Rating: NC-17
Story Notes: Spoilers for Season 5 up to and including the episode "Destiny".
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Angel:
Sitting on the edge of the tub, he examined all his wounds in the overhead light. Spike had given him one hell of a beating. When he'd landed on his back on the floor of that abandoned hotel, Angel had felt his ribs crack. The blood burbled up into his mouth and he'd spat it out, almost brought to tears from the pain in his shattered bones. And yet, there was something blissful about it all. Something that rang so true to the way he was feeling inside. All those fractured bones and bleeding gashes were the emblem of his emptiness. They told the truth about his utter lack of commitment to the brawl he was having with his oldest rival.
He'd only chased Spike into the desert because he was supposed to. It was a knee-jerk reaction to all his years of seeking redemption. He was expected to want the Cup of Torment-to want to be the one the Shanshu prophesy had always been referring to. But the truth of it was, he didn't really care that much. He DID care about being bested by Spike. And that had been enough to get him on the road that night, pedal to the metal, bent on catching that blond bastard before he got to the cup first. The cup and its alleged meaning were secondary and, as it turned out, completely useless.
Sitting there in the fine bathroom in his fine new apartment, Angel frowned at the huge bleeding hole in his right shoulder. Straight through that jagged bit of wood had gone. Stuck him to the gritty floor for a moment. Spike thought about it before he drove it in-thought about it hard. A few inches to the right and that would have been it for the Undead Champion of the People. The vampire with a soul would have been reduced to so many pathetic ashes.
But that's not what happened. Spike didn't kill him. When they'd looked in each other's eyes at that moment, Angel knew his childe would not. In their long history, there had never been a more opportune moment to do it-but Angel knew with the utmost certainty that they were both walking out of there that night. It wasn't premonition, just a solid working knowledge of his opponent. Spike loved him as much as he hated him and those two emotions had spent the better part of two centuries canceling each other out inside him.
Angel touched the wound in his shoulder and winced. There were splinters in there, damn it. Splinters were the worst. The angle of the wound made it so he couldn't see it very well. He was going to need some help and quick. If he didn't get the slivers of wood out of his body before it healed itself, he'd feel the stitch of those splinters every time he moved for the rest of his unlife.
Walking into the bedroom, he sat on the bed and picked up the phone, but he hesitated before pressing any numbers. Angel didn't know who he should call. Wes would be the best person for this job, but he was off dealing with his own things. Angel didn't want to bother him now. Gunn had a rough day himself and needed his rest. Fred would be a fine choice, but she would try to make him talk about his feelings regarding the fight and Angel was in no mood to plumb those depths. Lorne got squeamish at the site of blood, so he was no use. That only left Harmony and Eve and he didn't like the idea of either of them digging in a wound of his with tweezers.
Sighing, he went to press the speed-dial code for Fred when there was a knock on the door. He set the phone back in its cradle and grabbed a pair of sweats off a chair by the window, slipping into them before he crossed the quiet apartment to look through the peephole.
Spike stood there looking into the peephole on the other side, a wry smirk on his bruised but ever-handsome face.
"I see you lookin', peaches," he said through the door. "Let me in or I'll huff and I'll puff and all that rot."
Shaking his head, Angel unlatched the chain and opened the door.
"What do you want?" he said as he took in the full image of the blond in the hallway. "Haven't you had enough fun with me for one day?"
Spike had washed, as well, to tend to his own wounds and he'd also changed his clothes. Angel liked the way that dark blue velvet shirt hung on the boy. It looked very soft to the touch, as well. Spike had the habit of dressing himself in scrumptious fabrics when he wanted to be handled.
Holding up a brown grocery bag that was wrinkled around the shape of its contents-two bottles-Spike offered a smile. "I thought you could use a drink or nine. After the night we've had. Besides," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial purr. "You're coming up next on my To Do list."
"Your To Do list?" Angel groaned. "I'm gonna be sorry I asked, huh?"
Spike held up his free hand to count on his fingers. "The To Do list for after I got my body back is as follows: One-throw down with Angel; two-get pissed outta my head; and three-throw Angel down. As you can see by my obvious sobriety and your obvious lacerations, as yet I've only accomplished number one."
Angel took a reluctant breath. "I'm only going to ask you in if you'll help me with something."
"Not that you asking me matters," Spike said. "I can come in any time I want. Remember, I don't need you to invite me into your home cuz you're already dead, mate. I can walk right into your posh digs whenever it suits me." Proving his point, Spike stepped through the door and walked right up to Angel, standing so close their chests touched. "See?" he said in a deep whisper.
"I know you can come in any time," Angel said. "That's not what I meant."
Blinking, Spike said, "right. What did you mean?"
"I need you to help me with something," the brunette repeated wearily.
"That would be?"
Glancing down at the ugly wound in his shoulder, Angel said "you and that hunk of wood gave me splinters, you bastard. The least you could do is get them out."
Spike stepped back enough to squint at the wound in question, his brow knitting thoughtfully as he examined it. "Oh, yeah . . ." he said. "I can just see the little buggers." Looking up, he grinned happily. "I bet that hurts like hell, doesn't it? Got tweezers?" He headed into the apartment, rounding the corner to the bedroom straight away. Ruefully, Angel closed the door and went after him.
He found Spike sitting on the bed unscrewing the cap on a bottle of Ketle One Citron. The boy always did love his vodka. The other bottle that had been in the bag was sitting on the night table. Angel smiled to himself when he saw it was a new bottle of Jameson's.
"Thanks," he said, taking the scotch and heading for the living room bar.
"My pleasure," Spike said softly.
"Do you want a glass?"
"Might as well. No sense bein' uncouth in such high class surroundings."
At the bar, Angel opened the Jameson's and poured himself a healthy glassful. He brought the drink to his lips and inhaled the delicious, oaky scent, then he took two deep swallows. Closing his eyes, he stood there for a moment until he felt the sweet burn of the alcohol move through his limbs, soothing the tender spots and tickling his senses. Grabbing a glass for his guest, he took his bottle back into the bedroom where Spike was lying on his back on the smooth comforter.
The tails of the velvet shirt opened slightly exposing a creamy wedge of Spike's pale, muscular belly right above the waistband of his black jeans. Angel set the cold glass on that vulnerable patch of skin and the blond flinched forward reflexively. He snatched the glass away from his sire with a petulant scowl.
"Careful," he muttered. "I might suddenly develop horrible eyesight and leave you stuck with those itchy bits o' wood in your shoulder forever."
Angel only smirked as he went into the bathroom to get the tweezers. When he returned, the blond was downing a full glass of vodka, his head tilted back and the muscles in his lovely throat working beautifully as he swallowed. The image brought back so many memories of the nights they shared during the first few months of young William's unlife. All the gratuitous kills and the licentious torture of the innocent victims. Those were the days, indeed. No guilt, no conscience, no fear. Nothing at all but the limitless pleasures of being a vampire.
Spike finished his drink and let out a loud belch, bringing Angel's focus sharply back to the present. The blond eyed the tweezers mischievously. "Are you sure you want me pokin' your ouchies with those?"
"I want you to get the splinters out, Spike. I'll thank you to refrain from any further brutality tonight." He stood with the tweezers held out, watching the other's eyes patiently.
Spike sighed. "You're absolutely zero fun anymore, mate." He set his glass down and took the tweezers. "Sit down, then. The doctor is in."
Angel turned on the night table lamp and tilted the bulb up so it shown brightly toward the bed. He sat near the pillows where the light hit him the most and turned his wound into its glow. Spike shifted until he could comfortably lean forward, then he focused on the jagged hole in Angel's shoulder.
"Be still now," the blond whispered as he used his fingers to gently expose part of the wound. "Got a big one right here . . ." He reached in with the tip of the tweezers and Angel closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable excruciating pain of extraction.
From behind his eyelids, he felt the cool contact of the pointed metal on his bleeding flesh, and then there was a slight tug as Spike pulled out a small piece of wood. Angel waited to feel sharp cold pain, but there was none. Spike was being very careful.
Keeping his eyes closed, he waited for the next extraction, taking even breaths to steady himself. When the pointed metal touched his wound again, he froze and focused on the odd sensation of another bit of wood sliding out of his body. Again, there was very little pain but he knew better than to relax. Any second now Spike would start to make sport of this endeavor, Angel was sure of it.
"How many can you see?" he asked, hoping to at least be prepared.
"Only two more," Spike replied, his voice low with concentration. "This next one's in deep, though. You'd better have another drink."
Angel opened his eyes so he could find his glass on the night table and he emptied it in one big gulp. As he poured another, he felt Spike's gaze on the side of his face-drilling into him, watching him.
Irritated by the inspection, Angel barked "what?"
For a long time, Spike just stared at him methodically, his expression reminding Angel way too much of the way Fred looked at him most of the time. It was 'bug under glass' syndrome and the vampire didn't care for it.
"I'm worried about you," Spike said finally.
Angel blinked. "Are you kidding me? You just spent the better part of the evening beating the unliving snot outta me, Spike. You expect me to believe you're worried about me now? The only thing you're worried about is that you didn't dust me."
"If I'd wanted to kill you," Spike said evenly. "I would've." He paused for a moment, then reached for the bottle of Ketle One to pour himself another drink. "And so would you have-if you'd wanted me dead." While he poured, he went on. "But that's not what we want, is it? Never has been." He set the bottle back on the table, then held his glass up in the manner of making a toast. "What do you say we just admit that, eh? Put it to rest once and for all?"
Frowning bitterly, Angel looked down into his full glass of Jameson's and wondered if he really was ready to put this age-old feud to rest. It was always something with Spike-all the way back to the beginning. Drusilla, the killing of a slayer, Buffy . . . Buffy. Closing his eyes, Angel sighed at the thought of her. His girl, his love, out there in the world running free. Running free from the chain of her love for him at last.
"Come on, then," Spike said gently and when Angel looked up, the blond was still holding up his glass. "Let's drink to it."
"We're making a truce?" Angel said.
Spike shrugged, then smiled wanly. "I reckon I'm okay with that description. As long as no one else knows about it. Wouldn't want them thinkin' I've gone soft or anything."
"No one else? Like who? Who's gonna care if we make peace, Spike?"
The blond leveled his blue-eyed gaze at Angel, but he said nothing. There was no need.
"She doesn't care," Angel whispered. "She's gone . . . on to the life she's always deserved."
"That may be, " Spike said. "But I assure you she cares." He lifted his glass again. "So, come on-drink to it. For her."
Angel looked at the other vampire's glass and then down at his own, but he didn't move to touch them together. Instead, he sighed and lowered his head, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue and sadness. He felt the tears well in his eyes and knew he couldn't stop them. Of course, he didn't want to show this much emotion in front of Spike, but he was beyond the point of controlling it. It had come up very suddenly and won its way with him.
To his surprise, the next thing he felt was Spike's forehead pressed against his. Angel didn't open his eyes, he just remained there, connected to his grand-childe in that quiet room with those cool tears sliding over the cuts on his cheeks.
After a long time, Spike spoke again. "What happened to you tonight, Angel?" he whispered. "You weren't even half present for that fight. You didn't want that bleedin' cup. Why did you even bother comin' out after me?"
"You took my Viper," Angel murmured, attempting to defuse the intensity of the moment with levity. "I wasn't just gonna let you go."
Spike laughed softly, then tilted his chin up until their lips connected. It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, and it served only to make Angel feel sadder. He didn't want to be comforted-not yet. Now that the dam had broken on that wave of emotion, he wanted to let it out first before he sought consolation.
Lying back on the bed, he covered his face with his hand and let himself weep. Spike left him to it for a few long minutes, but finally the blond lay down beside him and took his hand away from his face.
"Come on, peaches," the blond said. "Buck up. Heroes don't come unhinged like this."
Eyes blurry with blood tears, Angel looked at his companion accusingly. "How do you know?"
Spike replied directly and without the slightest hint of defensiveness. "I know because I cry like a bloody girl all the time. And I . . ." he trailed off, then shook his head, apparently choosing not to finish his sentence. When he spoke next, he was all piss and vinegar again. "Right, it's just plain unbecoming of a hero of your caliber. Now sit up and let me get the rest of the splinters outta your shoulder." He took Angel's arm and pulled him to a sitting position, reaching once again for the tweezers on the night table.
Their toast to a truce had apparently been forgotten.
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Spike:
Concentrating, he leaned down with the tweezers and squinted at the nasty hole he'd put into his sire earlier that night. The moment of origin filled his memory as he focused on the task at hand.
There they'd been-in that position Spike had dreamed of over and over-him on top, pinning the old boy down and holding a big deadly chunk of pointy wood over the left side of his chest. One swift downward stroke and it would have been over. Angel the Avenger would have fit in an ashtray. Who'd said that to him . . ? Spike scowled as he thought about it and then he remembered. Oh, yeah-the slayer said it. About Dru. Bloody hell, that was a long time ago. Lifetimes ago. Funny how the memory of it was still so clear.
Frowning, Spike reached into the wound he'd made in Angel's body with the tweezers and carefully . . . so carefully . . . pulled out the deepest of the splinters. The big fella flinched and bit his bottom lip hard but that was all. The pain must have been mind melting, but he stood up to it. Stupid git's all but forgotten how tough he is, clearly.
"One more," Spike said softly, reaching into the wound again. The last of the splinters was lodged sideways and it gave him a bit of a struggle to grab it, but finally he had it and out it came. Angel sighed deeply with relief and poured himself another drink.
"That's it," Spike informed him. "Got bandages?"
"Yeah," Angel said, but he didn't move to get them. Instead, he rolled over and laid down heavily with his head on the pillows by the headboard.
Spike waited a moment, then he got up and went to the bathroom to search for whatever first aid supplies might be around. In the cabinet over the sink, he found a box full of everything he needed and brought it all back to the bedroom. Neither of them spoke as he assembled a large gauze bandage with tape to cover the gaping hole he'd just been working in.
Angel lay there on the bed just watching him with those plaintive dark eyes, his mind obviously running mad with thoughts of all sorts. His cheeks were marked with scrapes and cuts that had already begun to heal and the thin wounds glistened with his leftover tears. Those eyes held Spike's gaze relentlessly for a moment, reaching inside him and searching for something he knew was there hiding. For some reason, Spike recoiled from that search and looked away, turning his attention to applying the bandage.
Angel stopped him by taking hold of his wrist, forcing Spike to look at him again.
"Will you . . ?" He gestured at the wound and lifted his brow hopefully.
Spike couldn't help but smile. "You want me to kiss it better?" he teased gently, then he leaned forward and wet his lips with his tongue.
When his face was right next to the wound, he breathed in deeply, enjoying the spicy scent of the rich sire blood. His mouth flooded with hungry saliva and he extended his tongue just beyond his lips-just enough to dab at the ragged flesh and wet it. Angel flinched just a bit when first contact was made, but then he sighed and relaxed. Spike closed his eyes as he licked the bleeding injury, the sweet flavor making him moan softly.
He licked the surface of Angel's wound-the one he himself had inflicted-punctuating every lap with a little kiss. He opened his eyes to watch as he felt the flesh begin to regenerate itself. This always amazed him, no matter how many times he saw it. He remembered the very first time Angel had healed one of his wounds with sire fluids. Almost 150 years ago in that bathroom in Yorkshire, he'd licked a gash in Spike's wrist over and over until it closed and there had been no scar whatsoever. It wasn't until almost a year later that Spike learned he, too, could heal members of his own family with his body fluids. Once he found out, though, it became an irresistible pleasure game.
Thinking of one of the more interesting indulgences, he whispered "do you remember that set of pearl-handled knives?"
Angel's fingers slipped into the curls at the back of Spike's neck, tickling them, toying with them gently. "The ones you stole from that hotel in Leon?"
"Mmmm," Spike murmured, lips and tongue gently continuing to stroke and wet Angel's wound. "That shiny little paring knife was the best. It made the prettiest little slices in your lovely flesh . . ."
Angel sighed and shifted slightly under him on the bed. He let the brunette guide their bodies until Spike's hips were between his legs. Their cocks pressed against each other through the fabric of their trousers, swelling, gaining sensitivity, and seeking familiar contact. Angel stroked his back and arms through his shirt and Spike grinned, knowing the old boy was enjoying the yummy velvet. The slayer had liked that shirt, too. Always got him a good petting, that garment. But Angel wasn't interested in the shirt for long.
The fingers that had been playing so delicately with his curls suddenly grabbed hold of them and pulled Spike's head back, straining his neck to the point of discomfort. Angel rolled forward until his body covered Spike's, then he lowered his mouth down to the tender flesh just below the jaw. At first, all he did was kiss the skin roughly, then he sucked at it, then bit it, then bit into it. Spike shivered and sighed as he felt those strong fangs penetrate him, bringing up the blood until it dripped down below his ear.
The soft sucking sounds made him moan out loud and he held onto Angle's strong body tightly. Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around his sire's hips and pressed their cocks together, grinding shamefully as the sucking increased. He knew Angel wouldn't take much, just a little taste . . . just enough to aid in his healing and get his senses jangling. Still . . . it felt wonderful . . . delicious. Spike closed his eyes and surrendered to the swoon.
It was over way too quickly and Angel withdrew his fangs, covering the small punctures with soft licks and saliva. Spike tugged his grand-sire's hair, lifting his head so they could kiss. Their tongues battled greedily between their lips.
"You need to be naked," Angel growled and then proceeded to tug at the velvet shirttails until the buttons began to pop. All in a row, they went, scattering across the bed and plinking on the wood floor. Then the shirt was off and Spike's trousers were being yanked down.
He laughed gleefully at Angel's sudden hunger and did his best to assist at the getting him naked bit. Angel removed his own sweats in one quick movement and then he covered Spike's body again, crushing his lips with a brutal kiss. When their hard naked cocks touched that time, the sensation was so intense that Spike pulled back a little. He was unbelievably sensitive because it had been so long. The quick tryst with Harmony had served only to further enflame him as they never got to finish the act. Now, his cock ached and throbbed, literally begging for a release of the pressure. When he pulled back just that little bit, Angel sensed it and lifted up, hovering over him a few inches.
"Too much?" he panted.
The separation of their bodies sent Spike into a sudden fit of desire and he pulled Angel back down on top of him. "I think . . . I need . . ." and then they were kissing again, hard and starving, chewing each other's lips until blood spilled into their mouths.
Once again, Angel lifted up, balancing his weight on his knees. Spike was so hungry for him, he didn't realize at first what his sire was doing and he sat up, trying to pull Angel back into another kiss. The brunette pressed his hand against Spike's chest, pushing back down on the mattress.
"Stay . . ." he breathed, then a little smile tugged his full, blood-slicked lips.
His head clearing a bit, Spike looked down when he felt Angel's big hand take hold of his quivering cock. He moaned as he watched his lover guide his erection into place, tilting his hips backward just enough, and then slowly, slowly sliding down to take it inside. The sensation alone was almost unbearable and Spike tensed up all over, trying to keep control of himself.
"Oh, god . . ." he groaned, holding onto Angel's hips tightly. He took in the whole picture for a moment-that tall beautiful man kneeling over him, all that creamy skin stretched over writhing muscles, decorated so nicely with pretty bruises and cuts . . . and that cock of his . . . jutting forward with its head dripping, begging to be touched, licked, pleased. Spike had to close his eyes and concentrate with all his will to keep from exploding right then. He'd waited so long to have Angel again. The pleasure of it was almost more than he could stand.
Once he'd got himself fully impaled on Spike's cock, Angel tilted forward and balanced his weight on his hands. His thighs flexed as he spread them wide and then he began to rise and drop very slowly.
Sensation zinged all over his body and Spike cried out desperately, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of Angel's hips. "I can't . . ." he groaned.
"Yes, you can . . ." Angel insisted, his hips moving in a gentle figure eight. The new direction tugged on Spike's balls with cruel, luscious pressure and he swore he would weep from the intensity.
That's when Angel squeezed his cock-hard-with his tight inner muscles. He held the tip of it inside him, frozen for a moment as they stared at each other, breathing in big gasps, skin glimmering with a sheen of sweat.
"You can," the brunette said in a hoarse whisper. "I need you to."
Those eyes-that look-penetrated him down to the core of his soul and Spike let out a long, ragged sigh. He could do this. He knew he could. It's what he came there that night to do, after all. His own sexual starvation aside, Spike was the only one who could please Angel in this way and he knew he wouldn't be allowed to fail. He never had been.
Steadying himself with a deep breath, Spike lifted his head enough to kiss his lover's mouth, nipping that full bottom lip roughly. "I'm good," he said. "Carry on."
Angel grinned wolfishly, then lowered his body down again, enveloping Spike's cock in luscious, velvety pleasure. That time, it was Angel that groaned and his dark eyes slid closed. "Oh, god . . ." he gasped. "I can't believe how much I've missed you . . ."
Spike stroked Angel's powerful thighs as they worked to lift his body up and down. Such a sight, this was-so raw and carnal. He wanted so badly to grab hold of that straining cock bobbing in front of him and stroke it until it erupted, but he knew his lover didn't want to be touched. This was a terribly delicate act that could easily be destroyed by the wrong amount of pressure. Angel rarely needed any stimulation beyond the penetration-beyond the firm rubdown of his prostate. He would tell Spike if anything else was required. Until then, he was in charge.
Once again, they looked at each other and Angel's pupils were dilated with lust. "Nice?" he said. "Worth coming back for?"
Spike moaned from deep in his chest. "I'd die a hundred times just to do this to you again," he said and then he lifted his own hips to match his lover's thrusts. The slight change of position tilted his erection inside Angel's body in such a way, that he felt the head of his cock make contact with that greedy, swollen gland. Angel trembled and his speed increased suddenly, so much so that he was practically bouncing on Spike's cock. The pleasure gathered and started to hum through Spike's body and he knew the end was near.
Growling, they clung to each other as they rushed toward the edge of their pleasure. Spike squeezed his eyes closed and saw bright rays of colored light on the back of his eyelids. His lips felt hot, his nipples itched and his balls felt like they might burst, they were so full. When Angel froze with his first orgasmic contraction, Spike felt like he'd been thrown into a well-down, down his body fell, gathering speed as the rush of gravity took him over and then he was literally attacked with the strongest climax he'd ever experienced.
He arched forward with the force of it and his forehead connected with Angel's chest. He heard his sire screaming as his own pleasure tore through him and there were fluids everywhere . . . spurting, slippery, salty fluids wetting their faces and limbs, slicking their bellies and legs. And the scent . . . all that coppery musk and clean sweat mixed in with the creamy aroma of fresh, bloody semen.
As the pulsing spasms began to wane, Spike felt himself being rolled to the side as Angel pulled him, carried him down into his arms. His cock had slipped out at some point, but it still throbbed with the last of that vicious orgasm as it pressed against the flesh of Angel's smooth belly.
He didn't open his eyes for a long time but he was far from feeling sleepy. He was simply taking in the components of the moment. The quiet room, the soft rasp of Angel's reflexive breathing and the feeling of that perfect familiar body flush against his own. Their legs were entwined and Spike's arm was wrapped around Angel's waist, his head resting in the crook under the brunette's chin. He loved this position. While he was without his body, Spike would hover in the bedroom and watch Angel sleeping in that very bed, wishing he could be curled against him just like this.
While they lay there, he replayed the details of the sex they'd just had and realized something of interest. It wasn't just him who had been starved. Looking up, he found Angel staring out the window that overlooked the city. His expression was far away and pensive, like he was trying to remember something very important.
"You've been keeping to yourself too much," Spike said softly.
Angel blinked, then looked at his companion. "Huh?"
"You have," he insisted. "I've been watching you non-stop for weeks and you haven't had even a little bit of fun. You certainly haven't got yourself any affection."
"Affection?" Angel said coolly. "Is that what you call this thing we do? Looks to me like something else."
Spike was surprised by how wounded he felt and he frowned angrily. "Fine, then. Whatever you want to call it. I didn't mean us, anyway. I meant you. You haven't let anyone touch you since that wicked little Eve chippie at the Halloween party. And what was that, anyway? I didn't even think you fancied her."
"I don't," Angel said. "It was . . . something else."
"Well, yeah-there was that other thing goin' on that night that had everyone loopy, but still. You put it to the girl repeatedly and went back for more. There must have been something about her you liked."
"It wasn't her," the brunette said and then he glanced out the window again. "It was something . . . ON her. A scent. Something I haven't been able to place ever since it happened. I kept thinking it was just because of the spell but it's been bugging me. Really bugging me."
Sighing, Spike sat up with wobbly limbs and reached for the vodka on the night table. "What, you mean she smells like something strange? Like she's not really human?"
"No . . . she is. Or at least, I currently believe she is. But the more sex we had, the warmer her skin got . . . the more that scent lifted up off of her-out of her. It was everywhere by the time we were done. On me, too. And I still can't put my finger on it. But it's something I know."
Spike squinted curiously. "SomeTHING or someONE?"
Angel looked at him directly, then nodded once. "Someone. I just can't . . . place it."
Grinning, Spike said "so, little Eve is shaggin' someone regularly that you know and, I'm guessing, that you don't like much."
"Yep," Angel said, sitting up himself and reaching for his glass. "And doing them without condoms, judging by the intensity of the scent. She's saturated with him."
"Hmm," he said, still grinning. "I like the sound o' that. What's this scent like? Maybe if you talk it out, it'll help you remember."
Angel sipped his scotch slowly, clearly trying to find the right words to articulate his thoughts. "It's like . . . this is weird, but it reminds me of the spring festival we used to celebrate in Galway. There would be all this food cooking . . . all this fresh meat roasting."
"The scent is like fresh meat?" Spike teased, enjoying this conversation for all the wrong reasons and not really giving a toss.
As usual, Angel ignored his nattering and went on. "Specifically, it's like lamb."
"Lamb?"
"Yeah. Like roasting lamb mixed with apples and apricots. It's like that . . . and something else in it, too. Something . . . yeasty and bitter, like ale. Or fresh sourdough bread. Thyme." He shook his head. "I don't know, but it's really familiar. It's not someone I see regularly, which is why I'm having trouble with it. It's . . . someone I used to know. Really well."
"Someone you used to shag?" Spike suggested.
Angel shook his head slowly. "No . . . but . . . I'm pretty sure it's someone I wanted to." He sat forward. "That's the thing about it. While I was with Eve, I kept smelling this other person on her and the more I smelled him, the harder I fucked her. It was like . . . the scent really wound me up."
"And made you bloody horny," Spike pointed out.
"Yeah." Settling back against the pillows again, Angel rubbed his prominent forehead with his long fingers. Spike noticed that several of the little cuts that had been on his cheeks earlier were already healed and gone.
"Maybe an old rival?" he suggested. "Someone from Sunnydale?"
"Maybe."
"Farther afield, you think?"
Angel shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh. "I just don't know. It's driving me nuts. It's like it's right THERE . . . and I can't see it."
"Well, I'm sure it'll come to you. When you least expect it. You'll hear some song on the radio and suddenly-"
Angel took in a sudden breath and his dark eyes grew wide. "Oh shit," he said.
"Uh, did I hit a trigger? What, the song thing?"
"Shit," he said again. "Oh, shit, shit, shit." He covered his face with his hand and groaned miserably.
"Well?" Spike insisted.
"Lindsey McDonald," Angel said. "It's Lindsey."
"And who or what is a Lindsey McDonald? Human? Demon? Boy? Girl? Housecat?"
"Corn fed Oklahoma-born, blue-eyed human boy," Angel explained. "Former lawyer from hell at Wolfram & Hart. We, uh . . ." He let out a small, wry laugh. "We didn't get along too well, to say the least."
"I see," Spike said, intrigued. "Shaggable?"
"He had a thing."
"And he's a big problem?"
"I don't know," Angel said. "He was supposed to be gone. For good. Him having a connection to Eve is really . . ."
"Suspicious?"
"For a start." Sighing again, Angel looked out the window at the glittering lights of Los Angeles. "What in hell is he doing here again?" he murmured.
"Whatever it is," Spike said. "I'm guessin' it can't be good. That little Eve is trouble on legs. If she's into it, it's bound to be a right bother-something on par with a swarm of wasps in the shower."
Reaching for the Jameson's bottle, Angel refilled his glass, his handsome face clouded with consternation. "This is just what I need," he complained.
"Maybe it's nothing," Spike offered sardonically. "Maybe it's just a wacky coincidence."
Angel rolled his eyes. "God, I can't think about this now." He drained the glass in his hand then put it on the table, stretching out on the rumpled bed. "This shit just never stops, does it?"
"Nope," Spike said, finishing his own drink and putting the glass next to Angel's. "Not for the star of the Shanshu prophecy. I expect you won't be getting a break for ages yet." He crawled across the bed and deftly wriggled himself into that spot he loved so much, silently hoping he would be welcomed there. Angel curled around him almost reflexively, drawing their bodies together in a tight embrace. With his other hand, he tugged the comforter over them.
"I thought you didn't believe it was me," Angel said softly.
"I'm not sayin' I do," Spike replied. "But you believe it. No matter what you say or how you whinge, you do." He waited for his sire to offer some melancholy retort, but Angel said nothing. Instead, the old boy just sighed and snuggled against him as he settled in for long winter's nap.
Spike lay there for a long time thinking about the night behind them and the conversation they'd just had-about this boy, Lindsey McDonald, that had so unsettled his sire. Something about his name was familiar, but Spike couldn't recall where he'd heard it. Strangely, he felt like Drusilla had introduced them even though he knew he'd never made the bloke's acquaintance. Whoever he was, he had unfinished business with Angel and Spike felt certain that business smelled like revenge.
the end