Rating: NC-17
Pairing:Angel/Spike/Buffy, Angel/Spike
Warning:Het content.
Spoilers:Some from Season 6, but the story is mostly AU.
Disclaimer:Characters are property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, Inc. Grrr. Argh.
Summary:Buffy's bad behavior with Spike has an unexpected witness—and even more unexpected consequences.
Notes: Sorry about the dreadful drop-off point of the previous story. Hope this makes it worth the wait. This is it, folks. My swan song. Thanks again to all of you who took the time to write me and tell me you were reading. I saved every one of your notes and will always appreciate them.
Soundtrack:"Mary" by Patty Griffin because it's the ultimate song for the character of Buffy and "Indus" by Dead Can Dance because it's the ultimate song.
Archive:I would be most flattered if you'd like to, but please let me know before.
Dedication:For James M., Alyson, Juliet, Julie, Sarah, Seth, Amber, Joss, Marti and Tony for your wonderful work and inspiration. Buffy the Vampire Slayer will be sadly missed, but I look forward to the great things each of you will share with us next. Thank you.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Buffy:
"I'm not planning to share him," Angel tells me. This isn't at all what I expected. When he said we had a problem, I naturally assumed he didn't want to share ME.
I just blink at him for a second, trying to keep my jaw from doing that swinging open thing again. I take a moment to assess the feelings I'm having—it's pretty jumbled in there right now. There's a lot of panic, a lot of fear and a lot of intrigue. More of that than I'm comfortable with, actually. And now there's a big, nasty dose of astonishment.
And I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being the tiniest bit pissed off.
"I see," is what I decide to say. I'm not really sure what to say just yet, so I'm stalling.
Angel's fingers are running up and down Spike's back, stroking him possessively. I see my current lover shiver a little when his tickly spots are touched, but he never complains. If it was me doing that— he'd have growled at me by now and flipped me over so he could hold my offending hands down. Seeing that isn't helping me be any less pissed, by the way.
"Wouldn't you say that's a problem?" Angel says, his beautiful dark eyes glimmering. "One of us has to concede."
"Hang on," Spike says, leaning on his elbow so he can look at both of us. His long, naked leg is still draped over Angel's thigh. So much gorgeous male flesh . . . it's an undead hottie buffet. "I don't see why we can't all just . . ."
Angel takes hold of Spike's chin and turns his head so they're looking at each other. He takes a long dramatic pause, then all he says is "shh." Spike shuts his mouth. I clench my teeth.
Looking at me again, Angel pats the bed to his left and lifts his eyebrows—repeating his invitation for me to decorate his other side with my body. Spike watches me closely, the tiniest smile tugging his plump pretty lips. I don't do anything for a long time and for the whole time, the three of us keep exchanging glances.
"Come on, Buffy," Angel whispers. "We all know the rules."
"There are rules here?" I say, then I laugh sarcastically. "Phew! What a relief. Cuz I was beginning to think we were all just supposed to tumble into bed and boink each other silly until someone calls the cops to complain about the noise."
His expression doesn't change. He's had to let me rave many times in our long acquaintance. I don't think it even fazes him anymore. Spike, on the other hand, frowns deeply at my outburst. He goes to sit up, to reach for me—most likely to place a comforting hand on my knee or something—but Angel stops him. He just holds Spike's arm with his strong fingers and keeps him from moving toward me.
"Oh, I get it," I say to the blond one in the room without a heartbeat. "No will of your own when big daddy's around?"
He glowers at me in that acerbic way he has—that way that says `please don't piss me off, slayer. It never ends nicely.' Then he looks over his shoulder at his beautiful naked captor and simply tugs his arm free.
Moving toward me slowly, Spike extends his hand and just leaves it hovering there—offering it for me to take. He lowers his chin and speaks softly to me. "Lie beside me, then. Angel's being mean because he's confused."
"I am not the least bit confused, boy," Angel almost barks. Almost. It's actually more of an aggravated yelp.
"Boy?" I say to Spike, and that time it's my eyebrows that go up.
He releases a self-conscious sigh. "Never mind, luv. It's a . . ."
"Sire thing," I finish for him.
He nods but his hand is still out. He's patient. He's used to me rippin' on him. It's like Spike always says, `love hurts, baby.' And he likes it rough.
Angel shifts on the bed and moves toward us both. His brow is crinkled, he's irritated by all this hemming and hawing. He's done with it. Reaching out, he reclaims Spike's arm and hauls him back, off balance, until he sprawls on the mattress again. Then Angel reaches for me.
I let him get a good grip on my wrist and then I go to brace my legs against the edge of the bed so I can flip him forward over my shoulder like a sack of vampy potatoes, but unfortunately—he's seen this coming. Damn. His other hand clamps down on my knee and holds it still so I can't get the leverage I need to toss him. If I tried to heave him now, I'd dislocate about nine bones in my back. Not that it wouldn't be worth it. Situationally resigned, I just shake my head. And then I allow him to pull me.
Over the mattress I go, practically skittering across the rumpled sheets that smell of Spike's body and of the moisture in the earth surrounding us. I come to rest against the pillows Angel stacked up next to the headboard. My legs are all akimbo, one over Spike's legs, one over Angel's hips. I have no idea how we got here. But now it's me who's in the middle. Looking around, I decide it's not so bad.
And that's when the giggles boil up.
I didn't see them coming at all, I have to say. I went from shocked to angry to defensive to dissolved into laughter in, like, five minutes. HellOH, manic much?
Spike and Angel frown at each other at first because they're sort of concerned about my reaction. They don't quite know if it's a good thing that I'm suddenly cackling like a mental patient. That makes it all so much funnier to me that I have to curl up into a ball because my abs are starting to ache from the strain. I feel the tears leak down my hot face and I'm laughing so hard by now that I'm not making any sound anymore because my breath is almost gone. I start to wonder if a person can die from laughing. At present, it seems damned likely.
And then it happens. The one thing that I knew would be my ultimate demise in this totally whacked-out scenario. They both press against me on either side, smooshing me between them like a slayer sandwich, and wrap their arms around me. Before I know it, I'm being hugged so tight and with so much protective energy that I almost scream. I would scream, if I had any breath left. As it is, I've managed to laugh all my air out and I have to take in a really deep breath just to gather the ability to tell them to stop it—stop it and leave me alone. Damn it.
But that's not what I do.
I take that breath and open my mouth to protest all this unfair smooshing and the next thing I know, Spike is kissing me. Oh, man. That's pretty much it, I guess. I can never pull it together once this prickly, childish rogue has me in a lip-lock. All my parts start tingling and filling up with blood, and all I can do is close my eyes and kiss him back.
As if that's not bad enough . . . I feel Angel's fingers sliding up under my shirt, stroking the skin on my belly gently. He holds me close to him, presses his body against mine, and then he starts kissing my neck and shoulder.
I want to breathe, but I can't. I'm suddenly frozen by an onslaught of sensation unlike any I've ever had. I feel cold and hot, tingly and tender, shivery and clammy, starved and thirsty. I want Spike inside me so bad, I can't think of anything else. My body asserts its desire and my legs open around his hips, open and pull and squeeze as I play with his tongue inside our mouths. I feel his cock throb against my belly, through the fabric of my jeans that are somehow being removed . . . Angel is taking them off, sliding them down over my hips, over my legs, he pulls me away from Spike's body just long enough to get the pants and undies off me, then he sort of reapplies me to Spike's hips like a big magnet.
My eyes are closed so I can't really see what's happening. I guess I don't want to. All that's left in that darkness is feelings, sensations, tastes and smells. Sounds. I love the sounds Spike makes when he first gets going . . . when he first gets turned on. He whimpers a little, like a puppy. And then the deep, growly panting starts . . . then the moaning in this amazing, hungry way. And then he starts to sniff me all over . . . just like now . . . he's biting my neck gently, not breaking the skin, but chomping hard enough to bruise me . . . all the way down, he goes, kissing me through the thin cotton of my shirt . . . (why am I still wearing my shirt?)
I stop for a second and fumble with the buttons on my blouse and then it just goes away because Angel tore it off. It was one of those heavy gauzy shirts that didn't need a bra under it, so there I am— naked. Right along with them.
All three of us naked. Imagine that. Darkly, I realize that I have. Many times.
And then Spike starts kissing down my body again, opening his mouth over my flesh and licking it, taking hunks of it into his mouth and biting it . . . bruising it . . . tasting it, pulling at my skin with his teeth.
Eyes close, toes curl, legs open . . . I know what's coming. I feel Angel behind me, shifting, moving, his big hands are on my back, on my buttcheeks, on my ribs, he's adjusting me and drawing me into his lap . . . and back, I go. I feel his hands on the backs of my thighs, gripping, lifting . . . he's holding me above the mattress, raising me up to give Spike more access to my secret parts . . . well, I guess they're not so secret anymore. Not to either of them.
I feel Angel breathing against my neck, breathing me in, exhaling soft puffs of air on my skin. It feels faint and shallow . . . the breath has no force. He's panting pretty hard, but there's still no pressure in his lungs. If he wasn't right under my ear, I don't know if I would have noticed that. Undead. No breath. I can't help myself—I shiver.
And then Spike's curls tickle the sensitive skin inside my thighs as he kisses me . . . everywhere . . . there . . . and there . . . his lips are cool and silky and I feel his tongue slip right up inside me, right up into the hot depth of me . . . and then the shimmering, trembling bliss begins.
Everytime, I make these sounds—and I always think it's someone else when it happens. I recognize my own voice, but can't believe it's me doing that . . . all that gasping and screaming. He knows just how to touch me . . . just how to do it . . . that thing with his tongue . . . up there, IN there . . . and there . . . and there, too . . . oh, man—there especially. God, there's that screaming again.
He does this several times at first, gives me about ten orgasms in a row over and over and then he just . . . mounts me. By then, I'm always so dizzy with arousal and all those orgasm chemicals that I can hardly remember my own name. Usually, I don't want to by then, anyway. Usually I'm so ashamed of myself and everything I've let him do to me with his talented, wet tongue and his deft, busy fingers, that not knowing my name is kind of a blessing. I try to hide from him, but he always manages to hold onto my face and LOOK in my eyes. I kinda hate it when he does that. I feel so naked then. Like it's not just his hard, demanding penis inside me, but HIM. All the way in . . . having a good look around. God, it's so unnerving, the things I know he sees.
This time, I feel even more exposed because it's both of them. Not that Angel and I ever really got to know each other that well. I know, that sounds weird, love of my life and all, but it's true. We didn't spend a lot of time talking. Not like Spike and I do. He complains that we never have "conversations", but the truth is we talk all the time. He knows me. Much better than I care to admit.
And now Angel's hands are lifting my breasts. They feel so hot and heavy, the press of his strong, cool fingers against my flesh is just . . . wonderful. I sigh and lean against him, letting Spike push me back as he enters . . . pushing both our weight against Angel. He's crushed against the pillows and I feel his big, hard cock squeezed between his tight belly and my back. Angel's moaning and then I feel his hips move . . . up and down, rubbing his erection into my skin. Spike slides into me, then slides out . . . I'm so wet, I'm amazed he's finding any friction. But he doesn't seem to need much. I can tell, his body is humming with desire. He's so close to coming that he probably doesn't even need to be touched.
He always tells me he loves the smell when we have sex. He said that even before I ever did him. He told me once after we kicked the crap out of these two scaly, four-armed demon things in the cemetery that he loved the way I smelled after a kill. Of course, at the time, I told him he was a gross pig and slapped his face, but he just smiled at me. He knew I knew what he meant. So I slapped him again on g.p. He pretty much always has a good slap coming, anyway. Good thing he likes it.
My head goes back onto Angel's shoulder and then we're kissing. I always forget what it's like to kiss Angel until I'm doing it again— then all the bliss of it comes back in a rush. That beautiful mouth, those long dark eyelashes tickling my cheeks. He's so sensual and hungry—even when the kiss is just an affectionate brush of lips. Between his hands on my breasts, his mouth on mine, that cock of his grinding into my back and Spike's thick cock stroking my insides, I feel faint again. And then I feel Spike start to shake.
I have to open my eyes because I don't want to miss the visual. It's amazing, how he looks when he comes. He arches his back and all those lovely muscles pop out in his arms and chest. He closes his eyes, but for some reason—Spike doesn't make those goofy faces most guys do when they have an orgasm. His face gets really serene and beautiful, like the tingling contractions are transporting him to some spiritual plane. I guess it's not really a surprise that sex would be religious to him. Spike is very emotional.
Angel's body tenses beneath me and then he groans and his fingers dig into the flesh of my arms. I hold my breath and watch Spike's face— watch as his beautiful lips grow dark with the blood rushing in him, watch as his forehead smoothes and his eyelids flutter and watch as his chest heaves with exertion. I feel the splash of his fluids inside me. And then I feel the splash of Angel's on the outside. Both of them anointing me at once. Suddenly, I feel like it would be perfectly okay if I died right now. I mean, what's ever going to be better than this?
As they both ride out their pleasure, I turn back to Angel's face and I see that he's watching Spike, too. In fact, it becomes quite clear that the reason he came so hard was BECAUSE Spike came. I can't stop watching at him—watching him watching Spike. There's something in Angel's eyes that I've never seen before. It's not just love, it's possessiveness. And not just that, but that in a really greedy way. My brain isn't working right for obvious reasons, but I think Giles would like the word `covetous'. And then I feel the air change a little, so I turn my attention to the one inside me.
They're staring at each other so intently, I start to wonder if I haven't become invisible again. Better say something just so they remember I'm here.
"Hey," I say, breathlessly. They both look at me. I look back up at Angel. "I thought you weren't going to share him."
"I'm not," he says very seriously.
And then Spike collapses down on my chest, like he always does when he's spent. Both Angel's and my fingers slide into those blond curls and stroke him, soothe him while he collects himself. Angel covers my hands with his and kisses my neck. Against my ear, he whispers to me.
"Do you love him, Buffy?"
I say nothing. Have nothing to say.
"Do you care for him?"
"Of course." That's true, I do.
Angel kisses me again, softer, more comforting. When he speaks next, his voice is deep and vaguely threatening. "Then stop using him."
My skin breaks out in gooseflesh.
*******************
Spike:
"Oh, hold on, peaches," he said, trying to sit back up but feeling completely, utterly drained. "Don't do this now." He looked at Angel fiercely, insistently. "Let the girl catch her breath before you start in on her."
Angel glowered then snapped back sarcastically. "I'm trying to defend you."
"Fine," Spike said, smirking at his sire playfully. "Defend me in five minutes." He flopped down on Buffy's flat, silky, heaving belly again and closed his eyes. He loved to listen to her heart hammer after they had sex. He imagined he could see the blood moving inside her, racing and pumping, filling all her parts to make her warm in the afterglow. Turning his head, he put a kiss on her skin, just below her navel. She rewarded his affection by stroking his neck with her little hands.
Blessedly, Angel was quiet for a bit. With his eyes still closed, Spike listen to Buffy breathe and languished in the gentle caresses he was getting from both of them. He could have fallen asleep, but knew he shouldn't. Wouldn't want to miss any of THIS conversation, now would he?
Truth was, Spike had no idea what was going on. Angel was an emotional volcano suddenly and Buffy was her old stoic self. He knew she was put off by the big git saying he wouldn't share Spike—instead of demanding he not have to share HER. The slayer thought everything was about her. All Buffy, all the time. Spike knew his sire would come over all possessive as soon as someone else—anyone else—showed interest in having him. That had always been the way. When they were in Europe, Angel and Drusilla fought over him like wild beasts. Spike always reckoned the main reason Angel took so much pleasure in kicking his ass was because he was still venting about his childe choosing a woman as a companion over him.
And here it was, happening again.
Tall, dark and brooding didn't really have any right to complain. It's not like Angel was ever around. What was Spike supposed to do, just mope in his crypt and have a wank every day? Fat chance. A bloke has needs. And if Angel wasn't going to be around to tend to said needs, Spike was going to find other outlets.
And therein was the rub.
Of all the outlets available, why on earth had Spike chosen the slayer? There must have been something psychological working there. He must have done it not only because he fancied Buffy rotten, but because he knew it would drive Angel `round the bloody bend. That was always a good spot of fun, after all.
And then, he'd lost his grip and fallen in love with the little girl.
Now, he felt like he was trapped in a velvet cage—between them. Angel being all possessive and grouchy, Buffy being all greedy and selfish (just the way Spike liked them both). But they were acting like prats to each other. He didn't know what, if anything, he could do about that. Best to just lie still and let them hash it out. Unless, of course, they started beating on each other. That would be too much. Funny as hell, certainly, but still too much. Until then, however, Spike reckoned he'd sit still and let his two lovers do what they needed to do.
Taking a deep breath to relax his body, he listened to the rhythm of Buffy's strong determined heart and let himself drift off to sleep.
***************
Angel:
He felt her shiver when he'd warned her about using the boy. Angel was glad she'd reacted that way. Her behavior toward Spike was repulsive.
Angel knew he was jealous and emotionally unstable because of it, but that didn't excuse her actions. Spike had been there for her for years and now she was using him—treating him like shit. Again, Angel knew he couldn't really complain—he'd spent the better part of a hundred and thirty years treating Spike like shit—but their relationship was different. It was deeper, rooted in history and family. Families always fought. It was the natural order. Especially demon families.
He sensed it when Spike drifted off. It was as though the young one was suddenly not there, like he'd left the room. When he was certain the blond was off in dreamland, he brought his lips against Buffy's ear and whispered.
"You know I love you," he said. "Don't you?"
She was still a bit rigid in his arms, but she hadn't flinched away. He felt her take a hitching breath and instantly he felt bad that he'd made her cry. Again.
"I don't know anything anymore," she said miserably. "You're being a beast to me. And you don't even know what I've been through."
"I'm just surprised, Buffy," he said, keeping his tone gentle and neutral as possible. "I don't know what to make of your behavior. You're . . . not like you used to be." He kissed her again, just below the ear, then he nuzzled her soft flesh there, breathing in her scent. She smelled like fresh grass and like Spike's kisses. She smelled like springtime and sex.
"Why would you expect me to be like I used to be, Angel?" she said, her voice squeezed from crying. "You, of all people. I was dead, in case you forgot that! Things are so far from `like they used to be', that I can't even explain it!" Her tone grew more and more clipped as she went on and he felt her body tensing all over.
Softly, he stroked the shimmery blonde hairs on her arms, soothing her, kissing her hair and her neck. "Shh," he murmured. "I'm sorry. Let's not talk for a little while."
"No," she said, squirming until she could look at him, but taking care not to wake Spike. "I want to talk about it now." Tears slid down her pretty pink cheeks and her blue eyes glistened with the moisture. "You asked me if I loved him," she whispered. "My answer to that is I don't know. I'm not sure I can love anyone anymore, Angel. Not myself, not my sister, not my friends. Not even you. And that was the one thing that was supposed to last forever. Remember?!" she insisted. "Always."
Feeling like his insides were shattering like window glass, he just looked at her, watched her expressions closely. Angel remembered all the times he'd held her, kissed her, longed to be buried deep in her warmth. Buffy. His Buffy. Such a soft little girl when he first saw her all those years ago. So inexperienced and wide-eyed. And now here she was, a young woman who had seen more grief than anyone ever should, struggling to feel her own heart beating again. Of course she would reach out for Spike—it was in his wild nature to console and comfort those he loved. And once Spike loved you, he loved you forever. No matter what you did to him. No matter how you hurt him.
Angel knew that first hand.
"It's okay if you don't love me anymore, Buffy," he told her. "I know I haven't been here for you . . ."
She breathed a sarcastic laugh and sniffed, wiping her face with a trembling hand. "That's an understatement."
He held her hot cheek in his hand and drew her to him, kissing her lips gently. For a moment he just rested there, his forehead on hers, feeling the light flutter of her damp eyelashes with each breath she took.
"I'm sorry about this morning," Angel whispered.
"You said that."
"I know. But I really am . . . sorry about it. My behavior was just . . . vile."
Buffy sighed against him. "Stop kicking yourself over it," she said and then she looked at him directly. "I mean, I'm not gonna forgive you or anything, but there's really no need to keep worrying about it. It's not like you were the only one talking this morning. I zinged you pretty good a few times, too."
"I deserved it," he said, lowering his gaze.
"Yes," she said crisply. "You did."
When he looked at her again, she attempted a little smile. "But, so did I, I guess. So, let's just forget it, okay?"
Looking at her then, Angel's mind replayed the whole scene in her kitchen again like a movie clip. The way he'd bullied her. The way she'd defended herself by lashing out at him. The tension and anger between them had been horrible.
"Spike?" he had hissed at her after they'd sent Dawn into the other room. "You're fucking Spike? I can't believe this, Buffy!"
"What, are you jealous?" she had barked in return, actually stepping toward him, challenging him with her little body.
Angel had surprised himself and he'd laughed in her face. At the time, he felt like he was outside himself—watching himself behave so badly with someone he cared for so much. "This is pathetic," he'd said. "Spike is just a tool for you to get back at me. You don't even care about him. This is a stupid schoolgirl game."
"Fuck you," she had seethed and hearing his girl use such coarse language had made Angel even angrier. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
Glaring hard at her, he had clenched his teeth and said "when did you become such a little bitch?"
Lifting her chin defiantly, she had said "the minute the love of my life turned into a big, selfish asshole."
Feeling the anger well in him like a ball of fire, Angel had actually growled at her. He hadn't been able to control it. Buffy hadn't flinched. She'd stood her ground, almost two heads shorter than him and in her bare feet, and then he'd said "I see, it's selfish to need a lover who knows how to behave like a grown up?"
Buffy had lowered her voice then to a harsh whisper and pressed against him fiercely. Her firm little breasts pushed into Angel's ribs and she'd narrowed her eyes at him. "I repeat," she'd said. "Fuck. You."
And that was all he could take. Angel had run out the back door into the morning.
Sighing, he tried to forget the exchange, even though it seemed to be burned on the darkness behind his eyelids.
Buffy sighed, too, and then she relaxed against him on the bed. "I guess it was pretty bad, huh?" she said. "Kinda like two totally different people."
He shook his head. "I couldn't believe we were speaking to each other like that."
Her little fingers toyed with his softly glinting gold necklace but she didn't say anything for a long time. Her touching it made him think of the day he got it, so many years ago. He could see Darla putting it on him in the moonlight in Madrid. He'd also been wearing it the night he staked her at the Bronze. His maker, his mother, his lover. Darla had seemed nothing to him that day—that day, compared to Buffy, she had been nothing.
Angel kissed Buffy's forehead gently.
Looking up at him, the slayer offered a wobbly smile, tears tottering in her eyes. "So," she said, her tone trying its best to be light. "You mean it about not sharing him, don't you?"
Angel smiled wanly. "I . . . can't, Buffy. It's complicated."
"So you said." She played with his necklace again, resting her head on his chest.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. They just lay there in the quiet room that Spike had decorated from all his creative scavenging. He could feel the weight of the boy's body through hers. The combination felt wonderful. Perfect. Ideal. Angel sighed.
"Are you taking him with you?" she whispered, but she didn't look up.
The truth was, he hadn't really thought of it until just that moment. But when she said it, suddenly it seemed like the best, most sound idea Angel had ever heard.
"If he'll go with me," he said softly. "I honestly don't know if he will. He's . . . asked to come to LA with me before and I've always told him no. I'm sure he'll be justifiably cagey."
"Do you want to take him away just so I can't have him?" Then she looked at him, her blue eyes red and wet again and her cherubic lips trembled slightly. "He is really good to me, Angel . . . and . . . it's really helping me to have him here."
"I know," he said. "But, none of this is doing him any good. Buffy, if you can't love him . . . I can't just leave him here. Not in good conscience."
Again, she sighed and put her head down. He felt the hot little drops of her tears on his naked skin and the moisture cooled on contact. She sniffed.
"Do you love him?" she asked.
Angel kissed her head and pet her hair soothingly. For a moment he watched his own hand as it moved gently over her silky hair, realizing the gesture was meant to comfort him, as well. "Yes," he confessed. "But he doesn't believe that. I . . . guess I can't blame him."
She remained still and quiet for a while longer, then she shifted and carefully wriggled herself out from under Spike's sleeping body. Angel watched her find her clothes and put them on, then she sat on the bed again to get into her shoes. Her hair was messed up in the back and he smoothed it with his hand, taking a moment to marvel at how tiny her head seemed in comparison. She may be a fierce grown woman, but she still had a little girl's body. One that needed care and protection that Angel knew she would no longer allow him to give. At least not then—not that day.
Once she was dressed, she turned around and looked at both of them on the bed. Spike had wound his arms around Angel's waist in his sleep, like he always did, and he'd put his head on Angel's belly. When she looked at them, Angel smiled and reached for her hand.
"He'll probably say no," he told her. "I'd say no, if I were him. I wouldn't trust me at all."
Buffy kept looking at the blond until her eyes welled up again. She squeezed Angel's hand lightly then stood, walking over to the narrow stairs that lead to the upper room. Before she ascended, she looked at him again and gave him a sad smile.
"I think he'll go," she said. "So . . . take care of him."
Angel frowned slightly. "You think he'll go? Why? He's completely in love with you."
She looked away and wiped the big tears that were rambling freely down her cheeks. "He'll go because he needs to BE loved. You're offering him that, Angel. I'm not." Again, she looked at him and put on that sad little smile. "So, I guess I'll see ya."
"Yes, you will," he assured her. "You know where I am. My door's always open."
Buffy nodded. "Mine, too." And then she went slowly up the stairs.
He listened to her footsteps across the stone floor above, then sighed when he heard the crypt door close after her. The hollow sound of it made him sad in ways he had yet to understand.
Spike slept soundly with his head on Angel's belly, oblivious to the significant decisions that had just been made around and for him. Angel thought it best to let the young one sleep. He would need to be rested if he was going to make the right choice.
****************
Spike:
Hours later, he woke up with all the blankets tucked around him like a cocoon. He had no idea how he got like that and didn't much care. He felt wonderful—rested and peaceful. More calm than he had in months.
Rolling over, Spike stretched his legs until his toes pointed, then he reached up for the headboard to stretch his back. His fingers connected with the silky skin on Angel's thigh and he looked up.
"Oh," Spike said, smiling at his beautiful, naked sire playfully. "I thought you'd made your usual less-than-stealthy exit, peaches. Didn't I hear the door?"
"That was Buffy," Angel said. He was lounging against the pillows like he had been when Spike fell asleep, but he'd clearly been up a few times. He'd found some of the books Spike had around and was reading a battered copy of "The Golden Bowl". Also, a glass of scotch rested on the night table, half full.
Sitting up, Spike reached for the glass and drained it. "What time is it?"
Angel shrugged. "I don't know. Day time. Maybe around 3:00."
Squinting at the brunette curiously, Spike said, "did you run her off after I fell asleep? You were being a right berk to her, if I recall."
Angel cleared his throat and sat forward, placing the book on the bed beside him. "She and I talked, but I didn't run her off, Spike. She left amicably. Everything's fine."
He frowned at all the odd implications of that statement. "What does THAT mean?"
"It means . . . she agrees with me."
They looked at each other for a long moment, Spike searching the other's eyes for any clue as to what he was on about.
"Agrees with you about what, Angel?" he finally asked.
Looking down, the brunette smiled a little—almost shyly, but Spike knew better. Angel was in manipulation mode. "About you coming to LA with me."
Spike blinked and his brow pulled into an astonished frown. "Come again?"
Smirking, Angel batted his eyes impishly. "Now, there's a good idea." He leaned forward, reaching for Spike's arm to draw him across the bed, but Spike pulled back.
"Hold on, mate. I'm completely confused here. You want me to come with you? NOW, after saying no to me every single time I've asked you before."
"Well, you never really ASKED me, exactly," Angel muttered. "You just . . ."
"Made it bloody clear I wanted to go!" Spike finished irritably. "Don't be a git. You knew I wanted to."
"I knew you wanted to be asked," the brunette said softly.
They looked at each other again and Spike felt his cheeks burn with blush. He put the empty glass back on the night table, then sat for a moment just thinking—well, brooding was more like it. "What about the blonde bit?" he said after a while. "You're saying she wants me to go?"
Angel stretched out on his side, propping his head up with his hand. His long, pale body gleamed seductively against the sheets and Spike let himself have a good look. His sire looked unbearably edible all naked and lounging there in his big bed. That thick cock rested against his thigh, heavy and half-erect, just waiting to be pleased. Spike licked his lips.
"She cares for you, William. She wants you to be happy," Angel said, the wheels of wheedling whirring along. "And she agrees that you'd be happier with me."
Shaking his head, Spike brought his hands to his face and scrubbed his sleep-filled eyes. "I can't believe she SAID that," he groaned incredulously. "She actually cares if I'm happy or not? Christ, the things I sodding sleep through!"
Angel inched forward on the bed until he was close enough to touch Spike's bare knee. He did so with his lips, eyes glimmering with seductive intent. His hair was tousled and soft-looking and Spike couldn't resist it. His fingers were in that hair before he could think better of it, and then they were kissing . . . kissing like there was no tomorrow. Well, in Sunnydale, you never knew if there would be.
Spike closed his eyes and he felt like he was falling. No worries, really, because Angel's arms were around him, scooping him up and hauling him effortlessly into his lap. Spike's legs wound around those hips, like they always did, and then their cocks were touching. Tongues caressing, teasing in their wet mouths, hands exploring familiar pleasure zones, chests pressing against each other as they panted, smelling the other's scent hungrily.
This position was always quick for them. It fed both their deepest desires and drove them to the edge of carnal madness almost instantly. For Angel, he was the captor, the larger, stronger one, the one in control, the setter of the pace. For Spike, he got to be manhandled, moved about as though he were weightless, held and cradled as though he were precious, squeezed and kissed and coveted. In no time, they were groaning and rubbing their hips together, pressing their stiff cocks into one another, seeking friction. Spike moaned and Angel's fangs lengthened inside their kiss.
Until they both came, there would be no more thoughts—no more discussions. The world went away when they crushed each other with these possessive kisses.
Angel's hands spread out on Spike's muscular, lean back and lifted him, bringing him back down so he was literally mashed against Angel's body. Spike shivered and felt his cock tingle and leak. His hips worked of their own volition, finding the pressure, creating the rub that would bring that blinding bliss. He felt the powerful muscles in Angel's arms flexing and hardening, holding him impossibly close. He seemed to be trying to mix their bodies, to compress them until they broke and spilled into each other. Their hips worked counter to each other, creating hot friction in the tight space between their bodies. That time, Angel moaned and then Spike felt those sharp teeth slice into his throat.
Just a little taste . . . no big gushing wound. Angel said Spike's blood was sweetest when he was coming. The contractions began deep inside him, zinging and spreading like tickling fingers over his thighs, his anus, his nipples, his belly. He felt the pleasure everywhere, just like always, and just like always he wished he could die right then and there—just perish inside that ecstasy. When Angel started groaning, Spike held onto him very tight.
He kept his eyes closed while his sire shuddered through his own orgasm, loving the feeling of the silky fluids on his belly. Angel moaned with each wave of pleasure until his voice began to crack and then, finally, he grew silent.
After, they landed in a pile on the mattress, gasping and wet with blood sweat and seed, still kissing ravenously as the silvery spasms waned. Angel hovered over him, looking down into his face imploringly. For a long time, neither of them spoke, but the thoughts were clear as day in their eyes.
"Come to LA with me," Angel whispered.
In response, Spike pulled him into a deep, rough kiss.
**********************
Buffy:
I hear someone in the crypt when I walk up, but I'm trying to be covert. I know the guys are gone, I can feel it, so whoever's in there must be stealing something. I guess it doesn't matter. I'm sure Spike took everything with him that he felt was valuable.
The door is open a little and I peer in. A shadowy figure is moving in the kitchen area, shifting around . . . doing something . . . I can't tell just yet. Then I hear the frig open and the figure leans forward to inspect the contents. It's then that I see this shadowy figure is Spike's friend Clem.
Sighing, I open the door and Clem jumps when he sees me.
"Oh," he says and then smiles. "Hi, Buffy. I wasn't expecting you."
"Is he gone?" I say, stepping into the dim main room of the crypt.
"Yeah," Clem tells me and he says it gently, like he's telling me something I don't know and won't like. Then he brightens. "He did leave something he said was for you, though. Hang on one sec." He disappears down the steps that suddenly remind me of the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. Must be Clem's floppy ears. He comes right back and hands me a folded piece of heavy white paper. It's sealed with a drop of red candle wax. How very Goth of my vampire lover.
"Thanks," I say and then suddenly I have to fight myself to keep from crying. Whatever is written in there is going to upset me greatly, this much I know. I decide I'll wait until I'm alone to read it.
I say goodnight to Clem and tell him to look after the place. He waves and tells me to drop in anytime. My friends and I are always welcome.
Once I'm back out in the cemetery, I stop and sit on one of the headstones near the road. Glancing around, I make sure I'm on my own then I lift up the waxy little seal. My heart is beating like crazy as I unfold the heavy paper, expecting some heartbreaking love letter inside that will most likely make me cry until I can't breathe. But the paper has no writing on it whatsoever.
Instead, the paper is covered with a beautiful charcoal drawing of Spike sleeping.
I look at it for a long time, studying the minute and careful details. Angel is a brilliant illustrator. He captures nuance in a person's face like no artist I've ever seen. I've kept every one of the drawings he ever made for me. Even the ones he made to frighten me.
This one, though . . . this one is a different sort of memento. This one is something to remind me of what I could have had. And something to remind me of what I still could have.
It's also a description of his own emotions—the ones he has so much trouble describing in words. There they all are on this paper in my hand. He drew Spike just like the wicked angel he is, cherubic and vicious in the same breath. The image is so beautiful, it actually hurts my heart to see it.
I don't even notice the tears on my face until the wind comes up and they go cold. I fold up the drawing carefully and tuck it into my jacket pocket, then I wipe off my face with my hands and try to pull myself together.
It's night time, after all. I have demons to kill.
the end