Fault Lines

Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Assignment: Round 14 of maleslashminis — Spike. Written for bookishwench, who wanted: an orange, someone watching something on TV that you wouldn’t automatically connect with the character, an old joke between the two of them.

Notes: Set on February 1, 2004, which is just after S5’s “Damage.” Roughly 1,960 words.
Summary: It’s all Angel’s fault.



Spike stood just inside the door to Angel’s flat, thinking about how far the mighty — namely himself — had fallen. Time was, Angel would have recognized Spike as a threat of some sort, that he’d have at least noticed when another vampire entered his home. But no. The gormless tit just sat there, entranced by whatever was on the telly.

He’d gone to Angel’s place with a vague desire to — to — well. To do something to settle things between them. Maybe force Angel to recognize for once and for all that Spike had changed. Sort of. He was still brash and still had a pair of brass ones to his name, but these days, Spike put others before himself — mostly — and he was tired of Angel acting like Spike’s soul was going to disappear at any moment. After all, he’d won his, unlike certain cursed vampires whose initials were Angel.

“God, I hate you!”

Angel finally looked up, clearly surprised to see Spike standing there. “What?”

“I hate you.” Spike pulled an orange out of his pocket and chucked it at Angel’s head. “I hate everything about you.” He pulled a second orange out and threw it as well, not caring that Angel deflected it with a quick swat.

“Stop that!” Angel stood up, and Spike pulled a third orange out, aiming for his groin. The throw was satisfying, even though it didn’t connect.

“I hate your hair, I hate your brooding, and I hate your bloody law firm.” He pulled out a fourth orange and threw it, hitting Angel’s forehead with a satisfying thunk.

That finally did the trick, because out came Angel’s game face, and he practically flew over the coffee table to pin Spike against the wall. “What the hell is your problem?”

“You are,” he squeezed out. It wasn’t easy, considering Angel’s forearm was pressed tight against Spike’s throat.

Angel’s fangs went away as he relaxed — much to Spike’s annoyance — and he stepped away. “Go home. You’re still recovering from surgery. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Am too.” Spike heard the sullen note in his voice and tried to fix it with a firmer, “It’s all your fault I’m like this.”

“Of course it is.” Angel turned to head back to the couch. “I turned Dru, and Dru turned you.”

“Not that, you nit!” Spike reached into his pocket for another orange, but he’d already thrown them all. Instead, he followed Angel. “I didn’t mind being a vampire. Loved it, in fact.”

“Whatever.” Angel flopped down on the couch.

“I mean it.” Spike flopped next to him then reached for an orange that had rolled under the coffee table. “Loved being a vampire right up until I went and got a soul, and that’s what I’m talking about. All your fault.”

“You told me you wanted the soul.” Turned out Spike wasn’t the only one who could sound sullen, and that cheered him up a little. “Went out and fought for it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but that’s not —” Spike glanced at the television then took a second, longer look and tried to process what he saw. He blinked a couple of times, but no. The screen still showed — “Puppies?”

Angel stiffened up and then dove for the remote, which was on the coffee table in front of Spike. Too bad for him that Spike was just that much quicker, because he snagged it right before Angel could grab it.

“The Scourge of Europe is watching puppies?” Spike shot off the couch, holding the remote up and out of the way.

“Give me the remote, Spike.” Sure, he sounded threatening and evil, but Spike knew the truth of it, knew that anyone who could watch puppies was no real danger at all.

“Is this what I have to look forward to?” It was tragic, really, that Spike had never truly considered the implications of asking for a soul. Tragic, because he’d always been like that, even when he’d been William. Come up with the grand and perfect scheme first then think about it later. Much later, when it was too late to avoid the consequences of his own idiocy. “Watching puppies instead of a bunch of humans fighting it out on a field? Oh Christ. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Just give me the goddamn remote.”

“I can remember a time when you’d nail a fluffy puppy to a door for the hell of it. Now look.” Spike pointed at the fifty-four-inch screen. “You’d rather watch the Puppy Bowl than the Super Bowl. Oh God. What am I going to be watching in a century? Cooking shows?” Spike blinked as a fresh horror occurred to him. “No, no. I know — knitting shows. That’s what I’ll be watching. Knitting shows, so I can learn how to knit a cunning nappy cover.”

Angel got close enough to snatch the remote from Spike’s unresisting grip and turned off the television. “Stop it.”

He glared at Angel. “This is all your fault! Never would have asked for my soul back if not for you.”

“How? How is having your soul back my fault?”

Angel couldn’t even properly roar anymore. Spike, irrationally perhaps, mourned for Angelus, who had felt free to torture Spike for hours on end. It wasn’t that the torture was particularly fun, though it could be at times; rather, it was that Angelus had a set of stones which the soul seemed to have ground into dust.

“If you hadn’t gone and got one, I never would have done the same,” he said, sounding more sullen than ever.

“It’s not like I asked for one,” Angel muttered, turning away. “Go home. Rest.”

“No!” Spike leapt at Angel and took him down in a graceless tackle. “It’s your fault, I tell you. Admit it!”

“Damn it, Spike!”

What had Spike just been thinking about? Something along the lines of grand schemes and the lack of forethought? Maybe a little forethought would have reminded him that even though Angel could be taken by surprise, the git still had a good fifty pounds and hundred years on him. The worst part was that it hadn’t taken Angel more than a second or two to twist them around so that he was lying right on top of Spike and holding both his wrists above his head in an iron grip — with only one hand. Didn’t stop him from squirming, though, and Spike squirmed for all he was worth in an effort to get out from under Angel.

“Couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t just had both my hands chopped off.”

“They’re reattached now,” Angel said, matching Spike’s squirms with some squirms of his own. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”

“I hate you!”

“You said that.” Angel looked confused for a moment, then he squirmed one more time, and suddenly, the confusion was gone. His next move was more of a deliberate rub. “I don’t think you hate me all that much.”

“Stop that.” He might have sounded more convincing if he hadn’t just pushed his hips up to meet Angel’s, but Spike didn’t want to think about that just yet. The irritation he’d felt since popping out of that stupid amulet so many months ago was finally starting to fade a bit.

“I don’t think so.” Angel reached down between them to unbuckle Spike’s belt and open his jeans. “In fact, I don’t believe you’re really all that upset about having a soul.”

“Fuck you.” Please, God, please, please, please, he thought disjointedly as Angel’s hand reached in and worked a bit of magic Spike hadn’t felt in more than a century.

“You can’t afford me.” Spike’s cock was filling fast in Angel’s unforgiving grip. “Remember, boy? You never did have enough cash on you for that.”

Angel’s comment surprised a breathless laugh out of Spike. It had been decades since he’d thought about that night outside Paris, when Darla and Dru left the two of them alone. They’d gone out and had their fun while Angelus and Spike had a little fun of their own.

“Not like you need it these days, is it?” Spike tried to break Angel’s hold on his wrists, but it didn’t work, he was happy to note. He shifted a little, pushing his hips up again to fuck Angel’s hand. It was the wrong thing to do, judging by the way Angel squeezed hard enough to bring tears to Spike’s eyes. “Oi! Don’t rip the thing off!”

“Shut up, Spike.” Angel bent his head and fucking kissed him, which was something Angelus never would have done. Bloody soul. If Spike hadn’t gotten his own soul back — which was Angel’s fault — he wouldn’t be kissing Angel back for all he was worth. He certainly wouldn’t be making those breathy, needy sounds as Angel worked his cock like a fucking expert. Angel ended the kiss and sped up his hand. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

Spike’s brain was a little slow on the uptake, otherwise it would have censored his immediate, “Rather have you in my mouth.”

Angel did something, but Spike wasn’t sure what, because the next moment, he arched off the floor and came hard, so very hard. As he lay there, trying to collect his wits, Angel stood up and shucked his trousers before kneeling down again to straddle Spike’s shoulders. He held his cock and nudged Spike’s lips with it.

“Open up.”

“Fu —” Spike got his wish and a mouthful of Angel, and God, it felt good. He wanted to reach up and hold him, maybe fondle his ass a little, but the pillock had his arms pinned against his sides — just the way Spike liked them — so all he could do was relax his throat and let Angel fuck his mouth. And at the risk of repeating himself, God that felt good. Felt good to have someone holding him down for once, pinning him in place instead of letting him spin out of control. Felt good to have Angel see him instead of barely looking at him. Felt good to have Angel’s meaty cock choking him, because Angel finally needed him for something, even if it didn’t last nearly as long as Spike wanted it to.

No matter. He’d swallow down whatever Angel had to give him and be back for more later on, now that he knew what buttons to push.

When Angel finally started to soften, he pulled out of Spike’s mouth and rolled to the side, dragging his knee across Spike’s chest as he did so. With Angel flat on his back and not looking like he planned to move anytime soon, Spike shoved himself up far enough so that he could comfortably drape himself across Angel’s chest. Spike started to appreciate Angel’s soul, because there was no way in hell Angelus ever would have let them cuddle like this. No way that Angelus would have brought his arm around Spike’s shoulders the way Angel did just then.

“Oranges?” The question came as Spike started to drift toward sleep. The injury and surgery had taken more out of him than he thought.


“Why were you carrying oranges?”

“Christmas, innit?” Spike snuggled his head more comfortably against Angel’s chest. It wasn’t as soft as Dru’s or Buffy’s, but it was nice all the same. “Got to have oranges for Christmas.”

“Christmas was six weeks ago.”

“Never was all that good at being on time, was I?” If he had been, he’d have done this as soon as he’d gotten his body back instead of waiting so long.

“But —”

“Go to sleep, Angel.”

Go to sleep and maybe, just maybe, when he woke up, he wouldn’t wonder why Spike even thought to bring oranges to him.

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