Five Names Not Found in the Watchers' Diaries

Author: Lynne

Pairing: Angel/Spike, in all their incarnations
Rating: R? I guess.
Warnings: Biting. Daddy!kink, but in a twisted evil sort of way.
Word Count: 500
Summary/Notes: A while back, thatotherperv did a post about her own personal canon. I started to do one, but realized it was all about the names that Spike and Angel call each other in my fic - mostly while they're having sex. And then last night I started thinking about the backstory behind each name, and then there was fic. Technically, one of these names does appear in the Watchers' Diaries, but it's the context that's important, so just go with it. :)

Thanks to kita0610 for beta goodness and general squee.

**

“And don’t just leave the body lying in the open. Hide it, or cover it so no one finds it till morning.”

“Hmm. Right.”

A smack in the back of the head. “Pay attention, William.”

A roll of blue eyes. “Yes, Da.”

Another smack. “Don’t call me that.”

William digs out a cigarette. “Thought that’s what all you Micks called your overbearing father figures?”

Which is exactly why Angelus hates hearing it.

Later, William’s face is pressed into the mattress, fingers curling tighter with every thrust. “Christ, yes. Please. Fuck me, Da.”

From then on, it doesn’t sound so bad.

*

“So you’re a poet then?” Angelus asks. William reddens.

“Like William Blake,” Darla says with mock glee.

“Or William Shakespeare.”

“Or William Tell,” chimes Drusilla.

“He was an archer, Dru,” Darla says, annoyed. Drusilla makes a disappointed hum.

Angelus leans back, folds his hands. “Go on, then. Recite us some poetry.”

William blurts out the first lines in his rattled brain: “Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in overplus,” – then he stumbles, and they laugh.

That night, Angelus murmurs in his ear, “You bleed like poetry, Will.” He doesn’t protest the name.

*

“You nearly got yourself dusted tonight, boy.” Angelus punctuates the word with a kick to the ribs. William – Spike – whatever he’s calling himself now – lies half-conscious on the floor.

Another kick. “Vampire hunters. Darla and I have run into their kind before. They’re not to be trifled with.”

He kneels down, slaps Spike across the face. “Are you listening?”

A mumbled, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sire.”

Angelus stills. He’d been expecting a “sir,” but he decides he likes the long vowel, the way it sounds like sex drawling out of Spike’s mouth.

Tomorrow night, he’ll make him say it again.

*

Years and miles, since they’ve seen each other. Angel has lost count. Spike sniffs him out in a city of seven million, shows up in a blond swagger and a long leather coat. Angel doesn’t ask where he got it, but Spike tells him anyway.

He punches Spike because he feels like he should, but his soul isn’t in it. Spike punches back, and Angel lets Spike fuck him for the first time in decades.

He’s all grown up, but Angel puts a hand on the back of Spike’s neck and calls him, “My boy.” Spike moans and fucks harder.

*

“Ow!” Spike yanks his thigh away from Angel’s fangs, and a good chunk of flesh goes with it. He’s bitten near to the bone.

“Fucking christ, Angelus. Leave a bloke some skin, will you?” Angel chuckles, and the name fits him like buckskin breeches.

Spike still calls the old man Angelus whenever he’s being a dick. He’s the only one allowed to.

Angel crawls up Spike’s naked body, pokes the fresh wound with his knee on the way.

“The Black Thorn did less damage than you. Bloody bastard.”

Angel smiles, red and sharp. Tilts Spike’s head back. “Yeah. I am.”

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