Disclaimer: I am simply swimming in Joss' gene pool. With naked Spike. And Angel. *thud* *drool* The poem from Spike's memory is called A Song of Pitcairn's Island and is by William Cullen Bryant. So meant for S/A. *sigh* I love it, and you can find it here: http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=4414
Rating: PG-13, each fic will have it's own rating.
Content: M/M fic, kissage, swearing, nothing so bad.
Pairing: S/A
Notes: A series of fics between sire/childe. Set just after 'City of...' in the Angelverse. Just because I want them to be, they're in the Hyperion. Spike left Sunnyhell after Lover's Walk and has been doing Goddess knows what for the past several months.
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It was an hour past sunset in the city of angels and the one that watched over his city was doing Tai Chi when he heard Cordelia's uncomfortable voice drift down the stairway. "Uh, Angel? There's someone here to.... see you."
Sighing with more than a slight annoyance, the dark haired vampire picked up his shirt, walking up the stairs as he buttoned it. He was definitely taken aback when he saw who was leaning against the windowsill, smoking.
The older vampire shot his secretary a look and she made herself scarce, with only a few parting words muttered under her breath. Spike tossed the butt into the alleyway and turned so that Angel could clearly see him in the streetlamp's light that was pouring through the window.
"Sire." he said, arching that perfectly sculptured eyebrow, marred only with a tiny scar that Angel remembered running his tongue over more than a few times in the past. With a shake of his head to clear the unwanted memory, Angel moved to plant himself in Cordelia's desk chair, propping his bare feet inches away from the phone. The yellowish light fell over them, and Spike's mouth twitched, as though he were barely concealing a smile, or worse yet, a full on guffaw.
"What are you doing here, Spike?" Angel asked, deliberately ignoring his childe's choice of words.
"Is that any way to treat your favorite childe?" the blond vampire replied, lighting another cigarette and propping his ass on the ledge just below the window again.
"Have I ever called you my favorite childe?" Angel replied, cocking his head to catch that glorious sound of Cordelia leaving the office for the day. Not that he didn't...well, like was a really strong word, but he was getting to know her better in the days that passed. Now that she was gone, the only person he really had to worry about was....
The door to the Hyperion opened and they both turned their heads as Doyle walked in, looked around the room once, and walked right back out with a smirk on his face. Angel sighed heavily and let his feet thud off the desk. "Stay here. Don't move." he said, and followed the Irishman's path.
Shutting the door behind him, Angel crossed his arms and looked at Doyle. "What was that look for?"
With a chuckle, Doyle angled his head towards the trail of smoke coming from the window a few feet away. "Your boy in there."
Angel frowned, the effect drawing his eyebrows together and accentuating the Neanderthal look. "One, he's not MINE. And two...he's still not mine."
Doyle sneezed and spikes exploded from his face. With a sigh, he shook his head and they disappeared. "I'm allergic to him. And you might want to be a little friendlier towards him. What with the new attitude of 'connecting with people' and all."
This time it was Angel's turn to laugh. "You're allergic? To Spike?"
"Not him. That god-awful hair dye he uses to turn himself into a blond Sid Vicious wanna-be."
The owner of afore-mentioned peroxided head stuck it out the window. "Not a wanna-be, mate. I'm the Big Bad." With a growl, Spike drew his head back in the window.
Angel banged his head against the door. "Ok, so you're allergic to Spike. Now tell me, why do I have to be nice to him? He's not people."
Doyle rolled his eyes. "Technically, he is. Just like you are. And the rest of us. So you need to be nice."
"This better be some PTB thing. Otherwise..." the vampire let the sentence trail off, leaving Doyle to wonder what the otherwise might be.
"Alright fine. I can take a hint. I'm leaving. No need to get all broody about it." Doyle replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.
"Goodnight, Doyle." Angel said firmly, turning and going back into the hotel where his recalcitrant childe was waiting.
"He's allergic to me? That's nice. And who the hell does he think he is, calling me a wanna-be? Doesn't he know who I am?" Spike demanded, tossing another butt out the window.
With carefully nurtured calm, Angel ground his reply out between clenched teeth. "YES, Spike. Everyone knows who you are. The Big Bad. Now how about you tell me something?" Angel moved towards Spike and stuck one hand in the pocket of his trademark black duster, taking out the pack of Marlboros and shaking one out. He set it between his lips and grabbed Spike's hand, his childe almost automatically sparking the lighter and flaming the cigarette.
Once it was lit, Angel dropped Spike's hand and stepped back a few paces, inhaling the nicotine filled smoke. It had been a very long time since he'd done this, a very long time. Before he'd gotten his soul. Before he'd stopped respecting William as an equal, and demoted him back down to even less than a childe. Before...
"Smoking again, are we?" Spike said, casting a calculated glance in Angel's direction. His thoughts were taking much the same direction as his sire's. And it hurt to think about it. More than his expression gave away. Before all the shit had gone down, it was just him and Angelus. And his sire called him William. It was a special name, just between them. When Angelus had made him, it had been his choice to be called Spike, a new, hard, tough name, for his new, tough unlife. But when they were alone, it was simply William, and Spike discovered that although Cecily had never appreciated his poetic endeavours, Angelus did, and took the opportunity to tell him so, and to nurture the talent that was there.
His sire had also taken the time to show him published works of poetry, especially one poem by another William, William Cullen Bryant. Angelus' voice rose in his mind, the lilting irish tones rolling the words for his childe. 'I knew thy meaning--thou didst praise; my eyes, my locks of jet; ah! well for me they won thy gaze,-- but thine were fairer yet!'
With a shake of his head, Spike pulled himself out of memory that ought to be kept buried and set his gaze once more on his sire. "Well? When did you start up again?" he asked.
Angel was slow in answering, his mind drifting back to a time when he read poetry to his boy in front of a roaring fire after a successful evening's hunt. Darla and Dru were off somewhere, and it was just the two of them, smoking and getting lost in the melodic words of whomever they were engrossed in at the time. Back when Spike's hair was a dark brown, streaked with a burnished gold from when he'd still been human. And miserable. Angel's memories took a not so pleasant turn at that thought, remembering when Darla had pursuaded him to leave his boy with Dru and go on a jaunt with her. They'd be back, it wasn't like it was forever. Finally he'd agreed, and for three months before they'd left, Angelus had started distancing Spike, weakening the bond that had grown, almost while he wasn't looking. Treating him like he was no better than a minion, when he ached to just take Spike in his arms and tell him the truth.
But that would have meant making his own sire unhappy, and that was not something he was too keen to do at that point.
Angel laughed all of a sudden, blowing twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. It was funny. He'd staked his sire to protect Buffy, when he wouldn't have merely told her no for Spike. Life was strange like that.
Finally he looked up at Spike to answer his question. "Just now." A wry grin graced his features as he stood, walking over to the window and tossing his butt.
"Will you answer one of my questions now?" Angel asked quietly, moving back a few feet from his childe, flush against the edge of the desk. Half-sitting, he was almost the same height as Spike, and Angel tried not to stare into those blue eyes that haunted his dreams.
"Alright then. One. Let's have it, then." Spike said, clamping down on his urge to fidget under that look that his sire was trying desperately not to give him.
"Why are you here? Where's Dru?"
"That's two."
Angel sighed. "Well, pick one."
"I staked her."
Angel's head shot up at this revelation, but he stopped his automatic forward movement at the look on Spike's face. Jaw clenched, a slight twitch near his eye that would have told no one but Angel that his childe was fighting tears. With a quick movement, Spike turned and headed for the door, but Angel got there first.
His back pressed against the wood, Angel brought one hand up to the utter defiance carved in marble that was his childe, and brushed away a solitary bloody tear that had escaped, despite Spike's best intentions. He put the finger to his lips and sucked the blood away.
"You aren't going anywhere," Angel began.
"Fine." Spike replied, the word bitten off. He spun and headed down the stairs to Angel's living quarters.
Angel watched as he disappeared, the urge to throttle Spike just as strong as it had always been. But strangely enough, there was also the urge there to go and force his boy to accept the comfort he needed, but would never ask for.
Still undecided as to what he would do, Angel shook his head and followed Spike.
THE END