Title: Miles To Go
Author: Rachel Anton
E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Summary: Two souled vampires with a long way to go.
Spoilers: Through Grave and Tomorrow
Disclaimer: If they were mine they'd be on the same show,
dammit.
Distribution: Yes, please.
Thanks: To Laura for helping me put this together, and to
Cynthia and Donna M. for outstanding beta reading. And to all three of
you ladies for much needed encouragement.
Notes: Well, I've pretty much been Jossed to hell with this
one, but try to imagine it happening between Grave and Lessons, maybe
before Spike *completely* lost it.
xxxxxx
xxxxxx
There are one hundred and forty-six miles between Sunnydale
and Los Angeles, and on the way Spike thinks of one hundred and forty-six
reasons he shouldn't be doing this. There are more, of course, but he
figures there's a nicer symmetry to it if he stops at that number.
Once he reaches the city limits, he starts trying to
remember why he thought it was a good idea.
There's the bike. He still loves riding the bike, after
everything. Nothing like a good, long drive through the night, just him
and a whirring hunk of metal between his legs, the road and the wind.
Stupid bleeding soul can't change the way that feels.
So, there's that.
Also, Los Angeles isn't Sunnydale, and anyplace that's not
Sunnydale is better than anyplace that is Sunnydale. Least as far as he's
concerned. Least for right now.
He tried, but there were lights on in every room at Buffy's
house, and he knew- just knew- that Clem was in the crypt, with junk food
and beer, waiting for Spike to come home so he could shower him with
friendship and good cheer, and it was all a little bit too much. He
couldn't stay. Isn't even sure, now, why he went back at all.
And there's the satisfaction- has to be at least a little in
seeing the bastard's face when he realizes. It'll make this whole fucking
nightmare slightly bearable. For a minute, maybe. That constitutes a
reason.
He's never been to the hotel, but as luck would have it,
when he stops to look up Angel Investigations in the yellow pages he
finds a flyer for the damn place on the windshield of a seemingly
abandoned car. He takes it as a sign. Good or bad, he doesn't know, but
quite impossible to ignore. There's even a bloody map on the back.
It takes him forty-five minutes to get there, through the
insane tangle of LA roads and traffic, and he thinks of forty-five more
reasons he should just go back to Sunnydale. Or somewhere else. Anywhere
else.
But by the time he's convinced himself to turn around, he's
pulling up in front of the hotel and it seems too late.
There's no one in the lobby, which seems like bad business
sense considering the whole help the helpless slogan. The helpless
usually have insomnia.
Spike saunters up to the front desk and pounds on the bell
irritably. A skittish looking woman hurries out of a back room. She's
wearing glasses and her mouth is full of food. Spike hates her on sight,
but doesn't really know why.
She's holding a napkin, and she brings it up to cover her
mouth and asks around her snack, "Can I help you?"
"Need to see Angel," he says, surprised at the
vehemence in his own voice. He hasn't heard himself speak in...days? Has
it been days or weeks? Doesn't matter.
The girl swallows and shakes her head. "Sorry,"
she says, smiling faintly, looking sorry in that way people have when they're
really not but feel like maybe they should be. "I think he's
sleeping. I'm sure if you come back during normal business hours..."
"Normal business hours? Don't you people fight
creatures of the night and whatnot?"
She shrugs and nods and keeps up with the stupid smile.
Spike thinks if this were all happening three, maybe four years ago,
the stupid bint would be dead by now. It makes him feel crazy,
thinking that, and he hates her even more.
"Well, it's night!" he says, slow burning hysteria
creeping into his throat. "It's night, and I'm a creature, and I
need to see Angel right bloody now!"
She starts backing away from him, but still- still!- smiles
at him politely.
"I...I'll just...call him." She ducks behind the
counter and starts fiddling with the telephone. Spike walks a circle
around the lobby, trying to burn off the nervous energy that never seems
to go away now. He hears snippets of conversation- "Someone here to
see you...He won't leave...think he might need help...Charles isn't here..."-
and eventually it becomes too annoying to tolerate. He walks behind the
counter and pries the receiver out of her spidery fingers.
"Getting little girls to do your dirty work now?"
he growls into the phone. "Not very heroic, mate."
There's an "oh shit" on the other end, and a dull
thud as the telephone hits the floor. Then Angel's flying down the
stairs, stake in hand, yelling at the woman- who is apparently named
Fred, of all things- to get out, run away. Run away from the scary vampire.
He's so predictable, Spike has to laugh.
And it's funny, too, because really, Angel himself could do
far more damage to the girl than Spike could manage at this point.
But Angel doesn't know that. There's a lot that Angel doesn't know.
Once he's got the damsel in distress shooed up the stairs,
out of the way, Angel puts on his menacing face and points the tip of the
stake in the direction of Spike's chest.
"You've got ten seconds to get out of here," he
says, and starts counting down. "Ten...nine..."
It's all very amusing to Spike- the posturing, pretending he
could actually do it, thinking Spike would fight it in the first place.
"That's not very friendly," he says, and Angel
continues to count and circle. "Here I thought we could catch up,
spend some time, discuss our common interests."
Angel stops at five, and looks him up and down, scathingly.
"I've got no interest in you. And I don't have the time. Or
patience."
Spike looks back, and notices how rough around the edges
Angel seems to be. Skinny and paler than usual. Not that Spike's in top
form himself these days. It hits him how long it's been since they've
even spoken, how much has changed since then and how much of it he wishes
he could change back.
"What about Buffy?" he asks. "Interested in
her?"
He expects Angel's hackles to rise immediately, waits to see
his muscles twitch and his jaw clench, but there's nothing. In fact, if
anything, he seems to deflate. The stake hand lowers and his battle
posture slackens.
"I'm really not in the mood, Spike. Just spit out
whatever you've gotta say so I can go to sleep."
He presses on, trying to ignore Angel's boredom.
"I can see why you were so smitten with her. She's
quite a wildcat in bed. Not that we made it to the bed very often, but
I'm sure you know what I mean."
It makes his stomach churn, saying the words, but that's
good. That's a part of it.
Angel shakes his head and laughs through his nose. Like it's
a bad joke. Like it's all so absurdly impossible to believe that it
doesn't even warrant a glare.
"This is what you came for, Spike? I'm going to
bed."
He drops the stake on the counter, dismissing Spike as even
the mildest of threats, and starts walking back up the stairs.
"So, that's it? Not at all concerned? My, how the bloom
of love has wilted."
"Why should I believe anything that comes out of your
mouth? You're a liar, and a bad one."
"What, you want proof? You want me to tell you about
the scar under her left tit, or the noises she makes when she comes?
Though I s'pose you might not know about those... maybe you should call
her, see what she has to say about the matter."
God, he hopes it doesn't come to that. He'd have to stop it,
if the wanker actually tried to call her. That's a nightmare he'd rather
not live.
Angel's stopped on the stairs, and his back is a little
stiff, which has to be a good sign.
"I want you to tell me what you want so I can get you
the hell out of here," he says. "Is it money? Weapons? I don't
have your stupid ring anymore."
"I want you to turn around so I can see your face when
you realize you're not so fucking special anymore."
And he does turn around, making Spike regret the
request, because that withering look of pity is most certainly not what
he came here for. It must be in his voice. He hates his voice, the
way it wavers and chokes on words- makes him sound like an eight-year-old
having a temper.
He swallows and musters his pride, then continues.
"Yeah, that's right, poor little Soul Boy with his
wretched curse and his pansy mission to help the helpless. Well, you're
not the only one who can fuck a Slayer, and you're not the only one
with a soul now either."
Angel stares at him, confusion and a little bit of curiosity
finally creeping into his expression. He comes back down to the lobby to
get a closer look. Spike can tell that he sees it now, that he knows it's
the truth. Maybe not the Buffy bit, but he can see the soul. Or smell the
reek of it, now that he's paying attention.
"Course, hasn't turned me into a bleeding arse-bandit,
but I s'pose you were always that, weren't you."
He thought he knew how to do this, but things have changed
more than he realized, and he's just pushing buttons at random now,
waiting for the prize to pop out. It seems to go right over Angel's
head.
"How?" he asks, still more curious than angry.
"They're practically giving them away down in Africa.
And no pesky castration clause. You oughtta see about getting an
exchange."
He's closer now- close enough for the smell of him to hit
the back of Spike's throat, bringing back the sweet tang of a need he
hasn't felt in years. Decades, even. Or maybe he has. Maybe he just found
another owner, one who could do the same things, make it right.
"You didn't really....with her..." Angel
flounders. He believes. It doesn't matter.
"You wanna see the scars?"
Angel doesn't say what they both know. He can already see
them. Everywhere. Spike thinks he must be a walking, festering wound. The
stupid soul's only made it worse, harder to hide.
"So that's what you came to tell me? That you're, what,
her boyfriend? Feel like a big man now?"
"Oh, I'm not her boyfriend. She broke it off."
Never her boyfriend. Not even close, but he doesn't have to
know that.
"So you got yourself a soul and she still dumped
you?"
"She doesn't know about the soul yet." And if he
has anything to do with it, she never ever will. There's just no purpose,
no fucking excuse for causing her any more pain.
He steps a little closer and Spike feels his eyes, raking
like pinpricks across his flesh. Angel's lips curl into a smirk that's
one part mockery, one part disgust, and one more part...something. One
part that...yes.
"Wanted to tell Daddy first?" he asks, voice low
and vibrating through the pit inside of Spike's gut. This was such a
terrible idea.
"Just didn't think it would matter much to her, given
how we left things." Spike tries to get another image in his mind, a
different thought that's far away from cold porcelain and horrible
screaming and his wretched, sinful hands. This is the money shot- it's
the best he's got, and it won't work if he's actually thinking about it,
if he lets himself shake or cry.
"And how was that?" Angel asks.
"Well, like I said, she broke it off, but you know old
Spike. Can't take no for an answer."
Dogs are nice. He had a dog once, when he was human.
It was white with brown spots.
"You know how some girls are. Just don't know how to
appreciate a good time. Had to get rough with her there at the end, show
her what's what."
They had a cat, too, when he was very young. Orange. Stupid
thing bit him, right through the fleshy area between his thumb and
forefinger. Hurt like a mother.
"You're disgusting," Angel is telling him, but
there's not enough conviction behind it, not enough of...that. Maybe it's
because Angel taught Spike everything he knows about disgusting, and good
times, and maybe somewhere, in places he doesn't let himself go anymore,
he knows that everything Spike does, he does with a small part of Angel
inside of him. Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore. "And pathetic,"
he adds. "It's no wonder she dumped you."
"Took her an awfully long time, though. Think she was
sort of enjoying wallowing in the muck with me. Certainly was good at
it."
"What do you want me to do?" Angel asks. "Do
you want me to do this?"
And then it's there- God, it's finally there- his fist
knocking into Spike's nose, sending him hurling back against the wall,
then sinking to his knees. It's sweet, but it isn't real. There's no
feeling in it. Angel's just making an intellectual point. Wanker.
Spike wipes at the blood trickling out of his nose, and
hopes his eyes aren't too pleading when he says, "It's a
start."
Angel regards him from across the lobby with marked disgust.
"Get out of here, Spike. I don't have the energy for this."
Bored again. Spike doesn't understand it. Was he not making
himself clear? Maybe he should just spell it out. I tried to rape your
ex-girlfriend, you stupid git. The love of your life, remember her? Don't
you fucking care? But he can't bring himself to say the words, knows that
if he does he will start crying and it'll all be over.
"I'm not your sire anymore," Angel says. "And
I don't want to be."
And, fuck him, the bastard's found a new way to torture
Spike. But that's good too. In a way, it's all just perfect. If he has to
beg for it, the whole thing is just that much more humiliating.
"You're a useless old man," he spits, sounding
angrier, more hurt than he intended or expected. What could be so great
in bastard's life, anyway? What could he have that's better, living in
this moldy old hotel, wandering through hundreds of empty rooms, jerking
off to memories of past fucks? Is Spike really such a pathetic
alternative? He probably tells himself he's above it now, but Spike knows
he's not. He knows now, for himself, more than he ever wanted to know.
"I'm useless? Tell me, Spike, what have you done
lately to help the world? Look at you. What the hell are you doing?"
"Don't hand me that high and mighty bullshit,"
Spike growls. He's still on the floor. Still on his knees. "You
think you're doin' all your good works for anyone but yourself, you're an
even bigger fool than I thought."
"Maybe it started that way. Maybe it was a way of
dealing with the guilt, but now..."
"Now what? What good does it do? Don't matter how many
you save now. The other ones are still gonna be dead."
Spike wonders, though. If he could save one, just one,
just...because, how would that feel? What would that be like? He doesn't
think it would stop the voices in his head, the screaming. Wouldn't
stop that tosser William from blithering around his brain, making
him weep at every war photograph in the papers, every child he sees on
the street.
"You think I don't know that?" Angel asks him.
"You think you know more than I do about all this? How long have you
had your soul, ten minutes?"
"What's to know? S'not a bleeding skill."
"You know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about
moving on, coping, doing something useful with yourself."
"Yeah, well, it's not as difficult as you make it out
to be." Spike realizes how ridiculous he must look, kneeling next to
a tiny pool of blood from his nose that won't stop fucking bleeding,
begging with his eyes for another blow, talking about how adept he is at
moving on, coping, doing something useful. He stands up, brushing himself
off at the knees.
Angel laughs. Wanker.
"It's not, huh?"
"No," Spike says, as emphatically as he can
manage. He moves closer to Angel, attempts a swagger but barely manages a
limp. "I'm doing just fine. Maybe you're just a pussy."
"Yeah, maybe I am. So did you want me to hit you again
now?"
Wank. Er. Spike feels the familiar loathing washing over him
like a warm, comforting blanket. Yes, the feeling is the same, but Angel
is different. This mockery is of a wholly new breed.
"Just tell me," Angel says, and his voice is soft
and even and oh-so rational, and maybe it isn't a joke. Maybe there is
some vague sense of duty or even compassion in this new, not-so-improved
Angel. "Just tell me and I'll do it. Just say it."
God, how Spike hates him. Hates his perfect, clean shirt and
his stupid hair and his full, healthy body. Hates him for being able to
take this, or leave it, and not feel a thing.
"Yes," Spike whispers, and he can't even look at
Angel's face anymore. Can't look at anything but his shoes, and he
hates those too.
But he senses Angel rearing his fist back, hears his intake
of breath as he prepares for the beating, and then it all just...stops.
He looks up again, and Angel's stance is relaxed now, hands hanging
limply, uselessly at his sides.
"Nah," he says. Nah. "Not worth bruising my
hand."
And Spike realizes that Angel's actually enjoying this. The
worthless piece of shit is taking some perverse pleasure in this
spectacle, this torment, and once he realizes, he wonders why he didn't
expect that. Those Watchers and Slayers and Scoobies can tell themselves
and each other whatever they want, but he knows the truth now. He knows
that Angel's pleasures aren't as far from the dark heart of Angelus as
they would all like to believe.
Then, as a final insult, Angel begins ascending the
staircase and makes a vague gesture with his hand that could be a
dismissal or a beckon. And it's up to Spike to guess which, or ignore it
entirely.
He follows, his head bowed like a pathetic, recently scolded
puppy. Angel stops when Spike is just two steps behind him. He looks over
his shoulder.
"What are you doing? This isn't a hotel. Go home."
Spike feels like screaming, he feels like ripping Angel's
lungs out right here, right now, letting him live without them for as
long as it takes to give back just a little of this misery. And
that's...well, it's what he came here for, isn't it?
It isn't until he's halfway back to his bike, lighting up a
smoke, that Spike realizes yes, yes it is a hotel. And who the hell does
Angel think he is, dismissing him like that, like some unwanted
stray cat who wandered through the window? What gives him the right- the
bloody gall!- to pretend he has no responsibility, no accountability? Why
does his soul give him the ability to pick and choose the things he's
sorry for, the things he's willing to deal with and the things he can
just let go, like they mean nothing?
It isn't fair. It isn't right, and Spike isn't willing to
let it go.
xxxxxxxx
He tosses his cigarette and stalks back into the hotel,
following the path Angel left, following the scent he's tried so hard to
forget.
He finds the correct room fairly easily, and takes some
small satisfaction in finding the door unlocked.
Angel is cooking blood in his underwear. He looks shrunken,
somehow, and bruised. Still big, though. Still a giant, hulking
Neanderthal.
"You're a fucking asshole," Spike spits, slamming
the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.
"Why?" Angel asks, not bothering to turn around.
"You think I owe you something?"
"Yes! Yes, you bloody well do!"
If anyone, anywhere, in the whole fucking universe owes
Spike one, single, goddamn thing, it's this stupid git in his stupid,
pansy-assed, silky blue underwear, and if he doesn't see that then Spike
is going to show him. One way or another.
"You were Dru's boy," he says. "I didn't make
you."
"Oh no, you're wrong about that, mate. Dru might've bit
me, but you're the one what made me." Made through a decade that
lasted a century, through blood and fire and fist and cock and cold,
steel shackles, through every woman he's ever loved that Angel got to
first. He was forged in the depths of hell, made full and real by a
monster, and everything he is, everything he was, everything he's
becoming can be traced back to this brutish, ignorant lout. And
somebody's gotta pay for that. Somebody owes somebody some-bloody-thing.
"I can't help you, Spike."
"Who says I want your help?" Help is, in fact, the
last thing he wants. He doesn't want to be saved, doesn't want to be some
half-assed notch on Angel's redemption bedpost. "I'm giving you a
golden opportunity here. Take out your aggressions, get all puffed up and
manly, free of charge, no waiting. I know you want to. Everybody wants
to."
He's actually surprised there isn't a line around the block
of people wanting to kick his sorry, scrawny little hide. Maybe he
should advertise.
Angel turns around finally, and gives him a long, strange
look that Spike can't decipher. It isn't anger, and it isn't desire, and
it isn't disgust, and those are really the only sorts of looks he's
gotten for as long as he can remember. He thinks it might be pity, and
that's enough to turn his stomach.
"I'm too old, Spike," he sighs, and the microwave
dings and he turns away again to get his mug. Too old. Well, if that isn't
the saddest thing he's ever heard. The bastard is too old. So what does
that make him? A child? Yes, stupid, worthless, imbecile of a child, just
like Angelus always told him. Just like everyone's always known.
Spike slumps into the only chair available, all the hope and
animosity dribbling out of him, being replaced by a wave of self
pity so strong it's almost another fucking person inside his head. This
may be his most pathetic moment yet. The denouement of a hundred years of
pathetic behavior. The lifetime achievement award in pathetic.
He should leave now, because there isn't any way to win
this, and all he's doing is making himself the bigger and bigger
fool. But there isn't anywhere to go and this is more painful than any
beating he's ever gotten, so maybe it's exactly where he needs to be.
Exactly what he deserves. Maybe he'll just sit in this chair making an
ass of himself until Angel decides to stake him and put the world out of
its misery.
His legs feel too leaden to move anyway. And the voices are
starting up again, the voices of William's despair, Buffy's
derision, the desperate cries of hundreds of thousands of victims. The
voices are coming to him more frequently now, and the episodes are becoming
more and more paralyzing. He doesn't think he could leave this room if it
was on fire.
He looks around for a distraction, something to focus on to
silence the cacophony. When it first began, back in Africa, he started
gazing at rows of beads a woman was selling in the village
marketplace, and eventually his focus shifted enough to stop the shooting
circuits in his brain.
There's a picture on the small table next to him- a mewling
newborn wriggling around in a towel, framed in wood. Spike picks it up and
stares. Soon enough, his head clears up enough to form coherent
thoughts, and he laughs mirthlessly.
"This is pretty sad," he says. Doesn't even have
his own pictures to fill the frames he buys.
Angel's still fussing in the kitchen, not paying attention.
"You're tellin' me," he mumbles, obviously believing Spike is
referring to himself.
"Pretty creepy, too. What do you wanna look at someone
else's baby for? You into kiddie porn now?"
"What are you..." Angel looks over and the mug of
blood slips through his fingers and shatters on the floor. "Put that
down! Put it down NOW!"
"What the hell's the matter with you? S'just some baby
model. You know, if you take the back off you can put something else in
here."
Something dull and hard smashes into the top of his head
then shatters, spilling shards of glass everywhere, and after a moment of
shock he's able to register that it's a bottle of some sort, and
that Angel is towering over him with a hellish glare.
He hauls Spike out of the chair by the front of his shirt,
then sends him flying across the room. He lands haphazardly on the bed,
bumping several extremities along the way.
And it really fucking figures. He's been spending the better
part of his night trying to piss the wanker off and just as soon as he's
given up completely, he somehow manages to do it by accident. Seems to be
just his sort of luck. It reminds him of the old old days, before he
learned exactly which words and actions would set Angelus off, before he
figured out how to elicit whatever response he was looking for. Back then
everything he did was a gamble and he never knew when the next punch was
coming. Back then the rages seemed as random and unpredictable
as the weather.
Angel is picking the picture up from the floor, wiping dust
off the glass and setting it gently back in its place.
"You must be off your gourd. I tell you I almost raped
your ex-girlfriend and it's the yawner of the century, but fiddling with
a store-bought picture of some random toddler gets you into a
tizzy?"
"My baby," Angel insists, thumping his chest for
emphasis. "Mine."
"Are you high?"
"Shut up."
He's walking towards the bed now, wearing a look of pure
menace. Spike recoils instinctively, but only a little.
"Did you kidnap a baby?"
"Get out. Get out of my house before I..."
"Before you what?" Spike asks, leaning forward on
his elbows, giving Angel what he knows to be his most infuriating grin.
The grin that launched a thousand beatings. From Angelus, from Buffy,
hell even Giles took a shot at him once for that shit-eating expression,
and it works this time as well as any other.
Oh yes, it's working quite well, because Angel is on him
now, straddling his hips and pummeling his face with hard, angry fists.
And it's real this time. No intellectual points here.
It might not be directly related to Spike- in fact, judging
from the nearly incoherent stream of obscenities pouring from his mouth,
it's probably about a million other things. Things that have been
building and hammering away at his sanity for God only knows how long.
Spike wonders what those things might be, who that baby really is and why
it has the power to drive him to this, but he'd never ask, and Angel
would never tell him, and it doesn't really matter anyhow because Spike's
face is probably starting to look like ground hamburger meat, and he
feels it everywhere, and that's all that really matters. It's like
nothing else. No one else could give him this kind of pain. Not even his
sweet, deadly Slayer. And he's hard from it, which is sickening- God,
he's so fucking sickening- and he knows Angel can tell, and that it makes
him sick too, makes him angrier.
He yells at Spike for it, calls him a sick fuck, and Spike
laughs through his bloody mouth because the Scourge of Europe is
starting to get a little swollen himself, and he's got no room left to
judge now, none at all.
"Had a good teacher," Spike manages to choke out,
and that seems to send Angel completely over the edge. Something in
Spike's nose makes a horrible cracking sound, and it hurts so bad he
almost blacks out, and Angel has lost any thread of control he'd been
holding onto.
Spike can't see anymore, and the pain isn't coming from any
specific location anymore- it's all turning into one, big, terrible blur.
He can't really hear very well either. Angel's voice is far
away and strange- like he's yelling into a tin can- but he manages to
make out something about his "stupid, fucking face" just before
Angel pulls back on his haunches and flips Spike onto his stomach.
Angel's pillowcase is white, and Spike watches, with mild
interest, as the fluids from his face spread and stain across the fabric.
He wonders if Angel will keep these sheets, or burn them. Doesn't matter.
"Is this what you came for, you fucking lunatic? Is
this what you want?" Angel's asking him, in that far away voice, and
it is. It is what he came for, because he's tearing at his pants now,
shoving them down to his knees, and this is exactly what he wants,
exactly what he deserves. If he can get back just a little of what he
tried to give, he will have accomplished something.
But he doesn't tell Angel that. It might make him stop.
He feels that familiar push, searching, finding, and then
pressing inside of him, and he must have used something to ease the way
because it doesn't hurt quite as much as it used to when he'd do it dry,
but Spike can't imagine what. He can't imagine that Angel keeps a bottle
of KY lying around, but it doesn't matter what it is, it just annoys him
that it's not as painful as it could be.
Still hurts, though. Still feels like a violation, even
though he practically begged for it.
And Angel- stupid fucker- he's starting to go fast and hard
and make some kind of obtuse point. This is what you wanted? Well
it's not so great now, is it? Aren't you sorry now?
But Spike isn't sorry, and for a moment it is great-
absolutely perfect.
Then he feels that big, lumbering hand, groping around for
him, closing over him, and it's not so great anymore. Spike tries to swat
it away, but the resistance only makes the hand more determined. It
tightens and pulls, moving in a pattern that is apparently like
riding a bike- impossible to forget. It's been a hundred years, and the
bastard still remembers how to touch him, how to make him weak and
helpless and desperate for more.
He feels teeth- fangs- grazing over the back of his neck,
but not biting, not claiming. Bastard won't bite him, but he's making him
bleed more and more. Making him feel...too much. Too good. And it's a
little too late for him to remember how much he used to enjoy this.
He should tell him to stop, just stop because this isn't
going the way he planned at all, but it's probably a little late for that
too. He doesn't know if Angel could stop if he wanted to now. He's
in a trance, a black haze, and there's no feeling behind it. None for
Spike, anyway. He might as well be humping his boxing bag, and Spike is
used to this feeling from his months with Buffy- this feeling of becoming
an empty vessel for someone else to fill with their own self-loathing and
anger and pent-up desire- but it didn't used to be this way with Angel.
Angelus. Now it is, and it's a kind of madness, a loss of control that
there's no coming back from.
And besides, talking at all would mean acknowledging what's
happening, and neither of them would benefit from that. So they don't
talk. Angel makes intermittent growling sounds through his teeth, and
Spike buries his face in the pillow, hoping to stifle his cries. And he
wonders why it's so fucking hard to just find someone to love him. He
gives his own love so completely, so easily. Why is it so difficult for
everyone else?
But he didn't come here for love. He came here for
punishment, and in a way, that's exactly what he's getting. He's about to
come so hard his ears are already ringing from it, but it's still
punishment. It's still killing him.
He tries to get rid of the goddamn hand again, pulls at the
wrist even as he's thrusting uncontrollably against fingers that work his
foreskin with practiced ease. And Angel won't budge, because it's the
only control he's got left. Control over Spike.
He tries to think of something vile and repulsive, something
to hold back the sweet death and humiliation for a little while
longer, but there's nothing. Nothing to stop it. One more quick, hard tug
and Spike is gripping the bedspread in his cold, white knuckles,
screaming a thousand obscenities in his mind, and half of them are
probably coming out of his mouth as well. He says, "I hate you. God,
I fucking hate you," as he stains the covers, shoulders trembling,
and he knows now that Angel will probably burn the entire fucking bed
when he's gone.
He takes some comfort in the fact that Angel doesn't have
the coherence to curse him as he comes- just pounds into him with a
ferocity no force on Earth can rival, and cries out wordlessly.
And then it's over, simple as that. Angel's putting his
pants on, and Spike's pulling his up, and the silence and the smell
of the room are thick and heavy, but they're going to pretend not to
notice. Spike thinks his nose might be broken. He's gonna have to
set that tonight or it'll heal funny.
Angel looks like he's going to say something, but stops and
wanders out onto his balcony. Spike goes to the kitchen and drinks some
of the discarded blood from earlier. He figures now is the time when he
leaves, but he's got no idea where to go. This was sort of his last hope.
He ends up on the balcony too, sitting in a rocking chair
next to Angel, like two old men at the vampire rest home. He lights up a
smoke and tries to think of something clever and dismissive to say, but
Angel surprises him.
"I'm sorry, Spike," he says, staring into the
dimming night. The sun's on its way.
"You're sorry? What for?"
On the one hand, there's so much to choose from. On the
other, there's really nothing at all. Angel sighs and rubs his face.
"That picture...that really is my baby. Or, was."
This rubbish again. Maybe the old bastard really has snapped
this time. At least, that's what Spike tries to think, but part of him
knows that it's true. It has to be, really. There's no other explanation.
"Me and Darla...we had a baby. A boy. Beautiful, human
boy."
It doesn't make any sense, and Spike doesn't really care,
doesn't want to hear about Angel's real son, his real life. But he keeps
talking, babbling about Darla and Holtz and Wesley and hell dimensions in
a distant, disconnected fashion, telling Spike without telling him that
he's a million miles away and doesn't have any interest in coming back.
And this is all supposed to explain why he was wound tight
enough to explode his shrapnel all over Spike- it's supposed to tell
him that it had nothing to do with him, like he didn't know that already.
And all he hears is that Angel has a son now. A real son. A
son who's sixteen years old, who hates Angel, who tried to kill him, and
all he can think is, someone has taken my place. I have no place.
Not here. Not anywhere.
"I love him," Angel is telling him. "I love
him with all my soul. It's...consuming."
"Love's like that," Spike says, and flicks his
cigarette over the balcony railing. "Sun's gonna be up soon. I
should hit the road."
"Uh huh..." He doesn't care, and that's just as
well. But still, Spike finds himself buggering around on that balcony for
a few more pointless and pathetic moments, waiting for...something.
Something that will never, ever come.
He thinks about getting down on his knees, begging for Angel
to explain it to him, show him what to do, how to live, how to make it
stop for one goddamn second. He thinks about pleading for help, or death,
or another fuck, but he can't do any more pleading tonight.
Maybe he could just cut the damn thing out. He doesn't want
it anymore. He wants a refund. Not worth having if it makes him do things
like this, makes him feel things like this. Maybe if he shows up on
Buffy's doorstep, soul bleeding through his open flesh, she'll take pity.
Maybe she'll kill him.
Whatever he does, there's nothing more to say here. He gets
out of the creaky chair and starts for the room, but he feels like
there's some zinger he should be tossing back, some nasty, cutting remark
that will get Angel's attention, make him understand and hurt. He's
already hurting, though. There's nothing Spike could do to make it any
worse.
"Hey, Angel?"
There's a vague grunt in reply.
"You know what sixteen year old boys really like?"
Angel turns his head around and looks at Spike quizically,
curiously, with interest. "What?" he asks, with an edge of
desperation.
"Beer."
Angel laughs through his nose, and Spike smiles just a
little bit and decides that there certainly won't be a better time to
make his exit. He makes his way back through the hall, down the stairs
and into the lobby, limping slightly the whole way. He's gonna be hurting
for at least a day or two.
By the time he gets to his bike, he's crying. Wracking,
painful sobs that would be embarassing as fuck if anyone was around. He
can't stop them enough to get the key in the ignition, and that's
probably a good thing. If he just sits here and waits another hour or two
the pain will stop. Everything will stop, and the world will be a better
place. Or exactly the same, except the seat of the bike will be covered
in dust.
It's one hundred and forty six miles back to Sunnydale, and
Spike doesn't think he'll be making that journey tonight.
