disclaimer in part 1
This part is rated NC-17 for S/A sexual content.
Swan Song
By Diane
-----
THE CHILDE


Spike staggered into his crypt, barely able to keep upright.
While vampire strength gave him ample ability to lift his
Sire, keeping him balanced over his shoulder despite his
hefty size was another matter entirely.

The door slammed shut as he threw Angel down on top of the
sarcophagus to the right, and he was greeted by the musty
smell of dust and mildew. Death.

He cleared his throat, steeping back into the embrace of
darkness. More comfortable there... "Are you hungry?" he
asked as he removed his own coat, boots, and shirt.

Angel lay there limply, unmoving. He was crumpled in an
accordion sort of way, knees bent and legs curled up in a
not quite fetal position. His left arm hung loosely over
the side, fingers spread limp and outstretched, as if he
were reaching for something that he just couldn't quite
muster the strength to touch.

The slouched figure of the once proud Angelus, heaved a
staggering breath of air, sounding for all the world like a
slumbering beast. Air, being released from long dead lungs.
Ancient.

And still, no answer.

"Si--Angel?" He managed to correct himself at the last
moment, only recently aware that he had fallen into that
age-old habit. Damn it... He didn't need this shit right
now.

Angel's eyes shifted from their vague stare to some point in
space that could vaguely be construed as belonging to Spike.
"Leave me alone, Will."

Will. Angel was calling him Will. Something lifted in his
chest for a moment before he squelched it. No. He was not
going to get into this Sire vs. Childe crap right now. He
didn't need it.

He stared at Angel's crumpled form, noticing for the first
time since he'd set his Sire down just how disgusting Angel
was. There were grass clippings all over him, mud
slathering his damnable sacred coat, a sopping puddle of
excess water developing underneath his curled body.

And to his surprise, Angel was shivering.

< Anybody ever tell you you're a hell of a buzz-kill, mate? >

Without a word, Spike reached down and rolled Angel onto his
back. The elder vampire didn't protest one bit until
Spike's fingers were starting to work at the buttons of his
drenched coat. Angel tried to curl away from him. "Don't
touch me," he whispered, his arms flying protectively over
his torso as added protection.

< You think you can come into my town and pull this crap? >

Spike felt his spine chill at those words. He shook it off.
"Come on, you pansy, you need to get out of this wet
coat..."

Angel grunted, but Spike caught his arms to prevent him from
rolling away again. "I won't catch cold." His voice was
detached, even, uncaring. Spike found it slightly
unsettling after having grown used to his Sire always
speaking with such ridiculous passion.

Spike stared doubtfully at Angel's shivering form. "Yeah,"
he countered, "but you're getting mud all over my bleedin'
bed!"

Angel fell lax, as if someone had just punched the fight
right out of him. Spike took the opportunity to rip the
duster roughly off him, cursing only slightly when it got
caught. He threw it to the ground with more force than
necessary, and it hit the cold floor with a wet, hollow
sucking sound, sending little droplets of moisture out into
the air like an automated sprinkler system. Then came the
coat of Angel's suit, followed shortly by the white dress-
shirt. Off came the muddy shoes.

And then Angel was curled up again.

Spike frowned as he stared at Angel's powerful, quivering
body. Normally, he would have equated Angel's gorgeous
physique with a loaded spring board, just waiting to pounce
like the predator he was supposed to be. Lithe. Deadly.
But now, he was slack, and limp, and unresponsive. Almost
like he was in shock.

This wasn't right.

"I'm stepping on your coat, you big prancing poof!" He
started jumping up and down on top of it, little slurping
sounds squishing out of the black mass with each landing.
Spike grimaced at the array of muddy footprints he had left
behind when he finished.

No movement from Angel.

A sigh, but nothing more. He looked paler than usual.
Alabaster. A ghost.

Come on. Come ON! Fight back!

Nothing.

This wasn't Angelus. This wasn't even a poofy version.
This was some strange empty shell that was just going
through the motions.

< If you wanna just hand them over the threshold... >

Irrationally, he began to start feeling angry. "I miss her,
too, Angel. You can't just pretend like you're the only one
that cared..." he snapped.

< Come in, Spike. >

The admission made him choke. He had been purposely
avoiding all mention of the Slayer, and here was his Sire,
not there for even fifteen minutes and Buffy was already
getting referred to. Damn Angel and his stupid soul. Damn
his stupid chip. And damn Buffy for making him actually
care!

< I'm counting on you, Spike. To help protect her. >

His eyes were suddenly burning, but he blinked it back.
"Damn it, say something!" he screamed, punching Angel square
in the small of his back.

Angel shifted a bit as the force of the hit moved him
forwards a few inches, but he bounced back as soon as the
blow was complete. Spike felt like he was punching one of
those stand-up punching backs that bounced back into your
face whenever you hit it. And Angel was trembling more, not
less.

The great Angelus, reduced to this.

< You were my Sire, man! My Yoda! >

All the power of Aurelius, here, in this shaking, broken
vampire. "Sire," he whispered, leaning in as he brushed his
fingers across Angel's silk skin. The word broke across his
lips like china being dropped.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was lying
horizontally, spooning Angel into a comforting embrace.
"Sire, please. Please, say something..." he breathed into
the back of Angel's alabaster neck.

Silence. Nothing but the dripping rain spattering the roof
of the crypt, leaking down through the walls. Nothing but
rain and soft breathing and stillness. No warmth.

Angel gripped Spike's arms tightly, encircling them around
his chest like a security blanket. "She's not coming back,
is she?"

Spike sighed, closed his eyes against the sudden, spearing
pain in his gut that threatened to bring a sob up through
his lungs. "She's dead, mate." He ran a cool hand up and
over Angel's soft cotton undershirt, trembling as he felt
washboard muscles spasm under the skin.

"Will." The voice was barely a breath above a whisper, and
the tone sent chilly slivers through his unbeating heart.
Angel's body bucked in his grasp, a soundless sob of grief.
The great Angelus... Scourge of Europe. Crying over a
Slayer.

Just as William the Bloody had been, keening over her body.
The grief upon seeing Buffy's broken figure had just burbled
out, screaming, crying... It slew him like the most
cowardly of men, and yet, he continued to feel its threat,
even three days after.

But Angelus, he wasn't supposed to do it, too... He was
supposed to be the rock. The strong one that everyone
turned to lean to, or be beaten by. His pansy of a Sire was
crumbling. "She's _dead_, mate," he repeated, anger biting
into his words.

Angel shuddered against him, muscles chording up and
tensing. "I'm lost," he whispered, "I'm _so_ lost..."

Scourge of Europe...

Spike grabbed him roughly and shook him as he bit back the
tears. "Damn it, don't say that. Don't bloody say that!"

Angel immediately silenced himself and staggered to his
feet, walked over to his muddy duster and actually put the
thing on, stepping into his destroyed shoes as he went.
"Hey," Spike protested, realizing belatedly that Angel was
no longer in his arms. "Hey, you poof, what are you doing?"

Angel shook his head. "I don't know why I let you bring me
here." He turned, stepped towards the door, leaving a
sopping footprint where his shoe had once been. Another
step.

Without thinking, Spike whirled around and stepped in the
way. A barrier between the door, and Angel. "Bollocks.
_I_ don't know why I brought you here, must've been the
grief makin' me jump in the loony bin, but you don't see me
complaining. Do you?" He crossed his arms over his chest
and tried to achieve a haughty smirk, forced though it was.

For a moment, his Sire was frozen there, his wide, chocolate
eyes growing even wider, mouth hanging slightly ajar.
Endless pools that you could reach out and drown in. And
then the vulnerability was gone, and his eyes narrowed.
"Shut up, and leave me alone..." Angel's voice was grated
now, gasping for equilibrium.

"No."

Spike saw Angel's muscles coiling a split second before he
launched, like an exploding canon. Angel was bigger, and
older, and unless the stories in the demon underground from
L.A. were false, a much better fighter than he used to be
after the Soul. Much better. Powerful. Angel had almost
as feared a name as Angelus, now.

Lethal beauty.

A growl rumbled in the base of Angel's throat--quiet
thunder, but much more threatening. His Sire's face had
morphed and was flying towards him at preternatural speed.

He winced, waiting for the blow to come, knowing that
because he had put himself in such a vulnerable position,
there was no time to avoid a strike against him. The air
shifted above his skin, a lover's breath, but Angel had
stopped. Hovering a hair's width above Spike's jugular,
fangs extended and poised for a killing bite, had he been a
mortal.

Taking the advantage of the pause in action and not
questioning it, Spike moved to duck under Angel's arm and
slide to freedom. Angel caught him -- a firm, unwavering
grasp. He swept out with his right foot, moving to trip his
seemingly distracted Sire, but the movement was stopped,
just as before.

Angel inhaled deeply, nuzzling against him. "You smell like
her," he whispered as he rubbed his face over Spike's
exposed skin.

Despite the thrilled shiver it sent down Spike's spine, his
Sire's manic behavior was starting to worry him. This
wasn't Angel. But then, was he Spike? A year ago, he would
have taken terrible offense at Angel's observation.

But now, he found comfort in it. Buffy... Three days and
he didn't miss her any less. The first woman since Dru to
utterly take his heart in her hand.

"Si--Angel, please..."

Angel pulled him closer, tighter -- a crushing embrace. A
boa constrictor. "You smell like her," he said again, more
torn.

Lethal.

Damn it, get away from him, you idiot. You can see what
he's doing, just...

He sighed and relaxed into that long forgotten touch. Not
since Angelus, the non-crazy version, had he ever felt such
need from his Sire. Such utter need for possession. For
love.

A lethal growl in his ear. Teasing. "Do you taste like
her, too?"

Angel's cool, wet tongue flicked out and slid up along the
jugular, the needle tips of his deadly fangs scraping little
red tracks into the skin. Dots of blood sprinkled along the
pink lines where skin had actually broken, Angel's firm
hands kneading them to the surface, and on the down sweep,
Angel licked them away.

"Jesus," Spike groaned as he fell back against the door,
his vision carpeted with red dots of lust. He groped across
the metal door, trying to gain some purchase. Any
purchase... "Jesus," he repeated, trying to blink away the
fog that was quickly developing.

Utter need for possession. Love.

< I'm counting on you, Spike. To help protect her. >

He needed it too.

Eyes closed, Angel fluttered across the jugular again and
just underneath the jaw line. Barely touching, like a kiss
from the breeze.

A growl.

Spike blinked as he felt a cool hand sliding underneath the
rim of his black jeans, the touch leaving tingling trails of
electricity behind it. He felt the muscles in his legs grow
weak, trembling with desire. Angel's powerful body pressed
up against him, pinning him between flesh, and the metal
door.

Flesh and metal. Cold, and colder still. A breath of ice.

Angel shrugged his coat away, left cheek pressed and firmly
rubbing against Spike's neck like a great cat, marking its
territory. Buttons flew everywhere in a shower. They hit
the floor around them with tiny hollow plinks as Spike tore
away the shirt that covered Angel's alabaster chest. Cool,
panting breath fell against his skin, evaporating the thin
sheen of saliva that had collected there.

Eyes closed. Always closed...

"Sire..." He pressed his hand against Angel's heaving
chest. A light touch, he traced a path to the navel, and
then lower, skirting just above the button for the Angel's
zipper, and then lower. The waistband of his black silk
boxers gave way as Spike pushed further.

Cool skin.

His Sire was already semi-erect. Trapped by the confines of
his boxers and pants. With a growl, Spike laid his lips
over Angel's strong shoulder, jugular, chin, working his way
up until Angel caught him fiercely. Rippling muscles. His
tongue plunged into the cool depths of Spike's mouth, and
then was gone, leaving Spike gasping in confusion and near
pain of want.

The rough jerk of Angel's body and the resounding clap that
followed yielded a left shoe, and then a right one, tumbling
down the far wall to the floor. His wind was nearly knocked
out of him as Angel yanked him back onto the sarcophagus,
and he collapsed atop the larger vampire, reaching down.
Down...

With a lithe, undulating motion, Angel helped Spike slide
the elder vampire's pants off his hips, even as Angel worked
gracefully at the buttons of Spike's jeans.

A tangled mass of powerful vampire, they writhed against
each other. Angel's erection grew with the sudden freedom,
precum leaking slowly from the tip. Despite his struggles
of protest, Spike turned around straddled him, gripping
Angel's length in his hand. Stroking. Teasing.

He ran his fingers lightly along the underside, base to tip
while his other hand cupped and squeezed. Silk, sliding
along the uncircumcised length. He gripped the base firmly,
running his hands along the length with varying speed,
jarring quickly between slow, fast, medium, building up the
pressure. Building, building, until Angel was bucking
frantically up against him, hands clawing mindlessly at
Spike's back. The elder vampire was moaning, whimpering,
begging.

And finally, he was over the edge. Angel growled with
release, his face plastered with a mess of pleasure, sadness,
and pain as he jerked with abandon, flooding Spike's hands
with cool, milky semen...

Spike arched back, relishing the triumph, but strong arms
grabbed hold of him and finally forced him back out of the
straddle. He turned around as Angel's lips met his own.

Release.

"Buffy..." Angel moaned, eyes closed, off in some fantasy
world that was his and his alone.

Spike froze, and abruptly flung himself off his Sire.

Angel whined at the lost of contact, and his eyes opened for
the first time. That soulful gaze of his. Angel peered at
him steadily, silent, tears suddenly developing in his eyes.
Realization. "Will, I'm sorry..."

He didn't let the choice of names soften the blow. He
couldn't. "Bloody well should be," he grumbled, wiping his
hands on Angel's coat.

"You didn't... You never..." Angel never finished his
sentence. He collapsed back onto the hard stone, wracked
with a horrible sob.

Spike growled and threw the soiled duster over top of him,
covering up that gorgeous, muscled skin. He couldn't
look... "I didn't tell you to stop? My _SIRE_ is screwing
around with me for the first time in a hundred fucking
years, and I'm supposed to say stop? Isn't that against the
rules, anyway?"

"I'm sorry..."

"Shut your gob, wanker," he hissed as he frantically grabbed
his clothes, almost shrugging his shirt on and pulling his
pants up in the same, quick motion. His eyes were burning,
and his own arousal had deflated quickly, but his senses
were still heightened to an almost painful degree, as
arousal always did to him.

Angel cringed, tears flowing freely as he rolled over into a
shivering, fetal ball underneath his coat. "I'm sorry," he
whispered again. "I got lost... I didn't..."

A tinny knock at the door interrupted the flaming diatribe
developing in his head. Like a bird of prey, his head
snapped around. No one knocked. Only Buffy ever stopped
by, and she just barged right on in. And she wasn't
exactly... she wasn't exactly in the position to be ripping
doors down. Who...

Angel didn't seem to notice or care as Spike crept up to the
crypt's entrance and pulled the door open an inch, ready to
pounce. A puffy-eyed, brunette... "Little bit," he said,
consciously blocking the door even more than he had
originally.

She wiped her eyes. "Wesley and Cordelia are looking for
Angel. She had a vision. I thought, maybe..." Her voice
wavered a bit. Unhinged.

For a moment, he debated whether to open the door and reveal
the other occupant, but Dawn was young. As much as he
wanted Angel's image to rot, he couldn't do that to her.

Luckily, he was saved from making a decision. There was a
rustling behind him -- snake in the grass. And then, Angel
was at the door, peering over Spike's shoulder. "I'm here,"
he whispered, as if his voice couldn't get any louder. His
eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks barely wiped away... He
was a portrait of total disarray, but at least he'd managed
to put his pants, shirt, and shoes on without much trouble,
even if they were practically on backwards.

The coat was gone, unsurprising though it was.

Spike grunted. "Good. Go home."

Despite Dawn's presence, he couldn't help but practically
shove Angel outside and slam the door shut behind him,
collapsing back against it and sliding to the floor as soon
as their retreating footsteps disappeared into silence.
With a heaving sigh, he crawled forward to his discarded
duster, and retrieved the small flask from the front left
pocket.

A strange, broken sort of groan fell from his lips, as he
tipped up the container and felt the scotch burn its way
down his throat. He emitted a breathy gag. "Damn it,
Buffy." Another swig. Another. An endless stream of
burning, screaming alcohol flooded into his system.

And the rest was oblivion.

continue