~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Kansas was a truly terrible place. Spike didn’t know if it had
always been this way- it was one of a handful of US states he’d never visited
previous to the apocalyptic road trip from hell- but he imagined it probably
wasn’t much more interesting when populated. There was just *nothing*.
Less nothing than the nothing he’d gotten used to. It was like driving
through an abyss of wheat.
Or, rather, watching Angel drive through an abyss of wheat. He hadn’t
uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel since they’d left Denver,
and he hadn’t spoken a word either. It had shifted, two or three hours
ago, from satisfying to vaguely disconcerting. Spike knew he was sore about
the spaghetti victory, and probably annoyed at himself for leaving his
tampon trophy behind, and Angel certainly wasn’t Chatty McTalkyPants to
begin with, but this was just getting odd.
He was tense as hell, and it was starting to make Spike uncomfortable
too.
He’d talked to Willow for awhile, but eventually she’d drifted off,
murmuring something about waking her for spaghetti, and he was left alone
with the silent treatment. He tried to sleep himself, or at least feign
sleep, in the beanbag chair, but he was too fidgety. Wired. So he made
the mistake of moving to the front of the van to watch the scenery. It
was disappointing, to say the least.
And now he was here, next to Angel, with nothing to say that wasn’t
obnoxious.
Fucking van. It was incredibly claustrophobic. Nowhere to hide. No time
outs. Just this. Them. Seething. No wonder they were all going insane.
Though for Spike, insane was an improvement. He’d been absolutely gibbering
mad before.
"Music?" he asked, even though they’d played every damn tape they had
eleven or twelve times and Spike thoroughly despised them all. He didn’t
want music, but he wanted Angel to say something. A word. Even if it was
just "no". But he shook his head instead.
"Pretty boring here, huh?" Spike tried again. Angel shrugged. "Can’t
imagine anyone that’d want to live in Kansas…"
This was getting stupid. He was going to have to say something awful
just to get him to open his damn mouth.
"She wants to stop soon. To make the spaghetti. We should stop." Spike
knew that had to make him angry enough to speak. And he did, but not about
spaghetti.
"Do you smell that?" he asked in a low, quiet voice, causing Spike’s
stomach to leap in shock or…something.
"Smell what?" He didn’t smell anything. Or, rather, he smelt everything.
The inside of the van was a mélange of odors, most indistinguishable.
But he’d always been at a disadvantage with Angel where the sense of smell
was concerned. Spike could taste better, but Angel had the bloodhound nose.
"Her," Angel said. "It’s coming. Can’t you smell it?"
His right hand slipped from the steering wheel and Spike watched it
descend and land between his legs. He started palming himself indiscreetly,
and Spike took another, more deliberate whiff.
He caught the faintest tinge of it this time. Yes, it was coming. A
lot of it, and they were very hungry.
"You know, there is a lady present," he said, nodding towards Angel’s
crotch.
"She’s dead to the world."
Spike looked back, and sure enough she was drooling happily on her pillow,
as he’d left her, oblivious to the perverts in her midst.
Spike sighed. Now that he’d recognized it, there‘d be no getting rid
of it. It would burrow into his skull and permeate his senses and soon
enough he‘d be crazed from it. Fucking prison of a van.
"You are driving," he reminded Angel.
"What, am I gonna crash into a bale of hay?"
"Well, at least put both hands on the wheel."
Angel gave him a confused look that turned into a lewd smirk when he
saw the blatant hunger that must’ve been written all over Spike’s face.
He put his hand back on the steering wheel, and Spike took another quick
look at Willow, just to make sure.
Still sleeping, so he reached over and tugged at the drawstring on Angel’s
scrub pants. They really did need to stop at a Gap sometime soon. Something.
These clothes were getting as filthy as their original outfits, and they
didn’t have half the flair.
He pulled the fabric down and let Angel’s cock spring free. Beautifully
hard. Beautiful cock the bastard had. Spike didn’t even know why he was
doing this. He was supposed to be angry at Angel. Bloody sex juju again.
He leaned over, and Angel lifted his arm to grant him access to the
crotch of consternation. He ran the flat of his tongue up the side of his
dick, and placed a hand on his thigh so he could feel it tremble.
"Keep your eyes on the road, mate," he said, then wrapped his lips around
the thick, heady tip of him. Angel groaned and ran his fingers roughly
through Spike’s hair. He took him in slowly, enjoying the way Angel's whole
body thrummed in response. Delighting in the sharp intake of breath.
This was why. There was something so…compelling about having Angel in
his grasp like this. At his mercy, nearly.
And, yeah, it was making him hot. So sue him. He was a big heap of Nancy
boy for this fuckwad of a vampire, and right now he didn’t really care.
He’d been trained over a century ago, taught like a Pavlovian dog to crave
the taste and the feel of this body in his fucking sleep. He’d never been
able to rid himself of that particular lesson. It was so deeply ingrained,
stronger than hatred and fierce as love coursing through his blood. Buffy
had blotted it out for a time, but it never went away. Not entirely. It
never would.
His movement was a little restricted by the proximity of the steering
wheel, but he managed to work into a good, leisurely rhythm of sucking
the wanker’s brains out. Angel began to pant and grab at Spike‘s hair,
then his neck, and the car swerved alarmingly.
"Fuck," he grunted, and moved the errant hand back to the steering wheel.
"S’it, boy," he whispered. "Such a good little cocksucker."
Spike didn’t know why those words were arousing and not infuriating,
but he supposed it didn’t much matter and reached down to stroke himself.
Soon there was a low, feral, rumbling sound filling the air, and for
a moment Spike delighted in the triumph. He was making Angel purr. But
then he realized the sound was coming from his own throat, and he tried
to will it to stop.
"That’s my good, sweet boy," Angel crooned to him. "Like Daddy’s cock,
don’t you?"
Christ, why did he have to *say* these things? Couldn’t get two words
out of the fucker twenty minutes ago, and now he wouldn’t shut up. And
worse yet, why did Spike have to like it? Why did it make him so goddamn
hard and tight he thought he might come in his pants even without the help
of his now furiously stroking palm. Traitorous body he had. Foolish, weak
heart.
Soon Angel was just babbling. Various combinations and permutations
involving the words boy, cock, good, daddy, suck, come, repeated at ever
increasing decibels. Spike began to wonder about Willow again. Who could
possibly sleep through this, the way he was carrying on? Probably best
not to think of it.
He slid his free hand down between Angel's legs, then underneath him
to gently press at the entrance to the undiscovered country. Spike wondered
if anyone had ever been allowed to fuck him that way. It seemed unlikely.
Angelus would never permit it, and Angel...he couldn't imagine Angel letting
any man close enough to even attempt it. But here he was. Here they were,
and things were the same in many ways, but also very different. And Spike
felt the creature before him wasn't entirely Angel or Angelus. He was something
more primal than Angel usually allowed himself to become.
In any case, when Spike slicked his finger with saliva and pushed inside,
Angel bucked wildly against him and came hard and hot down Spike's throat.
His cry was uncharacteristically shrill and needy, and the car swerved
wildly again.
Spike finished himself off with a few quick strokes. When he was through,
he realized he'd forgotten to pull his pants down, and decided new clothes
were now an absolute necessity.
He kept his head down and licked at Angel, listened to him panting and
sighing, and Angel moved his hand back to Spike's curls as soon as he'd
gotten the van under control again.
Then there was a tiny voice, squeaking behind them, asking "Can we stop
and make my spaghetti now?"
Spike's head shot up, straight into the steering wheel, and Angel cursed
as the van wobbled uncertainly in response.
Christ, she was right fucking *there*, kneeling behind them, practically
between the seats. Watching them.
He managed to extricate himself, and wiped his face with the back of
his hand, hoping there weren't any embarrassing white globs anywhere on
him.
Angel reached down to tuck his dick away, and cleared his throat. "Uh,
yeah," he said. "Sure we can stop. Sure."
~~~~
Water did, it turned out, boil over an open flame. After about ten million
years.
Fortunately, they happened upon a camp site equipped with a small pit
barbeque made of brick, so that eased the process a bit. Unfortunately,
Spike had designated himself as cook, and that meant watching the glacial
progress of the water while Angel and Willow set up snuggly camp on the
ground across from him. They sat on one of the sleeping bags from the van,
leaning on each other and drinking the wine Spike had stolen, and he felt
a bubbling hatred for them both.
"Spike, you really don't have to do that," Willow told him, after endless
amounts of time had passed with nary a bubble forming in the pot. "I can
just eat peanut butter and jelly or something. Come have some wine."
"It's coming along," he said, and swished the water around with his
spoon. "You'll have spaghetti soon."
"Well, you might not have wine soon," Angel said, and laughed stupidly.
Spike stared crossly at the pot.
He knew why they were here. What was supposed to happen now. She wouldn't
have interrupted them otherwise. It wasn't spaghetti she was after.
Angel wanted it too, it seemed. There was no reason Spike shouldn't
be glad for it. No reason at all. And yet, he wasn't. It didn't feel right.
Not now. Not like this. Something was just off.
By the time the water started to boil, Willow was nestled between Angel's
legs, leaning back into his chest, and they were giggling, whispering to
each other.
"There it goes," he announced loudly, and dumped in the pasta.
"Very nice, William," Angel said. Spike considered dumping the steaming
contents of the pot into the wanker's lap. Instead, he stirred the noodles
to softness, drained the water and drizzled on the sauce, trying his best
to completely ignore the both of them.
"Tada," he said, and passed the final product over to Willow with a
smile.
"Oh, Spike, this is so great! Thank you."
She started eating happily, and he didn't hate her anymore. She asked
him to come over and try some, so he sat next to her on the sleeping bag
and took a few bites. He didn't really care for spaghetti at all, but he
supposed it was pretty decent.
Angel handed him a plastic cup filled with the remains of the wine.
He was wearing that dirty half-smirk Spike loathed and adored in equal
measure depending on the circumstance. Face of an angel indeed. Right now
he wasn't sure how it was making him feel. Nervous, mostly.
"This is nice," Willow said between bites. "Feels like a camping trip.
Sort of."
Yeah, one of those horrible camping trips where the campers get lost
in the woods and there's a disfigured man with hooks for hands on the loose
and hunting for human flesh. Spike thought better of saying that, but couldn't
quite muster another response.
Angel was right. It was definitely coming soon. Maybe even tonight.
And Willow seemed to be the only one spared from the PMS.
When she was through eating, she leaned back into Angel and he started
playing with her hair. Spike watched the dying embers of the fire until
he heard the unmistakable sounds of lips making contact. His cue to leave,
most definitely, but as he was readying himself he felt Willow's thin fingers
wrapping around his forearm.
"You don't have to go," she said, and squeezed lightly. He looked at
her round, welcoming face and for a moment he forgot why that wasn't so.
For a moment he let himself lose everything but her. Her friendship and
her power, hidden, watery depths and beauty and, above all, her kindness,
and he realized all at once, with a sickening thud, that he was falling
in love with her.
Oh, that just couldn't be good. How had he let it happen?
But then she was kissing him- sweet, gentle caresses with her mouth-
and he wondered how he'd lived so long without it. This was something different.
Something...almost innocent, and it was completely wrong and absolutely
right and he thought, I can do this. I can really do this.
He felt a hand in his hair, larger than Willow's, and he remembered
Angel. Angel was there, but that was all right. It was all right because
somehow, in spite of it all, he loved Angel too. That had never, in an
entire century, been a thought that occurred to him, but there it was.
He could've sat there for another century, sharing sugary kisses with
Willow, feeling Angel's suddenly comforting touch on his hair, neck, back,
down to his hand. His hand that was resting, harmless on his knee until
Angel took it in his own and guided it to softly cup Willow's breast.
And it was not all right. It was all wrong.
Images shot through him, like the contact was full of an awful magic
that made him see truth.
Buffy, riding him fiercely, pressing her small gold cross into his chest
so hard he wondered if the hole would burn straight through to his spine,
telling him he'd never be enough, never more than a cheap fuck on a dirty
floor. And him, begging for more, so grateful to have this much.
Angelus, holding the arms of a thirteen year old girl, pinning her to
the ground in a filthy Whitechapel cellar and telling William to take her,
have her, practice on her because he sure as hell wasn't satisfying anyone
else yet. And him, smiling, laughing because he was inside a woman and
finally it didn't matter if she wanted him or not.
Buffy on another floor. Cold tiles and fists and his knee and the scream
he still hears in his nightmares. No control. None at all.
He jerked his hand back as if her flesh were made of fire and broke
the kiss.
"Spike?" Concern in her voice, oh yes. She was worried about him. Too
stupid to understand she should've been worried about herself.
"I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm gonna...go."
"But-"
"It's okay, Willow. It's...I just need to go."
He couldn't look at Angel. Just couldn't.
He left them on the sleeping bag, heard them whispering after him and
hummed to himself so he wouldn't accidentally make out any of the words.
He could imagine it well enough on his own.
He climbed back into the van, taking care not to slam any doors. He
didn't want to create the impression of resentment or frustration, didn't
want to hold them back from doing what they wanted, doing what they could
to make it through this. He just wanted to quietly disappear.
All the anger was gone, he realized as he curled up on the mattress
and pulled the blanket over his face. He couldn't begrudge Angel any of
this, and he knew Willow only wanted what was best for all of them.
Spike was the broken one. And if they were going to spend the next three or four days out there having sex, he still wouldn't be angry because he loved them both. He loved them both, and they deserved what he could never have.