Rating: PG
Summary: On the way back to Brazil, Spike thinks about Angel.
Feedback: Please.
Distribution: If you have permission to archive my previous fics, you may have this. Otherwise, please ask first.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to Joss and a bunch of other people who are not now and have never been me.
Author's Notes: For midnight, who begged me for Spangel. I hope this is what you wanted.
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Another night, another crummy dive in another nameless South American town. One step closer to Brazil and Drusilla.
The more Spike drank, the harder it was for him to remember exactly *why* he was going back to her. He loved her . . . oh yeah, that was it, wasn't it? She was his dark goddess; his ripe, wicked plum; his sire. Well, she'd given him her blood, anyway. But she wasn't *really* his sire, now was she?
No, that honor was reserved for the vampire he was drinking to try to forget. The vampire who had sent him on his merry way with a "Get Out of Sunnydale Free" card. The vampire as in love with the bloody *Slayer* as Spike was in love with *him*. His true sire, his true love . . . Angelus. Or Angel, as he was wont to refer to himself these days, all sweet and souled and perfect. Angel. Who had left him flat the moment he acquired that nice, shiny soul, as if he couldn't get away from Spike fast enough. As if the nights he'd spent with his William fucking and feeding and sharing *everything* were loathsome and horrible times he couldn't bear any longer.
It couldn't have been for any other reason. After all, Angel had to know that, soul or no, his William would never have turned him away, never stopped loving him. Hell, Spike thought, with a stab of hate and self-loathing, if Angel had asked him to stop killing, he might have even done that . . . for him.
But instead, Angel had left him. Left him to deal with the wrath of Darla and the insanity of Drusilla all by himself. It had been like being abandoned by both his father and his lover in one fell swoop. But Spike had proven himself a man, shouldered his responsibilities, and gone on to earn his own reputation for cruelty and viciousness. A reputation that would have made Angelus proud, but that seemed to cement Angel's hatred of him. How could such a little thing as a soul change what they had shared so completely?
But it had, it seemed. Angel was wrapped around that cheap tart of a Slayer and Spike was here in this worthless dive, drowning his sorrows in cheap tequila and looking forward to a nightcap of unwary, drunken fellow patrons. Oh well. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that, while Angel might get to play slap and tickle with his little girlfriend, that soul kept him from being with her completely. Just as it kept him from Spike.
Spike downed another shot of tequila and walked out of the bar; best not to be too drunk to feed and get back to the hotel before dawn. Tomorrow he'd be badly hung over as it was. But maybe, just maybe, *this* time he'd drunk Angel out of his system. If not, winning back Dru ought to do the trick. He loved her, he did, really.
And with that, Spike ducked into an alley after a man stumbling into
the dark to take a piss. Cheap, fast food. But Spike was used to settling
for less than the best. He tried not think about just how true that was
in so many ways as he sank his fangs into the foolish drunk's neck and
drained him dry. Then he dropped the man's lifeless body and headed off
to bed. Maybe, for once, he wouldn't dream of Angel.
The End.