me copies when they fired me.”

Gunn nodded, and leaned back idly against the couch, for all the world as if this were just another Friday night.

Of course, it rather was; Wesley wondered if he would ever be able to accept that fact with Gunn’s equanimity, or whether he had come to the practice of this too late. He thought of how much harder this would have been with only himself to reassure, and words came to his lips. He chewed them over for a moment, looking for a better way to say what he was thinking, but there was none, and finally, he said, “Thank you for staying.”

Gunn just smiled, and shook his head, and tapped at the Orb. Still nothing. “You think we could maybe turn on the tv?”
***

Spike’s scream ended in a strangely stuttering breath, and before Angel knew what was happening, the vampire beneath him was sobbing. Spike turned his face away, yellow eyes shut tight, his pale perfect throat bared and flexing convulsively with every ragged breath drawn with a not-quite whistle through sharp teeth. Every cry tailed off into a whimper as Spike tried to mask his outburst, tried to be quiet--as though Angel might somehow not notice--only to lose his tenuous control again with the next breath. Angel crooned to him, softly, though it felt strange with a mouthful of fangs. He gently licked the bite clean, and then moved to kissing Spike’s face, chasing tears across demonic ridges. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t sure whether the words really penetrated Spike’s hysteria, but the tone seemed to have an effect, and he turned his face back up to Angel’s, though his eyes stayed shut. Angel held himself as still as he could, aside from chasing down tears, as Spike’s body hitched and shuddered beneath him, out of control. “It’s all right,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you.” Because Spike had let himself go, trusted Angel to catch him, to hold him down and keep him in one piece, and he was determined to do exactly that. All the grief and anger and fear and exhaustion that deviled his childe weren’t stronger than he was, and Spike would understand that, in time.

After what might have been a long time, Spike blinked up at him cautiously, his breathing steadied back into a rhythm more like fucking than keening. Spike’s hips rocked a little, testing, drawing Angel’s attention back to the main event. Angel pressed down a little harder with the hand that pinned Spike’s wrists against the headboard, thrust fractionally further into the familiar tightness.

Spike smiled a little, blinking, a few last stray tears still slipping from his eyes. “Gimme an A,” he whispered, hoarse and doubtless unable to make such a bold request any louder.

Angel smiled. “An A, huh? You liked that.” Angel’s hand, resting lightly on Spike’s sweat-and-semen-slicked belly, felt the stirring that indicated just how much Spike liked that. “Where do you want it, Spike?”

But just asking had been almost too much for him to presume, and Spike just shook his head, eyes downcast so that Angel could see nothing but the fans of his eyelashes. A little sound escaped parted lips, not quite a whimper.

“I can’t reach the back of your neck right now,” Angel murmured, lips brushing Spike’s cheek. “So, let’s see... Do you want it somewhere you can see it, this time?”

Spike’s eyes met his, for an instant, almost accidentally, before he looked away again. Tiny nod, and Angel smiled.

“Somewhere everyone can see it?” Not that he knew where that would be, exactly, but Spike was already shaking his head. Angel smiled a little more, walking his fingers up Spike’s chest. “Somewhere you can show it to Dawn?”

Spike met his eyes again, steadier this time, and Angel held his breath; as much as anything could be off-limits between them, Dawn was, and Spike might not take kindly to Angel bringing her, even just the thought of her, into this. But perhaps she wasn’t so far from Spike’s mind as all that to begin with, because he smiled slightly back, and nodded.

Angel shifted himself, twisting his hips in the process in a way that made Spike groan and arch up beneath him. The porcelain skin of Spike’s chest, just below the bloody ellipse of the bite on his shoulder, thrust closer to him, and the decision was made. He licked, first, and then sucked at the skin, calling the blood close even if such gentle means wouldn’t mark a vampire. Spike was trembling with the effort of holding still beneath him, and Angel knew better than to expect such fine control to last.

He cut deep this time, scoring the letter just into the muscle layer, so that it would last a little longer this time. Spike was hard again by the time he finished, and he could smell the blood of a bitten lip, but ignored it in favor of cleaning the fresh-drawn A of the welling blood that might obscure the design. Now that Spike wasn’t bursting into tears, he could actually taste the blood he’d drawn, full of well-fed energy and a nearly painful level of arousal, and fear. So much fear. And over everything a grey pall of weariness, like the fine coating of ash covering everything downwind of some massive pyre.

Angel looked at Spike’s face again. Eyes closed, sucking at his no-longer-bleeding lip like he was afraid to stop. Waiting for Angel to do as he pleased, and never daring to ask.

Angel raised his free hand to his mouth and tore open the pads of his first two fingers. The instant the skin parted and blood welled, Spike’s eyes snapped open. Yellow eyes dark with wariness stared up at him from a perfectly still face, and Angel laid his bleeding fingers upon his childe’s lips. Wide eyes sank shut again, and Spike’s head tilted back, mouth working as Angel lifted his fingers just out of reach, to save Spike from the temptation to bite. His restraining hand shifted from Spike’s wrists to tangle in his hair, and he began to move again, slowly and steadily fucking Spike, eyes fastened on the lips that so hungrily followed his fingers, the little flicker of tongue, the sweet starving way Spike accepted this gift. Angel, watching from this vantage atop and inside him, knew exactly what it did to Spike, remembered the old feeling of fire, burning and soothing and sweet, anathema and sanctuary all in one, felt the involuntary bucking of hips seeking that last bit of friction and wished he had a hand free.

Angel had to close his eyes, then, concentrating on the feel of soft lips brushing his fingertips and the cooperative movements Spike was making. Burying himself to the hilt as Spike gasped around his fingers, he could feel the orgasm in every muscle of Spike’s body, including the ones clenching in waves around his cock, and no amount of gritting his teeth was going to stop it this time. With a last little thrill of oh god what have I done, Angel succumbed to a moment of happiness.

***

Cordelia dialed Dawn’s house and handed her the phone, and Dawn covered her other ear, concentrating. It’d be bad to screw this up the very first time.

“Hello?” Tara, and Dawn wondered if that meant they’d had to tie Willow up.

“Hi, it’s me, checking in.”

“Oh, wow. That was a quick trip.”

Dawn grinned. “Well, you know. Spike, not a big fan of speed limits.”

“True enough.”

“So, anyway, you can tell everyone to stop staring at the phone now, I’m okay.”

Tara laughed, and Dawn heard her relay that message. Then, “Here, Xander wants to say hi. I think he misses you.”

Dawn snorted. “Put him on.”

“Hey, Dawnster.”

“Hey, Xan. What’s up?”

“Since you left? Oh, the usual, Friday night, trying to impress the girlfriends by telling slayage stories they weren’t around for and can’t contradict. Giles is humoring us, I think. What are you up to?”

“Girls’ night thing. Cordy and Fred and I are going to see a movie.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

Dawn frowned. “Cordy?”

She turned from her low-voiced talk with Fred just a little too fast. “Yeah?”

“What movie?”

Cordy blinked. “Oh, you know. The one. About the. Guy.”

Dawn blinked back. “We’re going to pick one when we get there, see whether the traffic leaves us feeling like some ass-kicking or some gooshy love stuff.”

Xander chuckled. “Friday night traffic in LA? I don’t think there are any Rambo movies playing right now.”

Dawn stared out at the cars, and wondered. “Well, we’ll find something.”

“I’m sure you will. So, okay, twelve hours is about nine tomorrow morning, when you will call...”

“Giles. He gets up early, right? Even on the weekends?” Also, least likely to have been doing something she wouldn’t want to think about if she got him out of bed.

“Um. He will tomorrow, that’s for sure. Be good, Dawn, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye.” Dawn hung up and handed the phone back to Cordy. “So, about the movie.”

“Yeah,” Cordy said, sitting back so she could look easily from Fred to Dawn. “The thing about that is, it was a big huge lie. We’re not going to the movies.”

***

Spike couldn’t suppress a little shudder as Angel flopped onto the bed beside him. The taste of sire’s blood still sparkled on his tongue, and the bit Angel had fed him–-hadn’t expected that, not at all–-had the same invigorating effect as his unaccustomed diet of human blood, multiplied unimaginably. His body was humming, sparking, he could do anything, anything at all, he was strong and ready and he could do *anything.*

His hands flexed. They remembered, even if he didn’t want to, and the taste on his tongue was familiar because his sire’s blood could never be anything else, but unaccustomed–-it had been at least a hundred and ten years–-there had been no sign yet, if it was going to happen, surely it would have by now–-ready, ready, ready, in body, but the rest of him could never be that strong.

Fucked, yes, he’d expected that, but so much more, marked and claimed and *fed* and he could never, never... Spike squeezed his eyes shut. Angel’s fingers, still tangled in his hair, worked back and forth, lightly, almost playfully. Spike forced his body to relax, wriggled catlike under Angel’s touch, and slitted his eyes open. His sire was looking at him, brown eyes warm with something like fondness, something Angelus had surely never felt–-but no, that was a lie, he remembered that look, he’d been craving it a long, long time, and he couldn’t bear the suspense another second.

His mouth opened, and in a casual voice, Spike said, “Feeling evil at all, then?”

His sire seemed to be trying not to smile as he considered his answer. “No,” he said, finally. Of course, of course. He would have known if it were going to happen, he would have said something. And of course it hadn’t happened; it hadn’t happened in China, there was no reason Spike should be good enough now when he wasn’t then. No reason at all.

“You’re sure? You’d tell me?” he asked, stupidly, because he couldn’t quite believe. Didn’t want to believe.

“Yes,” Angel said, without hesitation this time.

Spike let out a breath, and the relaxation became real, suddenly. He could do anything, but he didn’t have to; he was in a comfortable bed with his sire, and there was no particular reason to go anywhere for a moment. Spike raised a hand to trace the A he could feel burning bright on his chest, and felt the weight of leather on his arm. “You mind if I take this off now?”

Angel somehow managed to shrug lying down. “If you like.”

Spike rolled onto his side, shrugging out of his coat, and tossed it across Angel’s body as he slumped over, his face on his sire’s shoulder. He heard the leather hit the floor, and made a mental note to pick it up and put it away, later. For now, though, Angel’s chest was vibrating with a suppressed laugh, and there was a big hand playing with his hair, and he didn’t have to do a damn thing.

Angel stilled, after a moment, and Spike wondered, belatedly, what had been funny. He thought about lifting his head and asking–-Angel certainly seemed to be in an indulgent mood–-but he was happy enough as he was, and kept still.

Angel’s hand moved in his hair again, tugging gently where Angelus would have yanked. Spike lifted his head, and looked his sire in the eye. Angel’s hand came down from his hair to cup his jaw, and he said firmly, “It’s not that you don’t make me happy, Spike.”

Spike felt a shudder go through him, and his left hand clutched hard on Angel’s shoulder. Angel quirked a smile, and didn’t protest the bruising grip. “Do you understand me? You do make me happy. Not perfectly happy, but I don’t even know if I’m capable of that anymore.”

Spike swallowed hard, and nodded, and when he tried to lay his head back down, Angel didn’t stop him.

***

Angel knew he’d have only a limited amount of time before Spike’s post-coital lassitude gave way to the energy rush from feeding. Even as he enjoyed the quiet–-afterglow, it was a nice concept--he was counting down to the inevitable moment when Spike would be physically incapable of holding still any longer.

It started with a slow and subtle stretch, passing through Spike’s body like a wave through honey. It began at his toes, and Angel could feel the slight movement of Spike’s legs sliding against his own. Then a wriggle of hips, easily distinguishable as a stretch and not an invitation for more sex. Then torso and arms, and finally a little motion of his head, which might have been only Spike nestling against his sire’s shoulder.

After that, he could feel the tension in Spike’s body slowly increasing, muscles tightening in anticipation of movement. It would go on until Spike was almost vibrating, he knew, and Spike would do his best to keep still as long as Angel did, obedient to his wishes. But sooner or later the effort would be too much, and Spike would begin to fidget, and then he’d have disobeyed the implicit instruction to keep still, and things would get difficult.

Angel turned his head, and pressed his lips lightly to Spike’s hair before he sat up. “Come on,” he said softly, taking Spike’s hand in his and tugging. “Shower.” Spike nodded, and followed him as he got up, making no move to reclaim his hand; Angel liked the feel of it in his, and held on. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

He glanced over at Spike in time to see an uncertain look pass briefly over his face. “Well,” he said, in a dubious voice, and Angel smiled a little and nodded. Spike smiled back for an instant, then converted the expression into a lazy smirk. “I don’t think they’re *wondering*, exactly.”

Angel grinned, and stood still, halfway to the bathroom, tugging on Spike’s hand to bring him into full-body contact. “I guess they’re not. I just... didn’t feel like waiting.”

Spike smiled up at him, and nodded. “Suits me, I just...” Another flash of uncertainty, more quickly overcome. “Thought you might care what they thought.”

Angel smiled. “They’d have been thinking the same thing no matter what I said.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to Spike’s throat, flickering his tongue out to lick the pale skin, feeling the motion there as he breathed. “I only play at being human when it suits me, Spike. You know I’m the same as you.” Spike’s hand in his clenched tight, and his breathing was quick and a little uneven. Angel lifted his head and kissed him, pleased by the quick response which had replaced Spike’s earlier passivity.

After a moment he broke the kiss and stepped back, raising his free hand to Spike’s chest. He might not care what the humans were thinking, but if they stayed in here all night, sooner or later someone was going to come and check on them, and there were universal laws that dictated that the someone would be Dawn or Fred, and the sooner or later would be in the middle of something highly personal, so... Better to take a shower and go downstairs and reassure everyone.

Spike nodded his understanding, and followed Angel into the bathroom, still suffering his hand to be held. Angel squeezed lightly before letting go to turn on the shower, fiddling with the tap–-he liked long showers, and usually left the water lukewarm to avoid overtaxing the hotel’s antiquated water heaters, but Spike liked his water hot.

He stepped under the spray, wet his hair, and then moved back, making room for Spike, who followed him in with an entrancingly bouncy motion, and thoughtfully pulled the shower curtain closed behind him. Angel took up the bottle of shampoo, flicking his fingers toward the bar of soap, and Spike obediently picked it up, lathering it between his hands and washing himself, thoroughly but quickly, obviously too keyed up to share Angel’s hedonistic appreciation of the hot shower. He had finished by the time Angel was ready to rinse his hair, and they did a left-shoulder pivot so smooth and synchronized that Angel was tempted to bow to his partner as he took his place under the spray; instead, he tipped his head back, working the shampoo out of his hair and watching as Spike, with a flickered glance and a tiny shift of posture, reached for the washcloth.

Angel shifted his stance slightly, raised his chin in a way that meant, yes, go ahead, and Spike soaped the cloth, all his energy visibly channeled into that simple action. When Angel had finished rinsing his hair, Spike stepped closer to him, so that their bodies were only a breath apart, and reached up to tilt the shower head so that the water wasn’t striking him in the face. Angel, nearly up against the tiled wall, was out of the water entirely.

Spike didn’t look up, keeping his head bowed, his eyes on his work, as he began to wash Angel. He started at his collarbone, the strong fingers of his left hand working the cloth over his sire’s skin, the roughness of the wet cloth and the slickness of soap somehow a startling new sensation. He could feel Spike’s eyes, his focus, like another touch. His hand traveled slowly, unhurried now that he’d found an outlet for his energy, and by the time Spike had traversed the few inches to his nipple and begun to wash there, Angel was desperate for some distraction. He reached for the shampoo bottle, and squeezed a bit into Spike’s hair. As he began to lather the blond curls, Spike graced him with an upward look, a small gratified smile. Angel smiled briefly back, before Spike’s fingers moved–-just–-so, and he had to close his eyes.

Angel worked his hands through Spike’s hair, soaping it almost strand by strand, flexing his fingers over the curves of his skull, taking in the tiny motions of the muscles of his scalp. All the while, Spike washed him, periodically wetting the washcloth to sluice water over an area he was finished with. He made his way methodically down one side of Angel’s chest and up the other, then washed his arms, lifting his face to observe as he soaped Angel’s forearms while he had his hands still buried in Spike’s hair. He never looked at Angel’s face, but Angel couldn’t take his eyes away from Spike’s. His utter focus on what he was doing was intoxicating, and the smile that hinted at the corners of his mouth was irresistible, and when Spike finished his arms and reached around to soap his back, Angel did not moan. At all.

Angel’s fingers were beginning to get pruney by the time Spike finished washing his back, and dropped to his knees. Looking up at him with the wicked smile Angel had been waiting for, Spike said, “Lean back, then. Wouldn’t want you to fall when I do your,” Spike swept a glance downward, and Angel could feel the force of it, from his aching cock to his toes, “feet.”

Angel leaned back, spreading his legs to accommodate the tap, and exercised enough willpower not to yank Spike’s head to where it would do the most good, letting him move at his own pace. Spike, in turn, demonstrated his good sense by getting straight to the point. As his left hand began to work the washcloth over Angel’s thigh, his right hand finally dropped the soap and wrapped around the base of his erection. Angel dragged in a ragged breath as Spike exhaled against the head of his cock, and then he was engulfed in coolness, a startling contrast from the heat of the shower.

Spike went for speed and intensity over finesse, and Angel was only able to restrain himself for a moment before thrusting into his child’s suckling mouth. Spike hummed welcomingly, and peeked up through his lashes with a look of invitation Angel had never been able to resist.

---

And that's where it stayed when I jumped ship for due South, April 2003.

I saw this as the beginning of an excruciatingly long and involved series packed with epic quantities of h/c for both Spike and Dawn, with all kinds of thematic things and character development and angst angst angst and lots of porn (not involving Dawn. almost ever. except that once but I swear it was going to make sense.) and ending more or less happy and thoroughly complicated.

And then I got distracted by that shiny Mountie and his shiny Ray, about whom more tomorrow. *g*