Heroes

Angel POV / Spike POV

"I'm not going Cordelia."

"That is so typical of you Angel. You are such a party pooper. This invitation is to Angel Investigations. All of us. Wes and I can't go alone. As much as I hate to admit it, you ARE Angel Investigations. Well, the Angel bit of it anyway. We're the investigations bit, we do all the research and the filing and the paying bills. So YES YOU ARE Mister. You are coming."

"I'm not going. I don't do parties very well, you know that."

Poor old Sire, he's not gonna win this argument. He will be going. Cheer leader'll see to that. She loves arriving at parties on his arm. Anyone can see that. Gives her that, `Ooooh, who is she, and how did she catch THAT man?', glowy feeling. So he will be going. Just as well he doesn't know about the rest of the invitation. See she hasn't told him about that yet. Nice touch. What a Bitch. Reminds me of me.

"They don't really want me there. I'm not a people person, I'll just make everyone feel uncomfortable."

"Angel, Mrs Westgate is throwing this party FOR US. You did grrrr on her demon remember? Remember Mrs Westgate? Big house. No, huge house, swimming pool and... I'm forgetting something... now, what is it? Oh yes! Mrs Westgate who is married to a Hollywood producer, and Mrs Westgate who is inviting her husband's friends to MEET US. SO YOU ARE GOING."

Told ya. He'll be going.

"Well, why doesn't HE have to go?"

"By HE I suppose you mean, Spike. I suppose you mean the Spike who called Mrs Westgate a `toffee-nosed English Bitch'. That Spike was not invited. Expressly."

Shame that.

"Well, I'm not staying long, and I don't want to be left alone while you go off making, `connections'."

What did I say? He'll go. Wait till she gets on to the rest of the invite though!

"Now, Angel, costumes, I think... "

"COSTUMES!"

Tee hee

"I am not going to a fancy-dress party. I DO NOT DO COSTUMES."

"Angel, you've been alive for over two hundred and fifty years, I'd have thought you'd have worn LOTS of costumes in that time."

"Err, they were called clothes then Pet."

"Shut up, Spike. You're not invited. Angel, it says come as `Your Hero'. You have to just decide on something and get it. I am not going with you unless you are properly dressed."

"But I didn't want to go in the first place..."

Time for Spikey to have some fun. "So, mate. Do ya wanna borrow me Duster? Only, it's me pride an' joy, so look after it."

"What are you talking about Spike?"

"For your hero look. Me!" Ow. Tosser. "Seriously though, mate, you're gonna have to decide on sometime, only got 3 days. Come on, you must have some heroes. Spill."

"Well, I admire Sartre immensely."

"Yeah, but I prefer the Pistols' `My Way'."

"Err, what?"

"Sinatra, `My Way' bit flat, you know. Pistols did it better."

"Bloody Hell Spike! Stop singing! And Sartre... Jean Paul - wrote Meaning and Nothingness?"

"Spike?"

"Spike?"

"Spike! Say something!"

"Can't Mate, I'm effectively silenced."

Best way to get my Sire's attention, concentration and best effort on a problem is timing. Pick yer moment.

"Spike! Fuck, oh yeah, just there. Keep sucking... "

"Batman."

"What! KEEP SUCKING!"

"Can't pet, I'm thinkin'. Thinking for YOU yer pillock, cus you won't think for yourself. Batman. Perfect."

"WHAT Spike! What are you talking about? I am in the middle of getting a blow job and you're thinking about Batman. Are you insane?"

"For your hero! You dosey git! Batman? Dark avenger? That's you. It's perfect."

I mean can you seriously see Angel dressed in underpants and a cape? But it's my job to make the old man's life hell, and I do need to practice.

Spike's backside is just so perfect. I pull his cheeks apart and push one slick finger into his tight entrance. The other hand is pushing him into the mattress and I hear him hiss in anticipation. So I put the tip of my cock against his hole and...

"Zorro!"

"What the fucking hell, Spike! I was just about to..."

"I know, that's what made me think of it. Zorro. Perfect. You could have a sword an' sorta swirl it around all night. And a cape of course, don't forget the cape again. Awwwfuckangelthatreallyhurtsletmeup."

He's the most infuriating, evil childe any Master vampire EVER had the misfortune to Sire. But lying here entangled in his cool body, my cheek lying against his soft, sweet-smelling hair, I think I could forgive him anything...

"The Lone Ranger! You could have a horse an' everything. Ouch, ow, stop it, you pillock. I want those. They're me pride an' joy!"

It's the best time of the day with Spike. Before he wakes up. I can lie here, quietly broo... thinking, wrapped in his arms. Before he wakes up. Before it all begins. The insults, the noise, the breaking of things, the whining. I turn to watch him when he is asleep. His beautiful face is totally relaxed...

"Rambo! First Blood, cus that's the bloody bollocks."

"Spike, shut up, shut up, shut up! I am not going as some awful super-hero in a cape..."

"Hey, watch it, pet! Sly NEVER wore a cape."

"I don't care. Hell, I don't even understand half of what you are talking about. I'll decide. I'll think of a costume. I do not need your help. I don't want your help. I WILL not have any more of your help. Got it?"

" `kay, mate. But the headband, you really should go with the headba... Angel... fuck. STOP IT!"

So, tosser's only got two days to think of something now and I've effectively managed to waste one whole night of brooding on it for him. Prom Queen's getting really angsty with him. But silently... like women do. I mean... poor Angel, has he got a clue?

"What's wrong, Cordy?"

"NOTHING."

"Oh. Good."

See? Now she didn't have any difficulty knowing what to come as. Think... Prom Queen. Think actressy thing. Whose she gonna come as? Yeah, bloody Elizabeth Taylor. Liz Taylor as fucking Cleopatra no less. And does she rock? You'd better believe it. Not that I'm gonna tell her. Got me reputation to think of.

"Spike!"

"Spike!"

"What? I'm busy here, luv. Go bother the poof or Wes."

"Spike. Ewww, you are painting your nails; I can't begin to tell you how disturbing that is. And... hey, mister! That's not being busy. So get your backside over here."

"NO! I am NOT GOING."

"You've been invited too, Spike, it was an oversight. Of course you have to come. Angel, tell him he has to... Angel! Stop laughing and tell Spike he... Angel! Stop it. Tell him.

If I could only stop laughing I could... "Sid Vicious."

"Fuck off, wanker!"

Tomorrow. This awful event is tomorrow. And I have absolutely no idea what to wear. Thanks to Spike, my mind is full of capes and masks and... oh how I HATE him. Still, he's still seething about the Sid Vicious jibe. And you can't really hate someone who has taken the opportunity of a commercial break to... ahhh. Oh, do that again, Spike, and again, and some more. His beautiful mouth is moving languidly up and down on my cock. I have my hands resting lightly on his hair, and I am running it through my fingers. He's swirling his tongue...

"James Bond." I do love the wanker really. And I can' t bear to see him suffer like this. I'd put him down if he wasn't dead already. So I offer him the perfect costume. Stupid fuck couldn't have thought of that one for himself?

"What! Who?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard of..."

"No, no, of course I have; I'm just thinking about it."

"Don't think, mate, your brain's in your dick and as I've just sucked the life outa it, I've got the brains now for the both of us. James Bond: tux; tall; dark; handsome? Remind you of someone? Shit, Angel, you don't even have to go in `costume' just put yer tux on. Ewww... stop kissin' me, yer bloody poof."

It's perfect. The perfect solution. I can go in costume, and not have to wear a costume. I love him. But why isn't he getting something to wear? The party's tomorrow and so far Spike has not left the apartment. I know he doesn't really want to go at all. But I kind of thought he might make an effort. For me. Guess he doesn't really care that much. Kind of puts a damper on the whole thing for me really.

Stupid pillock's been brooding all evening. He didn't even want to shag tonight. Had to be persuaded. Well, OK, turned over. But that's quite a lot of persuasion for Angel who's usually in me before I'm even horizontal! But I know why he's brooding. I know why he's upset. He's like a kid. What you see is what you get. He thinks I don't love him cus I'm not bothering about a brilliant costume for this soddin' party. Well I'm still pissed about that Sid comment.

This could have been fun really, getting ready for this party. Even I have to admit that. Cordy's been beside herself; this is so her. She looks incredible in the Cleopatra costume. Even Wes has got into the spirit of the night. Quite clever really. English, detective - he's going as Sherlock Holmes! He looks and sounds the part. So everyone's been making the effort. Everyone but Spike that is. He's just sat around all day complaining about having to go. I'm beginning to wonder if THIS isn't all too much for him. This trying to be human. Time was, our idea of a party was to invite lots of people... then eat them. Now he's expected to dress up and socialize. If I find it hard, what is he thinking? I just don't think he loves me enough to do this. This is just not what he wants anymore. I'm obviously not what he wants anymore.

Time to go and he's sprawled on the couch, wearing nothing but an old towel, watching reruns of the Simpsons. I'll never forgive him for this. Not for me of course. He clearly doesn't care about me anymore... doesn't want me. Worse even - I think he finds me boring. It's Cordy and Wes who are the most upset. They knew how much I was looking forward to Spike being at the party with me. He's ruined this for all of us, and I'll never forgive him.

"We're going Spike; the car's here."

"See ya."

"So you're not coming?"

"Not at this very moment, mate, but if you want to come over here and oblige!"

We are all subdued in the car. Even though Cordy and Wes have no idea what Spike really means to me. They have no idea that he is my life, my reason for existence, my future. But even if he stays around our relationship will never be the same again after this. How can you live with someone who finds you boring?

The party is incredible. When we arrive most of the guests are already assembled in the Westgate's huge, sunken living room. I think Cordy floated down the sweeping stairs that led from the hall. "Angel! SMILE... remember... clients, future clients, paychecks, happy me? Please at least look as if you were enjoying this." How she manages to hiss vitriol at me whilst retaining her incredibly expensive smile, is a mystery to me!

But I try. I do. I circulate. I talk. But it's all even more of an act than usual. My heart is just not in this. I drift imperceptibly to the shadows in the corner. The alcohol is flowing freely; I can see Wesley talking intently to a group of the Westgate's English friends. And then the music abruptly changes to something with a heavy, insistent beat. And it's loud. Incredibly loud. Ear-splittingly loud. And I'm sure I recognize it. The lights, which are dim, come on over the top of the stairs and, as one, the heads of the party guests turn to look at the figure standing there. And I don't know if it's the music, or the lights, or the freely-flowing alcohol, but I know I am the only person at this Hollywood party who does not think, just for a moment, that Billy Idol has walked into this room. Cus I know who the figure standing in the spotlight is. He's not even changed. Didn't really have to. Same Docs, same black jeans, same black T-shirt, same duster. But his usual slicked-back platinum hair is punked upright in spikes, he's got a black leather collar round his neck and, oh my God, he's got five studs clearly outlining the scar on his eyebrow. Oh yes, and the finishing touch? His beautiful blue eyes are darkly outlined in black khol.

He is the embodiment of punk.

When he is sure everyone is looking at him, he saunters slowly down the stairs to the sounds of White Wedding being played at full volume. The assembled guests start to cheer and clap at the performance, some still wondering if it's really the guy himself; some just appreciating the act. He is swept up on a sea of adulation, moving around the room feted by these rich and powerful people. And he's loving it. I can see it in his eyes, in his stance. He came, he saw, he conquered.

But he's ignoring me. He must have had this planned all along, and I doubted him. As usual. I never trust him. I never give him the benefit of any doubt. So effectively I've destroyed us tonight, not him.

Pillock. Did he really think I'd let him have all the glory in his, `I'm Bond: James Bond', fantasy? Had him going there for a minute though. OK, so I didn't exactly have to do a lot to look this good. But I did have to wear his nancy-boy hair gel! Git'll probably weigh the tube to check how much I used. But Oh! His face when I came down the stairs! Don't know what got him going the more, the neck collar or the face studs. But course, I didn't let him know I was watching him. He's gotta learn the hard way. Tough love. It'll be character building.

The party's almost over. I've kept to the shadows and corners of the room all night. Away from the light that is Spike. He's shone all evening and people have been drawn to him like moths to a candle. And it's true. You don't appreciate what you have until you lose it. Only now can I see what I've had since Spike came back into my life. Only now do I appreciate the unpredictability, the energy, the fun. Yes, even the insults, fights and tantrums. But most of all, of course, the love.

At last the DJ announces the last dance, the last song, and my attention is caught by what he is saying:

"We have a dedication folks, it's to Liam and it says, `this song's for you cus you're a …', oh dear, I don't think I can say that in public! Anyway, this is for Liam."

It must have been cold there in my shadow
To never have sun light on your face
You were content to let me shine
You always walked a step behind
So I was there with all the glory
While you were the one with all the pain
A beautiful face without a name
Did you ever know that you're my hero?
Everything I would like to be ...
I feel two slim, strong arms slip around me from behind, and Spike pulls me back against his chest and rests his cheek on my shoulder. And I am lost in the power of the love from his tight hold. He whispers in my ear,

"You are you know."

"I'm what?" I say with foreboding. "Your poof, your pillock, your git? What's the choice tonight, Spike?" God, don't let it be your ex.

"My hero. You're my hero."

He laughs lightly against my shoulder. "I'm drunk, but you are. Wanker."

In the privacy of the dark, I turn and embrace him. I take his face in my hands. Only Spike could achieve erotic punk. But he has. I move my lips down to that willing, welcoming mouth. I lick lightly along his lower lip and, staring deeply into his starkly outlined eyes, ask the age-old permission,

"Let me in, Spike."

And he does. His lips part allowing our tongues to meet and explore. I move my hands down under his duster to hold his behind and force him up against my incredibly hard cock. Our kisses become frenzied, his hands are in my hair, desperately trying to grind us even closer. And I am lost in the sensation of kissing this exotic creature. I push him backwards till he is against the wall, and bracing myself with one hand on his shoulder, I grab one of his thighs, lift his leg up around my waist and press the base of my hand against his straining cock. His low groan makes me frantic and I roughly flip him round and start grinding my engorged and painful erection against him. And I repeat my demand,

"Let me in, Spike."

There's no hesitation, he undoes his jeans and pushes them off his hips just enough for me to get the access I need. I put my fingers to his lips and he sucks them sensually, swirling his tongue around and around until they are wet and ready. I fall to my knees and push his legs as far apart as his half-mast jeans allow. The sight of his tight, puckered entrance almost makes me lose control and he seems to sense this,

"Don't waste time, Angel, now, pleaseeee!"

I need no further encouragement. Foregoing the preparation I had been planning, I stand up and release my cock, which is wet and weeping in my hand. With a low groan I thrust into him, hard. He arches back and gasps, and I wrap my arms around his chest.

"Hold yourself, Spike. Cum with me." And the dark we renew our bonds of trust and love. I don't last long, and with a violent rush I feel myself cuming, and I see Spike's cold, dead seed running down the wall. I collapse onto him and hear a low chuckle,

"What?"

"Nothin', mate, only I thought the party was come as yer hero, not in yer hero! And, err, I know this is Hollywood an' all, but init a bit public for shaggin'?"

He's right, but I don't care. I start to fall to my knees, I desperately want that cock in my mouth, but he stops me.

"Come on, pet, save it for later."

I start to protest, but he silences me with his mouth. He tastes of expensive alcohol. I move up to lick round his studded ear-lobes and smell deeply into his hair... hey!

"That's my $50 hair-gel!"

"Looks better on me. Anyway, mate, if you're good, I'll let you help me pull me studs out later on."

I swirl my tongue again over his earlobe. I run it lightly over his scarred eyebrow, lightly flicking the silver studs he's pushed in there.

"Can't be too hard to get out, Spike," I say with a puzzled expression.

"It's not those studs I'm talking `bout, mate."

The End