Paths

Chapter 1

Angel wasn’t watching Spike, but he was becoming increasingly irritated by what he was doing. He wasn’t going to let him see this, of course. He played with his fountain pen instead, capping and uncapping it, whilst the infuriating bleep, bleep continued. 

When the client arrived, Spike was supposed to stand in—silently—for Gunn. Angel wasn’t about to explain to anyone that his promised legal genius was taking a short holiday in hell. Spike, therefore, had to take his place—silently.

He’d arrived in good time, which had surprised and pleased Angel. He’d looked serious, intent on the task ahead. He’d sat down and opened his briefcase purposefully, and Angel had relaxed fractionally, sitting down at the head of the conference table to study the background briefs.  Then Spike had produced it: the bleep, bleep thing, which was now driving Angel insane.

Even though he wasn’t giving Spike the satisfaction of watching him, or of admitting to even noticing what he was doing, the small smirk that hovered around Spike’s lips as he played the Gameboy obsessed him.  He desperately wanted to wipe it off.  He knew exactly how he wanted to do that, too. He’d been good at that once. Once, Spike would not have smirked in his presence.  

Just at the very moment when he saw himself lunging across the table and inserting the Gameboy into the smirk, his buzzer sounded. He closed his eyes and spoke into the intercom. ‘Yes.’

‘Mr Ingram’s here, Boss.’

‘Okay. Send him in.’ Angel opened his eyes and tried to relax. Spike was still bleeping. Angel watched him incredulously, but at the very last moment, just as a man appeared in the doorway between the offices, Spike slipped the toy into his pocket and straightened with a serious, concerned look on his face.

Angel rose and held out his hand.  ‘I’m Angel.’

The man shook hands and took the chair opposite Spike.  ‘You come very highly recommended, Mr Angel.’

‘It’s just Angel.’

‘Of course. Angel.’  He looked expectantly at Spike, clearly waiting for an introduction. 

Angel smirked slightly and said, ‘So, Mr Ingram, how can we help you?’ As soon as he’d spoken, he regretted not introducing Spike. Now he’d given the bastard a status that introducing him wouldn’t have. ‘This is Spike.’ How hard would that have been? Now though, Spike sat there like some sort of covert operative. Although he was still not watching him at all, Angel could see that Spike was enjoying this, playing the part in his mind.  He missed the client’s next comment and had to say weakly, ‘Sorry?’ Spike didn’t smirk, but he did nod wisely, which had just about the same effect on Angel.

‘I said: I assume you’ve read my proposal?’

Angel hesitated. He’d meant to. He had it in front of him. He would have read it if a certain someone hadn’t distracted him so successfully.  ‘Perhaps you’d like to outline the salient points, Mr Ingram. I believe in making proposals in person.’ If you smirk, I swear I will leap this table and rip you another, somewhere less visible.  Spike didn’t move a muscle, and Angel tried to concentrate on the man’s words. 

He caught up about halfway through. ‘… and although they extended me every assistance, I felt it time to move on.  Wolfram and Hart is never one to entirely drop a client, so when I proposed relocating my business from New York to L.A., it was proposed that I negotiate similar… assistance… from yourself.’

‘Exactly what business are you in, Mr Ingram? Your brief wasn’t all that clear.’

‘I have many interests, Mr Angel—Angel.  I diversified some years ago: telecommunications, research….’

‘You’re a kiddie pornographer.’

Angel had to give Spike credit—for a first contribution to a meeting it was a good one.  He glared privately at him, then turned back to apologise to his client, but caught the tail end of a furious look just slouching off the man’s face.  Despite his expression, he said calmly enough, ‘As I said: many interests.’  He leant forward and regarded Spike carefully.  ‘We weren’t introduced.’

Spike—by now expertly twisting his pen through his fingers with great concentration—replied, ‘No, we weren’t.’

The man laughed—apparently genuinely amused. ‘Are you human?’

Spike pursed his lips. ‘Are you?’

‘Spike!’ Angel leant forward. ‘Could you please go and ask if Wesley would join us for a moment.’ He had no idea what he’d do when Wesley actually turned up, but anything to get rid of Spike for a while.

Spike lifted his head from his absorption in the spinning pen and gave him a look.  Angel flinched and said more softly, ‘I can handle this. I need for you to….’

‘Angel….’ It was so rare that Spike ever used his name like this—having that English thing about ever actually doing so—that Angel was momentarily distracted. It sounded odd. He was more used to the name Angelus easing over those lips.  He shook his head to stop Spike continuing.  ‘Please.’

Spike rose to his feet, shoving his chair back.  He left, giving a fairly good impression of flouncing. If he’d slammed a door, it would have entirely completed the image.  He stormed over to Angel’s desk and picked up the handset, turned to show it to Angel with a suitable expression and punched some numbers.

Angel sighed and turned back to his client to apologise, but the man seemed oblivious to the emotions that had flown silently between the vampires.  He was watching Spike, and for a moment, at Ingram’s expression, Angel’s mouth watered, a subliminal thought of blood creeping in.  ‘Mr Ingram. I do things differently here in the L.A. branch. I think you’ve been misinformed. I can’t help….’

‘Pity.’

Angel sat back, annoyed by the man’s contemptuous tone and continued fixation on Spike (who was now sitting in his chair and rummaging through his drawers.)

‘Pity for you….’

‘No, Angel, actually it’s a pity for you.  You see… I’ve heard that you have a little demon problem that I could have helped with… cured, so to speak.’

For one freaky moment, Angel thought that the man was offering him a cure for Spike.

He swallowed and said blankly, ‘Cure?’

‘Hmm. The ancient one—Illyria.  I was going to tell you how to send her back to where she came from—how to retrieve your colleague.’

Angel leant forward sharply. ‘Bullshit.  You come from the East Coast and suddenly know all….’

‘Did it not occur to anyone why Illyria chose Winifred Burkle?’

Angel wasn’t sure whether it was the man’s impressive knowledge of his affairs or his supercilious attitude that was most putting his back up.  He hedged his bets and said neutrally, ‘An acolyte chose Fred.’

‘Rubbish. Do you really think a creature of Illyria’s power would leave a decision of that magnitude to a minion? She picked Fred because she knew Fred was the only person who would have known how to destroy her. She had to destroy her first.’

‘Fred.  Fred would have known…?’

‘It’s all science in the end, Angel. You may call it magic, but that’s just science beyond our ken.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I don’t really give a shit whether you do or not. It’s immaterial now.’  He rose.

‘Wait.  Was it true—what Spike said?’

The man sat down again, stretching out his legs comfortably, as you might do under your own desk.  ‘Spike. I see why he’s called that now. It suits him.’

As if sensing his name being spoken, Spike looked up from whatever he was doing on Angel’s desk.  Angel didn’t acknowledge him, but continued to stare at the man.  

Ingram, however, was giving Spike a very long, frank appraisal. When he’d had his fill, he turned and said carefully, ‘It was true, but for the same level of protection as I enjoyed under your New York branch, I’m willing to allow that slice of my business to… slide.’

Angel felt an unaccustomed surge of hope wash through his body.  He tried to keep the eagerness off his face. ‘Then I think we can help each other.’

The man smiled. ‘I have some conditions of my own though.’

‘Conditions? I don’t do deals.’

‘If you want my information, Angel, you will.’

Angel picked up his pen and tapped it against his lips. ‘I’m listening.’

The man nodded and looked down. ‘I want Spike for a night.’

Angel frowned and repeated blankly. ‘You want Spike for a night.’

Ingram crossed his legs nonchalantly. ‘Yes—willing and able. I have personal reasons, too, why I left New York. It was getting too… small… for me. No… challenge… left.’

Angel’s mind was still a white sheet of nothingness.  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not following you. Spike isn’t actually a lawyer….’

The man laughed. ‘It’s not his legal briefs I’m planning to examine.’

The penny suddenly dropped, and so did Angel’s jaw. ‘OH!’

‘So—do we have a deal?’

‘Jesus! I don’t speak for Spike! Not in his…. No!’

‘I heard Spike was fond of Fred. Very fond. She was willing to sacrifice herself to bring him back—so I heard.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘I’m thirty-one and one of the richest men in America. Good intelligence on the enemy is the commodity I value the most—the commodity I’m willing to pay the most for.’

‘Am I your enemy?’

For one moment, a crack appeared in the man’s veneer of supreme confidence.  ‘No… that I would not like.  You would be a very unfortunate enemy to make.’

Angel hid his pleasure and nodded.

‘So, as I said: Spike must feel some obligation to Fred? Some debt?’

Angel ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Shit. You can’t seriously expect him to…. And why him?’

The man looked puzzled and jerked his head back. ‘Why him?’

Angel waved his hand dismissively at the figure now studying them intently from the outer office. ‘He’s a… moron.’

‘I’m not interested in his intellect.’

‘I didn’t mean that. Look….’ Angel felt a sense of supreme weariness creep over him. ‘I won’t ask this of him—I wouldn’t ask it of anyone.’

‘Because you fear he’ll say yes.’

‘What?’

‘You know he’ll say yes—that his love for Fred will make him agree to my terms.  That’s why you won’t ask him.’

‘Damn you….’ Angel stood up. ‘You’ll have your answer by six this evening.’

The man nodded, stood up, offered his hand, did not seem put out when it was not taken, and strode out of the office, giving Spike a small smile as he passed.

Angel had the distinctly upsetting thought that he’d been manoeuvred into something he didn’t want to do by being goaded with something he didn’t want to consider.

He strode out to his office. ‘Get out of my fucking chair. What have you stolen?’

Spike stood and stretched. ‘Nothing. Nothing worth nicking. So, have you dealt with the devil again?’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘I’ve got work to do, Spike.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘What?’

‘Why were you two talking about me?’

‘You flatter yourself.’

‘No… I never do that. I can read my name on someone’s lips though.’

Angel went to stand at the window, his arms folded across his chest.  ‘He says he knows how to bring Fred back.’

‘Huh? That dumb pillock?’

Angel turned. ‘Is that what you thought of him?’

Spike came closer. ‘Don’t tell me you believed him?’

‘I’m not sure. He seemed to know a lot about Illyria and Fred.’

‘Duh! He had five minutes in the lobby with the blond bimbo before she showed him in!’

‘No, it was more than that.’

‘Well, okay, if you think so. So? Where is she?’

‘He had… conditions.’

‘Oh, bollocks. Let me guess: access to the Powers; unlimited licence to do evil; virgin sacrifices allowed every second Tuesday in the….’

‘You.’

Spike didn’t move for a minute then he came up to Angel at the window. ‘I’d slice and dice him in a fucking nanosecond.  Why does he think he can take me?’

Angel licked his lips. ‘That’s not the kind of taking he had in mind.’

Spike tipped his head on one side and blinked. ‘He wanted to… I’m not getting you, Angel. What? He wanted to draw me… take my likeness…?’

‘He wants to fuck you, Spike. That kind of taking.’

Spike reminded Angel of one the gargoyles from his childhood: contorted face screaming outrage and denial in total silence.

He licked his lips again and frowned, concentrating on the view.

Spike nodded very slowly a few too many times. ‘Okay. And you said…? And the answer here, Angel, should be two words, one beginning with F and one with O.’

‘I said I’d tell you, and that’s what I’m doing.’

‘No! No! You should have said no!’

‘I did. He said you’d agree… that you loved Fred….’ He suddenly felt dirty and pursed his lips, studying his nails as if that’s where the dirt lay.

‘Oh.’  Spike turned away and went to the couch. He sat down heavily and sank his head into his hands. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What would you have said, Angel—indulge me, here; I’m curious—what would you have said if he’d wanted you?’

‘Huh?’  

‘You loved Fred, too—more than me. You’ve been grieving more than any of us—although being the closed-off bastard you are, I guess I’m the only one who’s noticed.  You loved her—what would you have said if he’d asked you to fuck him? And let me answer for you: you’d have said no. And not in words I’m thinking… I see a huge Angelus fist sinking….’

‘You’re babbling.’

Spike rose, strode over to Angel and punched him. ‘I’m fucking babbling?  Babbling?  Jesus, Angel! Why didn’t you…? Why couldn’t you…? Shit…!’ He turned away and leant on the desk.  ‘Why couldn’t you save her? Why does it have to be me? And why does it have to be like this?’

Angel came closer and stood over the tense figure.  ‘You’re going to do it?’

Spike refused to lift his head. ‘Give me an alternative.’

‘We forget that anyone called Ingram walked in here today and go back to rescuing Fred our own way.’

‘I.e., not rescuing her.’

‘You don’t know that….’

Spike suddenly reared up. He grabbed the telephone and waved it at Angel. ‘Yes!  I do!  Call Wesley, Angel! Ask him how far he’s got in saving Fred! A big fat nowhere, that’s where. What have I learnt in all my sparring with her? That she can kick my skinny ass from here to hell and back. What have you learnt? Nothing. Nothing!’

‘But this is….’

‘What? What is it? Is it worse than burning up? Worse than having my balls melt?’  He hesitated for a fraction of a second.  

Angel tried to hold it in but couldn’t.  He choked on a small chuckle and murmured, ‘Kinda unfortunate analogy, maybe…?’

Spike’s mouth dropped open in feigned outrage then he sagged and mock-punched Angel’s arm. ‘You sodding bastard.’  He turned and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Fucking hell.’

‘I said I’d let him know by six.’

‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want to torture me for a while? Cus you know me: never said no to some recreational…. No? Fuck.’

‘You’re really going to do it?’ There was something very interesting marking the carpet, and Angel studied it intently.

Spike lifted his head. ‘What?’

‘What, what? Nothing!’

‘Yes. I heard… something. What are you thinking? Is there some reason you don’t want me to do this thing?’

‘No! All right…. Only, you’re my… childe…?’

‘And?’

‘From the House of Aurelius…?’

‘And I repeat: and?’

‘We have a reputation…?’

‘Oh… oh… tell me you’re not actually saying that fucking some human for one night is going to ruin a reputation built up on the torture, rape and murder of thousands upon thousands of innocent people? Tell me you’re not saying that.’

‘I—. Wesley…!’ The relief in Angel’s voice was palpable, and he went toward the human. 

Spike suddenly laid a hand on his arm and said extremely softly, ‘Just between us, yeah?’ Angel looked down at the hand then up into the troubled blue eyes. He nodded.

‘So, Wes….’

‘You wanted me?’

‘Did I?’

Wesley glanced annoyed at Spike, and Angel said quickly, ‘I need for you to look into the operation in New York. See what you can find on a man called Ingram—one of their clients. His file’s on the table. I want to know everything there is to know about this man, especially any links to… science.’

‘Science? I’m not with you.’

‘He’s a business man, but I got the impression that he was very well informed on many other subjects. Where’s he getting his information? Who’s briefing him? Who does he have working for him?’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Look like?’

‘I saw someone talking to Hamilton.’

‘Fuck. I didn’t think of that.  He’s about five-eleven….’

‘Six-two.’

Angel turned to Spike. Spike shrugged. ‘You always think people are shorter than they are.’

Angel gave him a small look and turned back to Wesley. ‘He had dark hair, kinda plain….’

‘Angel! He was bloody gorgeous… and you get that I say that in a totally disinterested way….’

Angel twitched his neck and said precisely, ‘He was very good-looking, six-two and about a hundred and eighty pounds….’

‘Same man, I’d say.’

‘Damn!’  Angel began to pace. ‘Maybe it was all bullshit—his so-called information….’

Spike tried to pace with him but eventually gave in and grabbed his arm. ‘You mean I don’t have to…?’

‘Yeah… maybe….’

‘What information do you think it is that he has, Angel?’

Angel turned back to Wesley, rubbed his face wearily and sat heavily on the edge of his desk. ‘He claimed he knew how to bring Fred back, that…. Wes!’ He pried the man’s hand off his arm and said more gently, ‘Wes….’

‘He said that! He said that!’ 

‘Yes. He said Fred would have known how… and that he knew, too.’

‘The science connection!’

‘Exactly.’

‘My God. Illyria targeted Fred deliberately. Supersymmetry…!’

‘Super…?’

‘Angel! You went to her lecture!’

‘Oh, that super…. Anyway.’

Wesley suddenly looked business-like again, his whole body taking on the air of a man now in a war he could actually win.  ‘I’ll see what I can find—if there’s a link between this man and Fred, I’ll find it….’

‘You have until six.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s when I agree to his terms.’

‘Which are?’

Angel felt Spike move closer and pursed his lips. ‘Another member of the team makes a sacrifice. And I’m not willing for that to happen.’

Wesley nodded, turned purposefully and left.

Angel turned to Spike. ‘What are you going to do?’

Spike shrugged. ‘Wash my hair? Shave my legs?’

Angel rose and seized him by the lapels of his coat. ‘Don’t joke about this!’

Spike banged his hand away. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’

‘I’ll tell you…. Fuck.’ Angel strode over and flung himself onto the couch. ‘This is all bullshit. You can’t do this.’

Spike sat down next to him. ‘It’s really not that big a thing—when you think of some of the things we’ve done….’

Angel stared at his nails. ‘Things are different now.’

‘How so?’

‘You have a soul.’

‘I’m going to fuck someone, not indulge in pagan rites and blood sacrifice.’

Angel turned the full force of his gaze on Spike. ‘A man. You’re going to fuck a man, Spike. Don’t make light of this.’

Spike blinked. ‘I’m not.’

Angel’s gaze dropped. He found a piece of fluff on his pants that seemed to engross him. ‘Have you done it before? I mean….’

‘What do you think?’ Spike voice was genuinely curious.

Angel huffed ruefully. ‘Freaking hell! I feel like I did when Buffy asked me if her butt looked big in something.’

‘I would think the answer to both was pretty easy.’

‘No, Spike, I don’t think you have. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re getting into.’

Spike gave him a curious look. ‘That’s an odd thing to say.’

Angel pouted. ‘It’s wrong—for you to do something under coercion. And I believe that doing wrong can never be justified, however good the outcome seems to be.’

He leant back, and Spike mirrored him. ‘That’s bullshit. If you kill an evil man, that’s good.’

‘In the short-term, narrow view we have of things, maybe. But perhaps in the bigger….’

‘This isn’t the bigger anything though, is it? This is me doing something pretty unimportant to achieve something very, very important.  Despite what I said, Angel, I think you’d do it too… if he’d found your fat arse attractive….’

‘No. I wouldn’t.’

Spike stood up, furious. ‘You bastard! Are you saying that you’re better than…?’

‘No, Spike. I’m saying that I admire you. That you’re willing to do something to save Fred that I… couldn’t.  That I don’t have the guts to do….’

‘Oh.’ Spike sat down again, and they were silent for a few moments until Spike said nervously, ‘Do you think I’ll actually need to be brave then?’

Angel laughed ruefully. ‘From everything I’ve read, I’d say your twisted enjoyment of pain will come in kinda handy.’

Spike gave him a look and said with an amused smirk, ‘Everything you’ve… read?’

Angel waved his hand dismissively.  ‘The classics, of course….’

‘Oh, of course….’

‘So… you’re going to do it…?’

‘I’m going to do it.’

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Fuck, yeah….’

Angel got up and poured them both one, despite it still being only ten o’clock in the morning.  They downed them in one, and he topped them up. 

‘I guess if I get stonkingly drunk, I won’t even feel it or remember it.’

‘Good plan.’ He handed him another. ‘Ingram didn’t say anything about you being sober. Oh….’

‘What!’

Angel winced. ‘He said willing and… able.’

‘Able! Able!’ It appeared that the magnitude of what he was about to do hit Spike for the first time, and he sank back into the cushions with a deep swallow. ‘Oh, God. I can’t do this. I’ll never be able to get it up! I mean…. A bloke!’

Angel sat down again, acutely embarrassed by the turn of the conversation, but morbidly curious as well. ‘You won’t have to get it up…. I mean…. He’ll do it all…?’

Spike turned his head so slowly that Angel had time to replay the entire morning before their eyes met. He realised that Spike had misunderstood the man’s intention completely.  Spike blinked and repeated distinctly, ‘He’ll do it all.’

Angel tried to look annoyed. ‘That’s what I said.’

‘You said…. I thought you meant…. I’m not doing it.’

‘Spike!’

‘NO! No Spikes! I’m not doing it! I thought: sod it; stick it in! What does it matter with your eyes closed? I’ve stuck it in some right dogs in my time… and you get that I don’t mean canines…. But I’m not being fucked! Angel! What do you think I am?’

Angel knew he would torture himself for a very long time to come for what he was about to do, but betrayal was something he’d been willing to do before, and he would again. ‘I thought you were Fred’s friend.’

Spike didn’t say anything immediately, and that, more than any bitter retort he could have made, shrivelled Angel’s heart one tiny bit more. 

Then he nodded. ‘Okay. I know where I stand with you now. I’ll do this thing you so need for me to do, and then we’re through. Cus, you know what? Every fucking time I see you from now on, I’ll be hearing you say that to me.  Every fucking word you speak to me will be that betrayal just wrapped up in fancy shit.’  He stood.  ‘I’m going home to change. Maybe have a little snooze. Guess I’ll need to be all… perky… later.’

He went to the door then turned. ‘Oh, and, Angel? Just so you know, I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.’  He stomped out.

Angel looked up, puzzled.

Spike stomped back in. ‘I meant that I’ll be thinking of you in my place. I’d love to see you getting fucked.’  He stomped out.

Angel frowned, still puzzled. 

Spike appeared once more. ‘Okay, I’m not going to be thinking about you at all.’  He nodded as if satisfied at last and left.

Chapter 2

It was a long walk back to his apartment. He could have stolen a car and driven, but he wanted the walk. He wanted the sewers. He hadn’t felt like he belonged in them for a long time, but now he did.

He kicked trash as he strode along thinking about sacrifice and wondering how many more times he’d be asked to give up things he valued for someone else’s greater good. But that was his weakness: he identified too quickly with other people’s problems—Buffy’s and now Fred’s.

He couldn’t help the thought of Ingram coming into his mind. He had felt nothing from the man but antipathy and had the distinct impression that he was going to get screwed in more ways than one that night.

Could he really do this? Could he be willing and able for another man?

By the time he reached his apartment, he was feeling sick with apprehension.  He rounded the corner toward his door, and a shadow peeled off from the wall. He started, then said nastily, ‘Come to gloat some more?’

Angel pouted and held out a couple of bottles of JD. ‘Come to help you get… perky.’

Spike nodded ruefully. ‘In that case….’ He held open the door and jerked his head. ‘Come in.’

Angel crossed the threshold and looked around curiously as Spike took the bottles. ‘It’s okay.’

‘What did you think? That it would be a dive?’

‘I kinda pictured tombstones for some reason.’

‘You’re weird sometimes; did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘You did once or twice, I seem to remember.’

Spike smiled softly and handed him a drink. ‘Yeah, I guess I did.  Shit. Why do I feel like the condemned man having his last drink?’

‘It won’t be that bad—and I’m not making light of it; I’m not patronising you. Only… it isn’t…. Okay, this is what I thought coming over here in the car: some men do it for pleasure…. Some men crave it….’

Spike went up very close to him and poked him in the chest. ‘Some men like Country and Western music, Angel. The world is full of freaks.’

‘Tammy Wynette’s quite… look, we’re getting distracted here…. You’ll do this thing; it’ll be over with, and then we’ll have Fred back.’

‘You know life is never that simple. Hey…. Does this fucker know I’m dead?’

‘Huh?’

‘Does he know…?’

‘Jeez. I never thought to ask. I assumed…. I don’t know. Does it make a difference?’

Spike pursed his lips, thinking. ‘Maybe if he found out, he wouldn’t want to…. And why does he want to—with me, I mean? Did he…? What did he say about me?’

Angel opened his mouth to reply but frowned. ‘I don’t know. I asked him that, because, I mean, weird or what? But he didn’t really say….’

‘Weird. You think it’s weird that anyone would want me?’

‘No. I think it’s weird he would.’

‘And Buffy.’

‘Huh?’

‘Buffy. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Sodding hell! This somehow sullies your precious memories of Buffy!’

‘What! Don’t be…. What did she see in you? I don’t get it! Me… then you!’

Spike came up close and said snidely, ‘Perhaps she smelt you on me….’

Angel’s mouth opened slightly in confusion. ‘Huh?’

‘I mean…. What did I mean?’ He topped up their drinks, examined the empty bottle, turned around as if looking for the person who’d drunk it all, then opened the other one.  He sank onto the couch. ‘I think he’s a bit….’ He twisted a finger against his temple.

‘Because he wants you?’

Spike shrugged. ‘Two minutes and he’s falling under my irresistible spell? I don’t think so.’

Angel took a long drink. ‘So, what are you going to wear?’

Spike spat out some of his drink. ‘And I’m the one who’s gonna get fucked up the arse!! Angel! Have you never listened to yourself? Men don’t talk about what they’re going to wear!’

Angel looked aggrieved. ‘They do. If they’re confident in their masculinity….’

Spike laughed openly and poked him. ‘Now I know what you do at night, in that huge fucking bed of yours all alone: you read GQ!’

Angel got up and went to Spike’s bedroom.  ‘Where’s the…? Where’s the closet, Spike?’

‘Why, cus you want to come out of it?’

Angel slapped at him and marched to a cardboard box in the corner, peering in. ‘Tell me this isn’t your….’

Spike topped up his drink and peered, too. ‘’S okay. Does the job.’

‘Sheesh. I’ll buy you a closet.’

‘Maybe I won’t need one after this….’

‘Don’t.’  Spike turned at the sudden softening of Angel’s tone.  Angel downed his drink in one and added, ‘You survived me; you’ll survive this.’

‘You think this will be like… dying?’

‘Being changed….’

Spike sank onto the edge of the bed.  Angel hesitated then sat down as well. ‘This is small.’

‘I hope he doesn’t say that tonight.’

Angel laughed and banged Spike’s thigh. 

Spike hit him back.

Angel hit harder.

Spike drained his drink and then pushed Angel off the end of the bed, falling on top of him.

They stared at each other for a moment.  ‘This.  It’ll be like this, Angel.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Why not? You can let me do it, but you don’t want to think about it? Maybe he’ll lie on me like this…. Grinding….’

‘Stop it.’

‘Why? Maybe I want to practice….’

‘Maybe I don’t.’

‘Why, cus this feels so bad?’ He rubbed slowly up, then down, and then circled hard over Angel’s groin.

‘Stop it.’

‘Make me….’

‘I—. I’m drunk.’

‘I know. I sure as hell am.’ He stabbed his hand between them and pulled at Angel’s waistband. Angel’s hand snaked to stop him, but it didn’t actually do anything other than cling pathetically to the strong wrist.   Spike grinned. ‘Maybe I could get to enjoy this….’

He glanced up into Angel’s face and then he looked sharply away and sat up.  Very slowly, he levered off Angel and lay on his back next to him, staring up at the same spot on the ceiling.

‘What?’

‘I saw his face, not yours.’

‘Oh.’  Angel was silent for a moment then murmured, ‘I have no idea how to respond to that.’

‘Don’t then.’

‘So… my face makes it… easier?’

‘Jesus, Angel. You’re so… familiar. Is there anything we’ve not done together? Remember how we used to take a woman between us: me in the front, you in the….’

‘Stop it! I can’t afford to remember those days.’

‘You should.’

Angel turned his head, and Spike added, ‘How can you see how far you’ve come if you don’t keep your eye on the starting line?’

Angel swallowed. ‘When did you stop being an idiot?’

Spike grinned. ‘Another drink?’

‘Hell, yes.’  They clambered to their feet, discretely readjusting clothing until Angel said brightly, ‘So, what are you going to wear?’

Spike groaned. ‘Christ. Something—oh, I don’t know—black?’  He suddenly swore and held up the empty second bottle. He hesitated then said, ‘Bar?’

It was set in straight lines, had mock sawdust on the floor and Country and Western music turned up loud.  Spike refused to enter until Angel said softly, ‘You said you needed to get used to it… that you might like it….’

‘I was talking about cock up my arse, not….’ He trailed off as a couple leaving the bar shot him a startled look.

He groaned and followed Angel in. ‘You’re buying.’

‘Aren’t I always?’

Suitably armed, they found a secluded corner and slid into a booth.  Angel pulled out his cell phone.  ‘I need to see how Wes is getting on.’ He punched in a number, hesitated for a moment, then held it so close to Spike that the back of his hand brushed the blond hair.

‘Wes?’

‘Angel. Ingram studied with Fred—for a semester. Then he dropped out. Some disagreement about the subject of his research topic.’

‘Fuck. He wasn’t lying then. I mean… good… he wasn’t lying then….’ Angel turned to see Spike’s reaction. They were so close their noses almost touched.  

Wesley’s disembodied voice was very precise. ‘The best liars sail very close to the truth, Angel. He must have known we’d check him out.’

‘I guess.’

‘I’ll keep on it. Where are you?’

‘I’m… with Spike.’

‘Oh. Why?’

Angel almost replied, ‘Do I need a reason?’ but then remembered that for the last hundred years he had.

‘We’re going over options.’

‘All right. Good.  We’ve six hours, Angel. I can find out a lot in six hours.’

Angel snapped off the phone and, after a moment, straightened. He saw Spike’s expression. ‘Six hours is a hell of a long time.’

‘I wish it was over! It’s the anticipation that’ll kill me!’

Angel poured him a drink. ‘Don’t think about it any more. Think about something else.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Tell me… what do you think about Gunn?’

‘Huh! Jesus Christ! Have I suddenly become the gay pride advice line here! I don’t think anything about….’

‘About being left… about me leaving him in hell… moron.’ The last was said so affectionately that Spike’s fury evaporated.  

He nodded. ‘Okay. I think… I think he’s kinda lucky—he gets to really repent. He gets the tangible evidence of his contrition.’

Angel played with his glass, seemingly deep in thought. Then he nodded and murmured, ‘That’s what I think, too.’

Spike frowned and felt tempted to put his hand on Angel’s arm. ‘Don’t you suffer enough? Sheesh, Angel, lighten up on yourself maybe?’

‘What’s your secret, Spike?’

‘Well, it’s bleach, but then I tint the….’

‘Your soul! How do you survive your soul so easily?’

Spike took a long drink, regarding Angel’s lowered profile. ‘Who says I do? Maybe I’m just a better actor than you.’

Angel leant back, studying him.  ‘No. I think it’s because you suffered even before you were souled.’

Spike narrowed his eyes. ‘I was exceptionally evil. Passing acquaintance with someone called the Big Bad mean anything to you, Mate?’

Angel smiled. ‘In another lifetime. Maybe’

Spike grinned. ‘Angelus and William the Bloody. We sound like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.’

‘With this music, I feel like it, too.’

‘Wanna move somewhere else?’

Angel’s only response was to grab the unused bottles and stand.

Spike stopped in the shade on the sidewalk and said with a small smirk, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Angel groaned. ‘I’ve had a hundred years to learn to fear those words.’

Angel let Spike drive because he couldn’t coordinate to get the key in the lock.  He pushed his long legs out and tipped his head back, taking an occasional swig from the open bottle and passing it to Spike.

After half an hour, he took a longer swallow and peered idly out of the window. ‘Where are we?’

Spike said cheerfully, ‘So… Gunn…. Bummer, hey?’

‘Spike… where are we?  I don’t….’

Spike swung the car over, dashed out into the shade, and then wandered toward a burly man standing in front of a garish doorway.

The man looked them both up and down and then leered. ‘Wet dick contest today….’

Angel frowned. ‘Who’s Dick?’

Spike grabbed his arm and dragged him inside. The smell of the place should have given it away, but it took a few moments more before Angel reeled and tried to leave. ‘No way!’

Spike pouted. ‘Angel… I wanna… see….’

Angel closed his eyes and seemed to be praying for divine guidance. Then he opened them and nodded toward the bar. They threaded their way though the dancers, and Angel said deceptively casually, ‘If you ever tell anyone I went to a gay dance club with you, I’ll….’

‘Don’t forget entered the wet willy contest….’

Angel put his head down into his hands, waiting for his drink. ‘You don’t seriously think they’re really wet… or even really… come to that. Jesus, look at those two men…. Don’t look! Be cool!’

‘I wanna see…. Oh, my God. They’re….’

‘Another drink?’

‘Oh, yeah!’

Angel bought two large whiskies, and Spike said cunningly, ‘I’m thinking we could get something stronger in here.’

‘Oh, and you’ve had such a good relationship with drugs.’

‘Hell, I won’t even see that cock coming at me….’

‘With your luck, you’ll see three.’

Suddenly a figure materialised in front of them, hands on hips. ‘Hi. You have to settle a bet for my friend—that’s Troy over there, by the way—and me. See, we both think you’re a couple, only Troy says you’re, like, sooo long-term… maybe a month? But I say you met tonight! I can always sense when the love is just….’ He gave a small theatrical wiggle, as if a real fairy about to bestow magic. ‘Beginning…. So, which is it?’

Like a zipper under too much pressure, Spike and Angel parted with an audible hiss.

Angel growled as well. ‘We’re just friends….’

Spike turned to him. ‘In your dreams. You forget: I don’t like you!’

Angel grimaced. ‘That’s because I’m the only one who sees you for the total fuck-up you really are!’

The exotic man nodded. ‘Troy wins. Long-term lovers.’  He flounced off and gave Troy the thumbs down.

Spike began to laugh. ‘Either that’s a let them die or he’s telling Troy he’s crashed and burnt.’

Angel paled. ‘Drink?’

They leant on the bar, watching the dancers, until Spike murmured, ‘I’m going to do it here.’

Angel turned his head. ‘Dance?’

Spike pursed his lips. ‘No. Get fucked.’

‘Spike!’

‘Angel! I don’t want it to be him—Ingram—for my first time! I wanna know what I’m doing… I really want to know what he’s doing!  So, I’m gonna pick a guy and… do it.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Give me one reason why not?’

As Angel could hardly say because I don’t want you to, he said nothing.

Spike nodded as if hearing Angel’s capitulation to his better logic and began to scan the floor.  ‘That one—in the blue… the one who’s just stripped his shirt off.’

‘No way!’

‘Huh?’

Angel buried himself in his drink for a moment then said neutrally, ‘He’s too….’ He contorted his face slightly. ‘Young.’

‘Young. You mean pretty.’

‘He’s not what you’re looking for at all. Okay, over there, leaning on the wall. He’s better.’

Spike narrowed his eyes at Angel but turned to look. He scoffed. ‘He’s not leaning; he’s passing out! He’s ancient! Forty at least! And look at that belly!’

‘Spike! Are you really so shallow? He looks… nice….’

‘And nice is a useful attribute for this endeavour, is it?’

‘Well….’

‘Fuck off and let me decide. Damn, blue-shirt’s gone. Okay. Hold this.’ Spike shed his coat and thrust it at Angel.  With a last glance, which Angel could not interpret at all, he disappeared into the garishly lit throng.

He had no idea how to actually go about it, but he had the vague idea that if he pretended they were all girls (up to the point where it became obvious that one of them… wasn’t…), he’d be okay.  He lurked by the stairs and reckoned, given previous experience with the fairer sex, that it would take about an hour.  He’d just decided on an expression—somewhere between sexy and bored—when he felt a hand on his arm.  

‘Hi.’

He turned and thought girl.  ‘Hi.’

‘You waiting for someone?’

Spike grinned; this was easy. ‘You.’

The man flicked up his eyebrows and nodded toward the rear exit.  

Spike trailed after him, thinking about nothing except a nervous laugh and someone who’d believed in him when no one else would; someone who’d cried with him when hell had frightened him; and someone who’d died because he wasn’t strong enough to save her. She needed his strength now.

It was cooler outside, and it felt good on Spike’s sweaty skin.  

The alley was in total shade, and dark after the bright lights inside. It was filled with soft grunting, low groaning and moans that could have been pain or pleasure. 

The man pushed him, back to the wall and leant in close.  Spike twisted his head to one side. ‘I’m not kissing you.’

The man straightened then roughly turned him face to the wall. ‘Cool. You don’t wanna get acquainted first? That’s fine by me.’

Hands slipped around his waist and found the top button of his jeans. He watched fingers undressing him, button by button.  When the jeans were loose enough, the man yanked them over his hips. ‘Oh, yeah, commando. And fuck, what an arse. Want me to ram my cock up that pretty arse?’

‘No, but I’m gonna let you anyway.’

‘Huh?’

‘Just do it, yeah?’

‘Put this on me….’

Spike closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, do it yourself. I just want this over.’

‘Look, man, if you don’t want to….’

‘I do. Just… stop talking, okay?’

The man seized Spike’s cheeks and pulled them apart roughly.  He pressed him to the wall, and Spike spread his arms, rubbing his face on the brickwork to give him something else to think about.

Suddenly, there was a grunt, a soft cry, and the presence behind him became considerably bigger and considerably more familiar.  He tried to turn, incandescent with rage, but Angel only pressed him harder to the wall.  With an angry, hissed sound, he yanked Spike’s pants back up.

‘Fuck off! I was so close!  Angel! Fuck off and….’ Teeth sank deep into his neck.  He screamed—a choked sound of shock and fury—and arched his neck.  Angel thrust in harder—with his hips as well.  Spike was ground into the wall, his angular body feeling every brick, his prick scraped against the rough cotton of his jeans.

Angel held the thin waist and took him, his fangs small, vicious substitutes for the larger penetration he had been denied.

Spike passed the barrier of pain and shock, and then melted to the familiarity of this exchange.  

Suddenly though, he felt an unfamiliar shudder.  It shot through Angel’s body, and the hands on his waist gripped painfully.  

Angel withdrew his mouth and sank slowly back to the wall.  Spike took a moment to recover then turned his head.   

‘What is wrong with you? I’m trying to do something good here. I don’t understand why you’re doing this….’

He caught a particularly loud grunt of satisfaction from further down the alley and gave a small choked sob, stumbling away.  When he reached the entrance to a basement, he turned and said distinctly, ‘Just leave me alone. This time tomorrow we’ll have Fred back.’ He wrenched open the door and disappeared inside.

It was only as he levered open a cover to the sewers that he remembered Angel still had his coat.

It was only as he dropped down into the darkness that he remembered how tightly Angel had clutched the coat to the front of his pants.

Angel stood for a few minutes more, surrounded by the sound of other people’s pleasure. He still held Spike’s coat protectively to his front. As his teeth had broken through the surface of Spike’s smooth skin, as a powerful arc of blood had hit his throat, he’d released a heavy load of sperm into his pants. It had been more like an explosion than an orgasm, and he was still shaking.  He had not had an orgasm like that since he’d been souled: every one since muted somehow by the guilt of that enslavement. Yet here, biting into Spike’s neck, grinding into his backside—which, momentarily as he’d exited the club, had been spread and ready to accept the anonymous man’s prick—his orgasm had been all encompassing.  

He’d hit the man too hard. He wasn’t dead, but he’d be unconscious for some time to come, his pretty face spoilt for a few weeks after that.  Slumped, he looked stoned, and Angel figured that explained the total lack of interest from the other occupants of the alley.

He dug into his damp pants and retrieved his cell phone.  As he walked to the edge of the shady confines of the alley, he called for his car.  It was two o’clock—four hours left to try and find another way.  

It took him half an hour to get back and another fifteen minutes to shower and change: time ticking away like an out-of-control heart. Yet another quarter of an hour was wasted as he made his way down to see Wesley, accosted by employees, needy and demanding—or so they seemed to Angel. The ticking in his head became distracting—a frantic countdown to something he could not rationalise, only felt: that he did not want Spike to do this thing.

Wesley was in his office, surrounded by books, but he was studying the screen of his computer intently. 

‘Anything?’

Wesley jumped slightly and looked up, pinching the bridge of his nose.  ‘He’s a rather extraordinary man.’

‘Is he telling the truth?’

‘I can’t say definitely one way or the other. All I can say is that if anyone could possibly know how to do this thing, he could.’

‘Damn.’

‘Damn? I’d say… good… no?’

Angel sank heavily into the couch and put his head in his hands. Wesley sat down beside him.  ‘This is something to do with Spike, isn’t it?’

Angel looked up, but he didn’t reply.

‘Something he doesn’t want me to know. Something you promised you wouldn’t tell me. You might have to tell me, Angel, if I’m going to help you. Spike’s life is threatened by this man Ingram, isn’t it?  That was his deal: Spike for Fred.’

‘Yes. In a way.’

Wesley’s eyebrow rose and he stared thoughtfully at the back of his monitor.  ‘Oh. I see.’

Angel looked sceptical at this quickness, so Wesley admitted, ‘He never made any attempt to hide his lifestyle—his business interests, yes, but not his personal ones.  I think I can guess what the deal is.’

‘I can’t let him do it. I have….’ Angel consulted his watch and grimaced. ‘Two hours forty five minutes.’

Wesley rose and turned to Angel, angry. ‘I really don’t understand you. We have a chance to get Fred back for this very, very minor concession….’

‘Minor concession!’ Angel rose, too, and began to pace. ‘I don’t think….’

‘No! You think too damn much! That’s your trouble. You think too much, and it’s always about Spike!’

‘Spike is a member of the team, no more, no less. I’m doing no more for him than I would any one of….’

‘You sacrificed Fred; you left Gunn in hell, and yet you’re concerned about Spike rolling around in some rich, handsome man’s bed and probably—knowing Spike—enjoying himself thoroughly.  Oh!’ He came closer and tried to read Angel’s expression more, but Angel turned away from him.  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re not afraid for him. You’re afraid he’s actually going to enjoy it! Angel, are you jealous?’

Angel pushed him against the desk, and the computer wobbled slightly at the impact.  Wesley didn’t seem to notice—the impact or the large hands on his shirt, forcing him further and further back. ‘You don’t want Spike hovering around anyone but you.  You’re afraid of losing him.’

Angel’s voice was icy. ‘And how ironic, Wesley, that here you are again: contributing to my loss.’

Wesley said softly, ‘I’m sorry…? I’m not with you.’

Angel released him and straightened. ‘I sometimes wonder if you are.’

Wesley came and stood close. ‘Whatever you mean by that… I’ve always been there for you, Angel—always. I’m sorry if you feel that isn’t the case.’

Angel turned. ‘No. I’m sorry, Wes. I didn’t give you the chance to repent. I stole that from you. We’ll do this thing, and we’ll get Fred back—Spike will get Fred back and….’

At the change in his tone, Wesley turned to the door, following Angel’s gaze.  Illyria stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘You plot to destroy me.’

Angel stepped around Wesley and folded his arms, too. ‘Is that possible?’

‘I strode the earth before mountains formed, before rivers chose their course. And you—puny half-breed who should be fodder for the creatures I feed on—you think to destroy me?’

‘Yeah. I do. I think about it a lot.’  

She tipped her head to one side, a gesture that in anyone else—someone in particular—Angel would have found endearing. In Illyria, it was intimidating, but he stood his ground. ‘You think you have found some secret that threatens me.’

‘If we’ve found it, then I guess it’s not a secret anymore.’  He felt Wesley’s hand on his arm but could not decide whether it was a gesture of solidarity or restraint.

Illyria appeared to take it as the former, for she turned angrily and left.

‘Don’t provoke her, Angel. She’s not… tame.’

‘She was worried.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘She knows there is something.’

‘Then I’m suddenly afraid for Ingram—for Spike. If there is a secret, if he spills it whilst he’s enjoying the sealing of his bargain….’

‘Shit.’

‘Spike….’

‘If Ingram tells him, he’ll be in danger.’

‘Angel! That’s not what I meant! We can’t afford to lose the knowledge if anything happens to them. We have to send Spike in wired.’

‘Fuck you, Wesley! I’m not going to ask him to….’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you ask him anything. We put a device somewhere….’ Wesley trailed off at the look that flitted over Angel’s face. ‘You’ve thought of somewhere… you have something of his….’

Angel pouted. ‘His coat.’

‘Perfect. I’ll get it down to the lab….’

‘I’m not….’ 

‘Whatever Ingram says to him, we’ll have on tape.’

As Angel didn’t say, “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wesley didn’t hear it.  Already heading purposefully toward the door, he, therefore, also didn’t see the anguished expression that accompanied this non-spoken thought.

Angel watched him leave, unable to articulate the thought that he had an ulterior motive for not wanting to hear Spike’s liaison with the human, but even more unable to articulate the thought that he had an ulterior motive for wanting to hear it, too.

Spike lay on his bed, his arms folded behind his head, thinking.

He felt naked without his coat, but that seemed… appropriate. Angel had walked away with far more than that tonight, and a vague feeling of vulnerability now hung over Spike. 

He put a hand to the wound in his neck. It was still fresh. It would stay that way for a while longer: vampire flesh recognising the bite of a sire, refusing to heal, revelling in the marking. It made him hot to remember it: the sinking of the teeth through his skin; the way Angel had leant against him, grinding them together as he’d gnawed.  Most of all though, he remembered Angel’s orgasm—not that he’d understood it as that at the time, then only feeling a shudder and hearing a subliminal groan of need.

Now, though, it was vivid in his mind, every twitch of muscle explained.  Angel had surged with release at the taste of his blood, quivered with pleasure at the feel of his body.

It made him so angry he could feel a knot of tension in his belly. Quite why it made him angry, he wasn’t so sure. He thought it might be that he’d lain on Angel and practically begged him to be his first—so he didn’t have to stand against a wall and be taken by a stranger—and Angel had refused.  Possibly it was this. It could equally well be that even though Angel didn’t want him, he didn’t seem to want anyone else to have him: Buffy… Harmony… the anonymous fuck with the sore head. It left him in limbo, worse than when he had first arrived in L.A. At least then he’d been incorporeal for real, instead of this bloody half-life where he was physically real, but emotionally insubstantial, hanging forever like some sodding wisp of smoke around Angel’s more solid presence.

In some ways, he was actually looking forward to the evening. It sickened him to know this about himself, but it was like planning to deface an altar: a cry into the face of the eternal that fucked you up all the time.  He only wished Angel could watch. He’d get a real kick out of thinking of Angel, impotent and trapped in his own denial, watching him share his body with a stranger.  

Lying there thinking, therefore, Spike’s mind twisted and turned on the things he’d lost that day. His ability to deny that he wanted Angel was probably the most significant, although he spared a thought for his coat, which he wanted back just as much. The coat was retrievable. The other? Spike doubted that even the vast power of Wolfram and Hart could reinforce denial that significant.

Chapter 3

Distressed by his easy surrender of Spike’s coat to Wesley, Angel went slowly back up to his apartment, guilt making his steps heavy. He felt guilty about Fred—about not wanting Spike to do this to save her.  He felt guilty about Spike—thinking of the huge betrayal Wesley was engineering below. He was guilty for his treatment of Wesley, who had no memory of his own betrayals. Mixed in with his guilt about Wesley was a large slice of confusion over the man’s reaction to the deal: minor concession.  

Once again, Angel felt out of time—a relic from another age where these things were very different.  That casual acceptance of the thing Spike was to do separated him from Wesley. They may look the same age, seem outwardly similar men, but they weren’t.  

Angel lay down on the bed and closed his eyes to the unwelcome memories his reverie had sparked.

His father’s shoulders had been bony and hard to sit on, but he’d been boosted up to get a better view of what he had been told was a sodomite dying, this new word puzzling him.

They had gagged the man, and some of the women watching alongside them had cackled that this was so he could not scream out his filthy perversions.  His father had refused to explain the word perversion, so to six year old Liam, it became versions, and he wondered for many weeks—still traumatised by what he had seen—what version of all this the man would have cried out, if he could.

He had not been able to see what was being done, except that the men holding the man down had been pouring something from a pot kettle like the one his mother used to boil rags. When he had asked, his father had told him they were filling him up where he liked it, and a woman had laughed.

The smell of burning flesh had reached him even though they stood thirty feet from the platform.  After a while, he had closed his eyes and put his face into his father’s hair. He had no understanding of what was happening, except they had held the man up, and he was naked, and the shy boy in him had felt sad for this friendless man.
 
Where he was not red with blood, he was black, the colour of whatever it was they had poured into him. The gag was still clean though, and this memory had terrified Liam for many weeks, the fear that they had poured something into the man’s ears making his ache in sympathy.  

With his face pressed into his father’s protection, he heard a woman whisper, ‘They never found the other one.’

His father had replied, ‘They say he would not give up the name, despite….’

Liam had opened his eyes and watched the woman: her furtive glances toward the naked man on the stage, her blushes, which seemed even to Liam, young as he was, more excitement than shame. When she glanced around the crowd, he did too, wondering what she was looking for.  ‘They say he’ll come to watch—that he won’t be parted, even in death.’

His father had shaken his head. ‘How could you watch this if you had been…?’

Liam had continued to study the crowd though, looking around for the other one—the other sodomite. Perhaps if he could see one not bleeding and dying he might understand what it meant.

There were fewer men than women watching.  The old ones he discounted. This was a man they couldn’t find: he was handsome and daring and possibly had a black horse.  

There were none like that.  

He might have missed him altogether, except at that moment, in reaction to whatever was happening on the stage, the crowd let up a collective cry of satisfaction—except one man. This man closed his eyes and covered his face with one hand.

Liam turned to look at the stage, curious to see what the man could not bear to see.  One of the captors was holding something up to the crowd. It appeared to be a sausage, and Liam had turned back to see why this distressed the man, but he was gone.

The women next to them had remarked then that they would bury the man without his cock, so, she claimed, he could not practice sodomy again, even in hell.

Angel shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He still remembered the icy flood of comprehension that had washed through him at the woman’s coarse words, still remembered how he’d jerked his face back to the stage, how he’d seen things—some of them—for what they were.

He still had a vivid recollection of his vomit spraying out over his father, into the greying hair, splattering the women standing next to them.  He remembered the consternation, the anger, the shouting. What he could not remember, for the child he had been had not thought to look, was where the man was—the one who had been dismembered in public, his penis held up like a trophy to a God who reviled his definition of love.  That, he could not remember, for as a child, he had been lost to a haze of vomit and crying and snot that had overtaken him until he had been carried home to his mother’s care.

So, Angel wasn’t quite as ready to accept this thing that Wesley seemed to find so trivial. He wasn’t ready for Spike to become a sodomite, and he wasn’t ready to be in the crowd again, watching Spike being sent agonisingly to hell for something their world had deemed worthy only of that fate.

He heard the elevator and had a moment of pure elation that it was Spike come to say he’d changed his mind. 

It was Wesley. He came in, the coat draped over his arm and a small silver device in his hand, the size of a cell phone.

Angel swung his legs off the bed and nodded to the living room. He took the coat and inspected it.  ‘Where is it?’

‘A button.’

Angel looked at them but could see no difference between them.

‘Put it over there.’ Wesley nodded at a table in the far corner of the room.  

Angel walked it over, and Wesley flicked a switch in the device.  Angel pouted. ‘What now…?’ His voice came out loudly from the device in Wesley’s hand.

‘It’s got two gigs of memory. More than enough.’

Angel nodded as if he understood this.  ‘Turn it….’ He stopped. He didn’t want anything he had to say about any of this recorded for posterity.

When he saw it was off, Angel came over, holding out his hand. ‘Show me.’

‘I’ll work it, Angel. There’s no need….’

‘No. I’m the only one who’ll be listening.’

‘No! I want to hear about Fred!’

‘You will—but just that.’

Wesley held his gaze a little too long and a little too knowingly. Angel looked away.

‘Why don’t you let me do this for you, Angel? I can’t imagine what it would be like, listening to….’

Angel gave a bitter smile. ‘Don’t worry, if it gets too much for me, I’ll close my eyes and put a hand over my face.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing.  Show me how it works.’

Wesley nodded reluctantly. ‘Switch up—it’s on. Down—off. When it’s on, you press here to record. The red light in the display shows you it’s recording. To download, you dock it….’

‘You what it?’

‘Dock? USB…. Okay, that bit I will do. You tell me where the part I want is… see the time read-out here, on the display.’

‘How do you wind it back to the beginning?’

It was Wesley’s turn to look mystified. ‘Wind it back?’

‘If I want to listen….’

‘It’s digital, Angel.’

‘Oh. So… it doesn’t have a beginning?’

‘Uh huh. You put a time code in here. Right… put zeros in here…. That will… wind it back.’

Angel nodded, turning the device around in the palm of his hand. 

‘I’m afraid there may be one flaw in our plan. It would have been better had we had something more personal of Spike’s: some jewellery perhaps. It’s very possible he’ll shed the coat as soon as he….’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll….’ Angel faltered, so went to pour a drink and downed it in one. When he was steadier, he finished, ‘He’ll keep his coat on as long as he can. It’s his….’ He heard security blanket in his mind, but out loud said, ‘Talisman.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you. Are you going to take it over?’

‘No. He’ll come here before he….’

‘Are you sure? He might decide to just….’

‘He won’t be coming just for the coat.’

Wesley didn’t attempt to reply to this. He just nodded and left.

Angel wanted to rip the buttons off, stamp on the device, but as he held it up to hurl across the room, he saw Fred, clear as day, as if she stood there bemoaning the waste of such pretty technology. 

Perhaps it was a small sacrifice to make to bring her back. This wasn’t seventeen thirty-three. He wasn’t six. Now he understood all the words he ever needed to understand.

Once more, he heard the elevator, and he slipped the device into his pocket. It had an unfortunate effect on the front of his pants, so he hastily pulled it out and put it under the covers of his bed.  By the time Spike strode in, his pants were a funny shape again anyway, so he kept his back to the room. 

‘I’ve come for me coat, Pillock.’

Angel waved at it.

‘It better not be….’ Spike sniffed it suspiciously and made a small sound of annoyance.

Angel casually pulled his shirt out of his pants and turned. He let out a small breath. Spike was wearing tight, black leather pants and a white shirt. He had numerous rings and chains, and his hair was wet and spiky, some kind of gel making it glisten.

He was utterly….  Angel downed the rest of his drink and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘You found something to wear then.’

Spike nodded.  ‘So… you gonna phone him…? It’s six.’

‘Me? No!’

‘You’re the boss. You’re making the deal.’

‘Shit, Spike.’

Spike looked mutinous but oddly curious at the same time, as if he was waiting to see if Angel would actually do it.

Suddenly sick of all the anticipation, Angel strode to the phone and buzzed down to Harmony.  She put him through.

‘Ingram?’ He kept his gaze fixed directly on Spike.

‘Angel! I was half-expecting you to come in person. I’m rather relieved.’

‘Cut the small talk. We’re agreeing to your terms.’

‘I can’t feign surprise. I knew you would.’

‘Ingram. Bear in mind that I am an unfortunate enemy to make. The deal is one night in exchange for the information to enable us to retrieve Fred. I expect my… colleague… to be returned tomorrow totally unharmed. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Angel… Angel… I flatter myself perhaps, but my guess is he’ll be back here tomorrow night and many nights to come.’

‘What?’ Angel faltered, aware he’d lost the command that he demanded in every situation.

‘I intend to make this a very pleasurable experience for us both. Now, tell him to head over….’ Angel wasn’t listening. He was staring at Spike, picturing the pleasure.

He felt a gulf opening up between them, separating them, taking Spike away from him.

The man was still talking, so he interrupted. ‘Give the directions to my assistant.’ He transferred him back to Harmony.

‘What did he say?’

Angel pouted. ‘Harmony has the directions.’

‘Sod the bloody directions. What did he say about…?’

Angel smashed the phone off the table. ‘He said you’d enjoy it, Spike. He said you’d fucking enjoy it and go back for more.’  He stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door.  

The tiny lump under the covers whispered evilly to him.  Once more, he pictured smashing it and got as far as picking it up, but he turned it on instead.

‘Fucking anally retentive arsehole!’

He reeled back and stared at the device. ‘You….’ Suddenly, he panicked that voices went both ways but cursed his stupidity.  He set the thing on the bed and sat alongside it.

‘The prick said you had directions.’

‘Spikey! You look… you bastard! Who is she?’

‘Fuck off, Bimbo, and give me the sodding directions.’

‘The new client…? Ingram?’

‘Duh.’

‘Why are you going there dressed like…?’

‘Harm!’

‘HERE.’

There was a rustle, a ping and then some shuffling.  ‘Hi ya, Spike.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hot date?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Broody-balls working you late again, huh?’

‘I don’t work for Angel. I come and go as I please.’

‘Oh, sure thing. Later….’

There was a ping and some more shuffling, which Angel now recognised as the elevator doors shutting, then the striking of a match.

‘I need to leave this fucking place.’ 

Angel was tempted to make a reply to this, but didn’t want to appear that foolish.

Once more, elevator doors swished, and then things sounded… echoing.  ‘Now, which car would he least like me taking...? Oh… yeah.’

There was a sound of an engine, and Angel murmured, ‘You bastard,’ as his Camero sparked to life.

There was silence for a while, just the sounds of background traffic barely distinguishable.  Some music came on. After a few minutes, Spike began to sing along. Angel picked the device up.  He’d never heard this before—Spike’s singing usually raucous and designed for maximum irritation. Now he was soft and tuneful, effortlessly picking out a harmony and singing it beneath the tune. After a moment’s hesitation, Angel pressed the record button—just to test to see if it worked.

Suddenly, the singing stopped. There was a sound of crunching gravel, and the car stopped.  Angel heard another match, then something harsher—possibly the sound of a hand slamming into the wheel.  A few moments more, after a sniff, Spike said, ‘I can’t do this.’  It was whispered, but it seemed very loud to Angel.

He swallowed and held the silver device to his mouth, as if it were a phone and could say something to Spike.  There was a rustle, then the sound of things being punched, and then, suddenly, Angel’s cell phone rang.  He stared at it in utter confusion, but before he could snatch it up, it stopped, and he heard a corresponding snap from the device.  After another sniff, Spike said softly, ‘Yeah, like… not. I can hear that fucking conversation already. You sodding bastard, Angel! Why do you do this to me? Why can’t you just…?’ Angel craned forward to hear what it was he should do; he even shook the device, until he blushed and dropped it down. The car started again and different music came on—something loud.

Angel went into the living room to pace. If he couldn’t listen to this, how was he going to bear what was to come?  For a moment, he considered taking Wesley up on his offer to listen in his place, but dismissed it quickly—he’d done enough betrayal for one evening.

What would he have said if he had answered that call?  What did Spike want him to say?  Don’t do this because—

The completion of that because whispered too inarticulate a need to overcome the louder one: Fred.

What was his need compared to hers?

What was some vague desire that crept upon him whenever he was with Spike compared to his desire for Fred’s safe return?

The music stopped, and so, apparently, had the car. There was a loud, ‘Shit,’ and another rustle.  ‘Harm?’

‘Spike?’

‘You sure this is the right place?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Where you sent me, you Bint.’

‘And?’

‘It’s fucking Buck House, that’s what!’

‘Is that a rival law firm?’

Angel smiled softly at Spike’s pause. He could actually see his face contorted in disbelief.  There was a click as the phone was apparently snapped off then a buzz. 

‘Spike?’

‘Just fucking open the friggin’ gates, Ingram.’

Angel frowned. He’d never heard fear and vulnerability in Spike’s cursing before, but when he listened now, not distracted by the physical presence, he realised they had always been there. It startled him to think he’d taken Spike too much at face value.

He retrieved the device from the bed, grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass, and ensconced himself on the couch.

A door opened. ‘Well, hello.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well?’

‘Least you could do is invite me in properly.’

‘Oh! Sure, come in.’

Angel smiled softly, wondering if Spike was, too.

‘You look… incredible.’

‘Yeah, I’m seeing someone important when I’ve finished with this shit.’

Ingram laughed. ‘Your name suits you. You’re very… prickly.’

Angel bristled for Spike and then heard a snarky, ‘I got this due to a nasty habit with railroad spikes. Wanna hear the story?’

‘Sure, why not? I’ve got nasty habits, too. Drink?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Let me take your coat.’

‘No. Nice place you’ve got. Showy. Cheap. Suits you.’  Angel frowned and thought of Fred, wondering how much of Spike’s humour Ingram would tolerate.

‘You’re not even gonna try and be nice, are you?’ The man actually sounded amused.

‘Look, Mate, I’m not nice to people I love, so no, to scumbags like you? Sorry.’

Angel sat forward. ‘Ask him who he loves!’

‘Who do you love, Spike? Tell me.’ Angel could have kissed him.

There was a small laugh. ‘Everyone I love is dead.’

‘Like you then….’

Angel cursed, too alarmed at this to pick apart Spike’s last comment.

‘Okay. So you know.’

‘I know.’

‘And you’re not afraid?’

‘You could kill me. But then every trick I’ve ever invited into my house could, too. So, no.’

‘Well, ain’t that just peachy. So, let’s get this thing on, yeah? Cus, like I say, I’ve got more important things to be doing.’

The tension in Spike’s words was so evident to Angel, listening to his disembodied voice, that he could not believe Ingram didn’t hear it, too.  

‘I have you all night. No need to rush things. Sit down. Make yourself at home. Tell me about Angel; I’m curious about him.’

Spike and Angel both said at the same time, ‘Huh?’

‘Angel. I was surprised he took the deal.’

‘Join the fucking club.’

‘You sound bitter.  From my experience, only personal feelings being hurt can lead to that level of bitterness.’

The glass shattered in Angel’s hand, and cursing, he sucked a drip of blood as he craned forward to hear. 

‘Well, I’m a vampire, so I don’t have those.’

‘But you expected him to try and stop you?’

‘Maybe. Maybe he did try—in his own way.’

‘I supposed even the incorruptible can be… corrupted.’

‘I wouldn’t have been.’

Angel’s sucking turned to biting, and he made the wound on his finger considerably worse.

‘I’m not with you. Another drink?’

‘If you’d wanted Angel instead of me, I’d have stopped him.’

Angel let his hand fall from his lips, blood now dripping inexorably onto the tiled floor. 

‘Do you have that much power over him?’

Spike suddenly laughed. ‘I guess not. I’d have given it a bloody good shot though.’

‘Why? Why do you care?’

Angel heard the clink of ice; it was very quiet, but he could have heard a proverbial pin drop, so intently was he listening for this reply.

He heard a soft laugh. ‘Good question. I ask myself that every day.’

‘And what do you reply?’

Angel couldn’t have put it better.

‘As if I’m going to tell you that.’

Angel swore. 

‘You’ve known him a very long time. Since he sired you.’

‘You’re a bloody mine of useless info, aren’t you?’

‘I know everything about you. As I told Angel: information is my passion.’

‘And here I was thinking you’d been lusting after my irresistible body.’

Ingram laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, I am. Speaking of which….’ 

There was a rustle.  Angel hunched forward painfully.  There was soft, ‘Don’t.’

Ingram said, ‘It’s what you’re here for.’

The voices seemed to come from slightly further away, as if the coat had been dropped to the floor.  ‘Fuck. You are beautiful.’

‘Just do it—don’t talk about it.’

‘Your skin….’

‘Just a corpse, Ingram. I’m a demon inhabiting the body of a man who died a long time ago. Fuck dead flesh if you want.’

Angel whispered, ‘Clever,’ and hoped somehow Spike would hear him.

‘I’ve never seen leather pants look more beautiful on anyone—but take them off.’

Angel knew the sound of leather sliding off skin.  He could picture every inch.

‘Kiss me.’

‘No. I’m not going to….’

‘One night. Able and willing.’

‘How can you do this? When you know I’d rather kill you than kiss you?’

‘It adds spice, Spike. It’s why I sought you out—a demon but one with a soul—a soul that enables you to love. Now, kiss me.’

Angel sprang up, a huge surge of feeling making the cramped position he was in unbearable. 

His mind would not conjure an image from the sounds of lips on lips, fingers tugging on hair, bodies pressed together. He dashed a hand across his eyes and kicked viciously at a table, sending it crashing across the room.

‘What was that?’

Angel turned and held very still at Spike’s hushed comment.

‘What was what? Besides my heart pounding….’

‘Nothing. I thought I heard….’

‘So…?’

‘Can I get dressed now?’

‘Of course not. As much as I liked the leather, I prefer you naked. So, tell me, am I the first man you’ve ever kissed?’

‘No.’

Angel jerked his head around then sat down abruptly.  

‘But Angelus never used his tongue—I’ll give you that.’

The surge of relief that washed through Angel’s body actually left him shaking.

‘Angelus. Ah, Angel before…. You and Angel? Now, that I didn’t know. That changes things. Or maybe not….’

‘Not like that. Angelus was… expansive with his affection. He kissed lots of things.’

Ingram’s next comment was not made with such wry amusement. ‘You were thinking about Angel while I kissed you.’  Angel crowed and stamped his feet rapidly.

Spike laughed. ‘I’m always thinking about Angel. See, that’s the one flaw in your plan, human. I’m here, I’m willing, and I’m very, very able. But… see… I’ll be willing and able because I’ll be pretending I’m fucking Angel. You can own my body for a night; you won’t ever own my soul.’

Angel crashed out of his apartment. He picked up speed as he hit the lobby and got the address from Harmony.  By the time he was driving, he was illegal.  It was only as he was negotiating the city traffic that he realised he’d forgotten to bring the device—that he could no longer hear what was happening.  He cursed and slammed his hand into the wheel, his driving only becoming worse. 

It took him over an hour to reach his destination.

He didn’t hesitate at the gates, but scaled them as easily as a pro-athlete would take a hurdle.

It was only when he hit the ground—the first pause he’d made since hearing Spike’s declaration—that he realised he was trapped: he could not explain to Spike why he was here, without telling him what he had done. Spike had not made that confession to him (he had apparently made very sure over the last hundred years or so not to give any hint of how he felt); he had confessed to a stranger.

When the human finally fell asleep, Spike rolled from the bed and dragged on his pants. Leather was never easy to pull over sticky skin, and he gave up the attempt to fasten them, leaving them gaping as he lit a cigarette and wandered out through the French windows. 
  
He sat on a low wall and tipped his head back, admiring stars that he couldn’t really see but liked to remember as he’d seen them most of his life—before city lights obscured them.

The cigarette was the best thing he’d tasted all night, which wasn’t saying much.  

It was amazing how he could not think about things he didn’t want to think about by the simple expedient of thinking a stream of useless trivia. He smiled bitterly: Angel would accuse him of babbling, even in his head.  He frowned deeply. Angel was not something he wanted to think about. He’d tried that for five minutes, when it had begun—the touching and kissing and other things that he still wasn’t thinking about—but had quickly had to banish Angel from his thoughts. Something was being spoilt that should remain… unsullied. Yeah… babbling.

If Angel was here now, he’d….

‘What the fuck!’ Spike never jumped. He was dead and too cool, but he dropped his cigarette into his open jeans. That explained the leap into the air and the cursing.  That and the fact that Angel had appeared out of the darkness, as if conjured by his thoughts.  ‘What the fuck are you doing here, you pervert?’

‘I—.’

‘Oh! This is great! We have yet another non-conversation about something neither of us will name, and all the while…. Shit, what was that?’

Angel looked up toward the house.  ‘A gun….’ They both ran toward the lighted bedroom and skidded to a halt just inside the open doors.  

Spike winced. ‘Oh, Christ.’

The arc of blood belied the fact that a body only carries eight pints. It began at Ingram’s now unrecognisable head and sprayed up and across the wall, a glorious display of death.  The vampires swallowed hard and tried not to harden with demonic need.

Angel went forward and peered to one side of the bed. ‘Gun.’

Spike didn’t reply; he was staring at what was left of Ingram’s face.

Angel straightened. ‘Did he tell you?  Spike?  Spike? Did he tell you?’

‘What?’

Angel cursed and went back to Spike, leading him into another room. He wasn’t at all sure whether he liked this apparent display of shock.  

‘Did he tell you about Fred?’

Spike’s eyes didn’t appear to focus, but he shook his head. ‘He was going to… it’s not morning…. We had other things we wanted to try…. I mean….’ He trailed off, and Angel wasn’t in any mood to prompt that confession.

He turned angrily. ‘Illyria.’

‘Yeah, in the morning…. He was going to tell….’

‘No. She was here. It must have been her.’

Spike wrapped his arms around his bare chest. ‘I’m so cold.’

Angel frowned and wanted to shake him slightly. It wasn’t as if he’d really known the man; it wasn’t as if Spike wasn’t a freaking vampire! He gave Spike the benefit of the doubt though and fetched the remainder of his clothes where they trailed over the floor toward the bed.

Keeping his mind in neutral, trying not to recreate scenes in his mind, trying even more desperately not to anticipate listening to these scenes later on, he dressed Spike.

‘We need to get out of here.’

Spike didn’t respond, so Angel took him by the arm and pulled him toward the door.  

When they got out into the night air once more, Spike seemed to revive slightly.  He plunged his hands into the pocket of his duster, effectively shaking Angel’s hand off. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Did I ask you that already?’

‘I—.’

‘Oh, yeah. That’s right. Flash back. So, I ask you, you stutter and stammer and we get to the sum of….’

‘I—. Listen… we had to know what Ingram said, Spike. Wesley said it was vital that if he told you, and something happened—like it fucking has by the looks of it—that we had it on… tape.’

‘On tape….’ Spike stopped and put his hand on the gate for a moment. It was too dark to see the expression in his eyes, but Angel frowned at something in his posture.

‘Are you okay?’ He really didn’t want to hear the answer to that.

‘Oh tape?’

‘Yes. But the point I’m making is that I heard….’

‘You heard. You heard? You heard!’

‘I heard you say that you’d be thinking about me.’

Spike pushed off the gate and went toward the car.  A car drove slowly past, its lights on main beam, and Angel let out a small cry at the extreme pallor of Spike’s face. ‘Shit! Are you…?’

‘You heard.’

‘Spike! I’m trying to tell you: that’s why I’m here. When I heard you say that, I kinda….’  

Spike began to run.  He dodged past Angel and across the street just in front of another car, and before Angel could catch him, he was lost in the darkness of the woods opposite.  Angel called out for him for sometime, the last image of Spike’s mind burnt into his memory. For one brief second, as the lights had swept over him, Spike had looked like a different person.  

Angel could not shake the sinking feeling in his gut that he had lost another member of his team. 

Chapter 4

Spike felt as he had the night Angel had taken him.  Everything hurt, and he was lost—literally, as he staggered around dying; and metaphorically as he could no longer connect to what he had been.  All he could hear in his head was the sounds they’d made together.  He and Ingram, he and Angel—fucking, dying: it was all the same in the end. 

Panting became real when he realised he’d been running. Pain became real when he realised he’d fallen. He rolled over onto his back, but scrunched up again, hugging his belly. It was on fire, and he could not escape the pain.

He sensed someone near and groaned softly, ‘Angel?’

The presence came closer. ‘Not yet, Sonny Boy. One day, maybe. Now, what’s wrong with you, pretty one, eh?’

He felt hands on him, taking his coat and his boots, and cried out weakly in protest. Why couldn’t he rise and fight? Was he dead? He knew he was, but he remembered power. Perhaps he’d been dreaming: a lifetime of power all a dream. He was still weak and dying, and Angel had taken him. ‘Angel?’ It was all he could think of to say; he’d been thinking that name for hours.

‘Told you, Sonny Boy: you’re the one ‘bout to be an angel. Say one for me when you get there.’

He was left in the dirt, and he was so cold. He was shivering as if he was cold; so why was he so hot? He could feel his skin clammy and wet. Or was that cum? He’d been splattered with a lot of that, and swallowed it, and taken it inside him. Was that why he was hot? He should have held out for cold cum. Angel’s wouldn’t have made him sick.

He retched weakly into the dirt and tried to stand.  When he walked, he cut his bare foot on something, and it hurt. More blood spilt. Where had he seen blood tonight? It seemed like a long time ago he’d seen his blood over the walls of that house. No, Ingram’s blood, not his.  

He had to get home. Sick animals go home to die.  Which way was home? It seemed to him it was two ways, both contradictory, but one way pulled him more than the other, so he staggered toward where his sense took him: somewhere out of the sunlight that threatened. Whatever else he was, had been, would become soon, the sunlight was a threat. Old instincts die hard. He’d died hard. Dying was hard.

Angel drove around the area for a long time, until he realised that he wouldn’t find Spike. Cursing, he screeched the car around and headed back to the office. He would know exactly where Spike was soon. Two gigs—he had no idea what that meant, he only hoped it meant the damn device was still listening.  It had torn them apart; it would bring them back together again as well.

He tore up through the now empty offices to his apartment. 

It was sitting on the table where he’d left it. He snatched it up and held it, half expecting Spike to just speak and tell him where he was.  ‘Come on! Where are you, Spike?’

‘Give it t’me!’ Angel held the sound away. That wasn’t Spike’s voice. 

‘‘S mine! Nice coat. Mine now.’ Another voice—not Spike’s either. 

It was inconceivable that Spike had lost his coat.  Yet… it appeared that he had.  Over thirty years of caring for one thing more than any other, and he’d lost it. But he’d just lost something he’d cared about for over one hundred years—Angel guessed it was the night for losing precious items.

He called the Special Ops team—he’d made sacrifices for all this power, might as well use it.

Frustrated that he couldn’t help the search for Spike, that the daylight kept him impotent inside, he went down to find Wesley, the device, with all of its secrets, safely in his pocket.

Wesley was in his habitual place, watching Illyria.  Angel tried to stay calm at the intense, hopeful look Wesley cast at him.  ‘Illyria killed the human—before he could tell us.’

Wesley’s face registered shock, then anger, but then confusion. ‘We were here all night—together.’

Angel hesitated. ‘Is it possible she can be in two places at once?’

Wesley paled slightly. ‘You actually saw her there last night?’

‘Well… no… only, who else? We were outside; there was a shot. Someone had blown his head off, Wes.’

Wesley pursed his lips. ‘And you ruled out suicide?’

Angel laughed. ‘What? After fucking Spike? Yeah, that’s likely… I mean…. I didn’t think of that.’

Wesley looked as amused as his bleak mood would allow. ‘So I gather.  What did Spike say?  Did he see it coming? So to speak….’

Angel didn’t hear the save; he was pacing, playing Spike’s reaction back in his mind. ‘He was weird—even for him.  He seemed shocked—but that’s not possible. He’s done worse things than that to people….’

‘But possibly not to people he’d got to know… care for even…?’

Angel didn’t want to admit that this had occurred to him, too.

Wesley didn’t push. He added, ‘What does he say now? Now he’s had time to….’

‘He ran off. I’ve got people looking for him.’ He added, as if it were inconsequential—as if he could thus make it inconsequential, ‘He’s become separated from his coat.’

Wesley didn’t catch on that he was supposed to support this fiction of irrelevance. ‘Oh, that’s not good. That’s not like him.’  He then caught Angel’s expression and had the sense to say no more.

After a few moments of watching Illyria, he said, ‘It would have recorded the death. Maybe the solution is already in our hands.’

Angel started and touched his pocket. 

Wesley frowned. ‘You have listened to it?’

Angel pouted. ‘Not… all of it….’ He did not need to explain his reluctance. Wesley went back to studying his obsession and left Angel to come to terms with his own.

Angel turned and went back upstairs, calling for a sitrep from Spec Ops.  Still nothing. 

He poured a large drink—ignoring the early hour—and downed it before switching on the device and trying to remember how to wind it back.

He flung himself on his back on the bed fully clothed to listen.

When Spike stopped the car on the side of the road for his small crisis, Angel wished he could go back in time… leap up… arrive at the house before… stop what had happened—all of it.

He had heard tension and disgust in Spike’s voice the first time through, now he heard grief as well.  It tore at him: hearing this and knowing he was powerless to intervene; but worse, knowing that he hadn’t intervened when he’d had the power.

All too soon, it reached the point where Spike told Ingram that he loved his sire. Or this was how Angel heard it. It’s how he’d heard it the first time; he’d not revised his opinion, despite Spike’s reaction to his dramatic arrival.

From that point on, what he heard was new. He’d heard these sounds before of course—even from Spike, as face-to-face, they’d taken their hapless victims between them. He could not help then but see and hear Spike’s orgasms—feel them too, through women’s dying bodies.  

Oh, but this was different. This was new. This was so much harder to hear. He flung an arm over his eyes, gritting his teeth as he heard protest stifled, a moan—of pleasure or pain, he could not tell—a laugh, which he could interpret, then furious sounds of fucking that blended between all of these.  

Spike did not speak at all, other than the occasional swear word. Ingram was more vocal—much more, but Angel tuned out most of his contribution, listening desperately for lower, more strained sounds.

Gradually, tears rolling down his cheeks with shame and guilt, Angel unfastened his pants and slid his hand down to touch himself.  The wet slap slapping from the tape made his touch clumsy and urgent. He beat his prick to the sounds of the couple’s vigorous sex. If Spike was thinking of him, then it seemed fitting, for Angel was there.

He laid his hands over the hard flesh, poked into the resilient body, took Ingram’s pleasure to be his own.  His voice mingled with Spike’s, equally low and urgent, equally full of obscene comment on the action, and equally as justified. 

Their sweat mingled, a prelude to other releases that would slick between them, join their flesh. Angel buried his face into the crook of his arm—now Spike’s neck—to see if he could catch traces of Spike’s scent. Of course he could—a hundred years of intimate acquaintance danced in his mind like flowers, releasing the pollen of memory: Spike laughing, running down an alley, human blood on his breath; Spike lolling naked in bed, sated, refusing his entreaties to leave the woman they’d taken; Spike grieving, his ability to feel loss never muted by his lack of a soul; Spike passionate, challenging him, fighting, clawing his way up into his sire’s notice. Spike, Spike, Spike—a scratch on his retina, an irritant, forever marking his view of life.

When Spike came—for the first time—the sound was unmistakable. Angel exploded, shaking, panting and arching off the bed, his powerful body too constrained in the clothes, aching to be free to feel hot flesh for real. When he came down, it had begun again, but he was finished: pitched too low and unable to draw himself back from black despair he’d fought against since losing Fred.  He cried for her. He cried for Spike. Most of all, though, he cried for himself: for being so utterly unable to admit that somewhere along the way what he actually was had diverged from what he appeared to be: a split begun as a six year old child gradually coming to understand the necessity for that divergence. He cried for the hopelessness of knowing that those paths were so far apart now he doubted his ability to draw them back together. 

Now he saw that he had always held onto the possibility that Spike would be the bridge between his extremes, but it appeared that Spike had now gone on a path of his own, quite separate to the ones that defined Angel’s life. 

He lay in the bed drained and exhausted, listening to Spike and Ingram begin and end, begin and end. As the man had said, he had a lot of energy. He had clearly found a good partner in Spike.  

Eventually, he came to the part where it went silent: Spike presumably walking into the garden, Ingram…. Ingram speaking fast and low, incoherent. Were these the words of a man about to kill himself? Angel could not equate this mumbling man with the one he had listened to enjoying Spike so fully. It seemed as though he was the same, however, for at last it came: the powerful blast that ended Ingram’s life. Once more, Angel could smell the blood, and as ever, he hardened to that inevitable delight. He had no spirit for pleasure and rose off the bed, willing his erection away and stripping his stained clothing off.

He had no wish to hear his own voice on the recording, either, so he snapped the device off and showered quickly. 

The call from Special Ops came as he was drying off.  

It was precise and short. ‘We’ve found him, Sir.’

Angel gave his commands swiftly and jogged down to the basement to await their arrival.

He expected Spike to be… unwilling? embarrassed? angry? He did not expect him to be delirious and restrained. He did not expect him to be burning up. He did not expect any of this at all. He stayed in command though and took the thrashing, incoherent figure.  He carried him up to his apartment and laid him on the bed.  His feet were lacerated as if he’d walked over glass. His once white shirt was filthy and sodden, the leather pants ripped.  Angel was more worried about the wounds he couldn’t perceive. 

He stripped Spike and dragged him into the shower, ignoring his own clothes as he held him under a stream of cleansing water. He could not believe how hot Spike felt and, on instinct, turned the shower to cold.  It seemed to make no difference to the temperature of Spike’s skin.

Once he was clean, Angel put Spike back into the bed.  He was either asleep or unconscious—it was hard to tell—and Angel stepped away from the bed for a moment to change and summon Wesley.

The human arrived with Illyria.  Angel narrowed his eyes at her, covered Spike’s body more carefully and stood with his arms folded alongside the bed.  ‘What the fuck is happening, Wesley? Vampire’s can’t get… sick.’

‘You did. When Faith poisoned you.’
 
Illyria looked interested, her blue eyes fixed, Huskey-like, on Angel.  Angel felt a prick of alarm that she’d heard this chink in his armour, but shook off the sense of foreboding that the whole conversation gave him. ‘You think Spike’s been poisoned? That Ingram poisoned him?’

‘It’s possible. He wanted to sleep with him, so I’m afraid I have no confidence in his judgement.’

‘Ingram poisons Spike then kills himself—what? Out of regret? That’s ridiculous.’

At that moment, Spike’s eyes flew open, and he said distinctly, ‘It hurt.’  

Illyria’s eyes widened, and she turned slowly to look behind her.  

For the first time in over two centuries the hairs on the back of Angel’s neck stood up at this slow turn, and however hard he tried, he could not help but look in the direction she did, seeking the ghosts she seemed to see. He swallowed. ‘What?’

She turned back and tipped her head on one side. ‘Pain is relative.’

Angel cursed softly, annoyed by her cryptic nonsense. He sat on the edge of the bed and felt Spike’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Spike?’

Spike’s eyes swivelled to his. ‘Angel?’

Angel smiled. ‘Welcome back.’

‘I’m not there yet.’

Angel frowned. ‘Where?’

Spike closed his eyes and appeared to go back to sleep.

Angel turned his head to the human. ‘Bring your instruments, Wes. Take a blood sample and find this fucking poison.’

Wesley nodded and turned. 

Angel turned his gaze on Illyria. ‘Stay away from Spike.’

She smiled enigmatically. ‘That will be unproblematic.’

Angel dismissed her from his presence and his mind, and went back to staring at Spike.  

It was only when he wondered where he was going to sleep and picked up a pillow to take to the couch that he noticed that the device was missing.  A fruitless search of the bed confirmed the absence.  He would have gone down to speak to Wesley, but when he looked up, a pair of startlingly blue eyes was watching him.  ‘Where am I?’

‘In my bed.’

‘Oh. That’s a first then, I’m thinking.’

‘You’re sick. I’m making allowances.’ He smiled to soften the words.

Spike smiled back. ‘I feel like shit.’

Angel sat alongside him, trying not to notice the way the sweat glistened Spike’s skin.  ‘Did he put something in the drink? You’ve been poisoned.’

Spike pouted. ‘Why do you think this happened at his place? Maybe… later?’

‘Huh?’

‘I lost my damn coat.’

‘When you ran off? Spike, what happened? I heard voices….’

Spike’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Heard how?’

Angel frowned. ‘I told you…. We had to record you with Ingram. We had to find out what he knew.’

‘You recorded...?’ Spike tried to sit up and fell back, too weak to support himself.  

Angel cursed silently and wished he’d been quicker to seize the opportunity to avoid Spike hearing this again. ‘It’s kinda why you ran off, I guess.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Oh, yeah. I remember.  God, I’m so hot!  Feel….’ He lifted Angel’s hand and put it over his forehead. Angel hesitated then stretched his fingers and ran it through the sweat-dampened hair. 

‘I’ll get a cloth.’  

Spike’s hand flew back and grasped his wrist. ‘Don’t go.’

Angel pouted but did not take his hand away.  

‘Thanks for bringing me here.’

‘Where else would I take you?’

‘Well, I was kinda thinking you’d have gotten me to the ER.’

‘Why?’

Spike shrugged and seemed to want to change the subject. He changed it by rubbing his thumb lightly over the inside of Angel’s wrist.  ‘So….’

Angel took his hand away and made it seem natural by fetching a washcloth from the bathroom.

The blue eyes never left him as he moved around, and when he sat down again, Spike waited until the coolness was on his head before saying, ‘So, if you taped everything, do you know what happened to Ingram?’

Angel tipped his head to one side curiously. ‘Ingram?’

‘Hmm.  Have you… contacted him?’

‘Spike. He’s dead. You were there. Don’t you remember?’

‘Oh! I guess I’ve forgotten. I’ve been sick. So… dead.’ He made a ‘too bad’ face and resumed his stroking on Angel’s wrist.  ‘So… you heard… us?’

Angel sat back and folded his hands once more. ‘Yes.’

‘Enjoy it?’

Angel blinked at the uncharacteristically thoughtless comment. It had never occurred to him before how close they always skated around hurting each other, never actually inflicting the emotional damage they could. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Shame.  You heard what he said about thinking about you…?’ 

Angel jerked his head back a little. ‘Ingram… thinking about me?’

Spike twitched a small, nervous smile but poked him in the ribs playfully. ‘I mean what I said about you.’

Angel turned away. ‘I think you’re still delirious.’

Suddenly, Spike seemed to tire of the game. He relaxed into the pillows and closed his eyes. ‘I’m beat.’

Angel frowned at something he couldn’t define and stood up. ‘I’ll be next door if you need me.’

‘Can I hold you to that?’

Angel moved away, tidying up a bit, mulling all this over. It was not how he’d pictured his first conversation with Spike after hearing—with the slant of his own interpretation—that Spike loved him.

He put a call down to Wesley, but there was no answer from his office or the lab. He tried his home number, but the machine kicked in.

He didn’t want to leave Spike, so had to content himself with thinking that if Wesley had taken the device, he was gentleman enough not to listen to things that should stay private—for Spike’s sake.

He could not sleep, and for more reasons than he couldn’t get comfortable on the couch.  Eventually, he rose and poured himself a strong drink, taking it to the windows to watch the city at night—a place he had once craved like he still craved blood.

‘Feeling generous with the booze?’

Angel whirled around. ‘Spike!’

Spike was leaning in the doorway, naked, watching him.  He pushed off the wall lazily.

Angel came up to him and felt his head. Spike laughed lightly. ‘Now I’m cold.  It’s freaking me out.’

Angel frowned. ‘You feel normal. Do you mean you feel cold… inside… or something?’

Spike deflected him with another poke in the ribs. ‘Drink?’

Angel went back into the bedroom then came out, silently handing him a sheet.  Spike looked annoyed but tied it around his waist nevertheless.

Angel poured him a drink and passed it over. 

Spike sipped, watching Angel over the rim of the glass.  ‘So, Angel, I think we were interrupted. You were going to tell me what you thought of my little declaration.’

Angel backed away to the window and did not reply. 

Spike came closer, fingering the knot holding up the sheet.  ‘I practically told you that I’ve been thinking about you for….’

Angel turned, his face a cloud of anger. ‘What is this, Spike? We’ve not talked about things like this for a hundred and twenty years, but the first time you get fucked up the ass you decide it’s time for a little share-with-Angel session? Well, I’m not buying it. I didn’t get fucked, and I don’t feel like sharing.’

‘Why not?’ Spike hovered closer.  ‘If what you say is true, you’ve wasted enough time. Why not have what you want? What we both want? Why all the fucking pretence, Angel? If I’ve learnt one thing, it’s that life’s too fucking short to waste opportunities.’

‘Is that all this is to you? An opportunity?’

‘I didn’t expect the CEO of Wolfram and Hart to be this fucking diffident!  Aren’t you the great Angelus? Haven’t you always taken what you wanted?’

Angel turned and seized his upper arms. ‘Is that what you want? Is that all you want—for me to take you?’

‘I want you to crave this body, Angel. I want you to wake up and think about this body before you think about anything else, so you’ll never see me hurt. I want you to protect me. I need your protection, Angel. Do you want to give it to me?’  He opened the sheet and let it drop to the floor, making Angel’s eyes drag down by the simple expedient of dragging his own gaze down to his prominent erection.  

Chapter 5

When he woke, Angel lay in a tangle of limbs, covered in blood and cum.  His first rational thought (after this one of blood and sperm) was that Spike now had his wish. His need for Spike’s body was so intense that he felt physically sick from the ache.  He rolled Spike over and took him again, thrusting into the sleeping body.  

Spike woke with a hiss of delight and rose onto his hands and knees, rocking to the motion of Angel’s prick in his body.  

Angel couldn’t hold back his orgasm, and he shuddered more sperm into Spike, watching with fascination as it ran back out. He amazed himself how he had managed to fuck Spike all night without once admitting what he now was.  

He rolled off with a grunt and lay on his back, an arm flung over his face. 

His depression of spirits was in stark contrast to his physical satisfaction, and he mulled this over as he listened to Spike going back to sleep. 

They appeared to be on the floor in the living room.  The day had come along with them, for they were bathed in sunlight.  

He was lying alongside Spike, who he had now taken, and it was sunny. He couldn’t understand why he was depressed. He would have asked Spike, but Spike had not seemed interested in talking. He’d laughed and played and fucked like a pro, but he’d not issued a coherent word. Angel had begun by murmuring a few endearments, but he’d only been laughed at so had stopped.

He was not about to assign his depression to this—he didn’t need Spike’s… affection… after all. 

Spike was right: it was just fucking.

Angel was hard again.  

He dragged Spike over onto his back, wanting to take him bent double, legs high in the air, vulnerable and….

‘Step away from him, Angel.’

Angel almost—almost—screamed.  He made a choked, unmanly sound, which he regretted. Fortunately, the sheet was close to hand, and he dragged it over his swollen, discoloured erection, which stood so hot and proud from his pale, flawless body.  

‘What the fuck...?’

Wesley ignored his outrage and levelled the crossbow he was holding on Spike. ‘Step away from Angel.’

Spike rose with a lazy grin, seemingly not at all worried about his erection.  He even stroked it lazily as he moved a few feet away.

Angel climbed to his feet, more embarrassed than he ever remember being.  ‘What the…?’

‘Do you want to tell him? Or should I?’ Wesley did not take his eyes off Spike.

Spike pursed his lips, a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘He won’t believe me.’

Wesley looked down at the place where he had found them curled together. ‘Clever, Ingram. Clever.’

‘Ingram?’  Angel turned slowly to Spike.  

Wesley adjusted his hold on the crossbow. ‘He didn’t want to give us information about Illyria. He wanted to do what she did. He’s taken Spike’s body as effectively as….’

‘NO!’ Angel lunged forward and seized Spike by the arms, staring into his eyes as if trying to drill down into his soul.  He felt himself losing control, so dragged himself back from the precipice of destruction that would have been for them all. ‘I’d have known…. I couldn’t have… last night and not have…. You’re wrong, Wesley. Spike?’ The last word was said so plaintively that it seemed to undo Wesley. The crossbow sagged, and he leant against the couch. 

‘God help me. I would not have you go through this, too.’

Angel whispered, ‘Spike?’ again and shook his child slightly.  

Spike tipped his head to one side and it was that, more than Wesley’s declaration, which unhinged Angel.  He pushed the slim body away from him with a howl.  ‘You…!’ He tore the weapon from Wesley’s hands and aimed it at Spike. 

Spike stood his ground, then he grinned when no shot came. ‘Told you…. Obsessed about me…. You’ll do anything it takes to protect me now.’  

Angel still held the crossbow high. ‘Where’s Spike?’

‘Where’s Fred?’

Angel felt an unwelcome surge of emotion rise in his throat, but he lowered the weapon.

Wesley straightened.  ‘I listened to the recording, Angel. I’m sorry. I had to know….  I didn’t get it the first time… distracted, I think by…. Anyway. I listened again then I ran it through some programmes. All the time he was talking—did you get that? It seemed so odd. Spike so silent, Ingram talking all the time. It was an incantation—split up and hidden among more innocuous words. He has somehow entered Spike’s body, and by destroying his own, sparked this… change.’

‘No.’

Wesley came close. ‘I’m so sorry, Angel.’  

‘I don’t believe any of this. Tell us how to reverse it.’ 

Spike’s face smiled broadly. ‘I am so hungry? What did he eat? Jeez, yeah, blood…. Okay, I can handle….’ The punch dislocated one of Angel’s fingers, but it was worth it.  Ingram hit the wall behind him, dented the plaster and slumped unconscious to the floor. 

‘Have him taken to the cells. Have him restrained.’

Without turning around, Angel went to the bedroom and shut the door very carefully behind him.  

It seemed God still reserved his best punishments for sodomites.

Angel confronted Spike, Ingram—he couldn’t call him one or think of him as the other, so kept a neutral no name thought in his head—the following evening. He’d been too busy before. It was amazing just how busy he could keep himself when he wanted.

He’d listened to the translated tape with Wesley. He’d set the entire resources of the research department onto finding a cure for whatever Ingram had done, but he could tell from Wesley’s expression that the man had heard the despair, heard the helplessness in his voice. They both felt they’d gone through this with Fred. They were here again but no closer to a solution.

Spike was lying on the bunk in the cell with his feet on the bars, humming.

Angel stood outside the bars for a moment then turned and left. 

He’d actually seem himself entering the cell, yanking the pants off the tight backside and fucking it against the bars.  

His cock strained to be free, distorting the front of his pants. He wondered for a moment if Ingram had extended the spell to him as well: some magical attraction that kept him straining and yearning for that body. He knew somewhere though, in whatever rational part of his brain he had left, that it wasn’t magical. It was passion set free after a hundred years of suppression.  It was passion given a name at last.  He’d come out with an extinction level event bang. You don’t recover from that in one night.

Suddenly deciding to ignore his erection—after all, Spike… Ingram (he would have to decide which to think of him)… Spike had kinda seen it all already. He’d sucked it, licked it, tightened his ass around it and drained it dry.  Or Ingram had.  

He stood again at the bars. ‘Get up.’

‘I am up.’  Ingram brushed his hand over his jeans. ‘Wanna see?’

‘Stand up. Get on your feet.’

Ingram swung his legs off the bed and stood up.  ‘So, what now? Have you vented your anger, listened to the spell, set your best brains on it…?’

‘Two out of three. Tell me why you’ve done this.’

‘Why?’ Ingram frowned. ‘You’re a fine one to ask me that! You’ve taken this body twice. You craved him when he was alive, and you craved him all this time since! And you ask me why I wanted this body!’

‘You had a pretty good one….’

‘I had one that was dying.  My lifestyle wasn’t conducive to a long life, Angel.’

‘You were sick?’

‘I had AIDS.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel—what? Sympathy for you? Understanding that you’ve done this?’

‘I don’t give a fuck whether you understand or not. It’s done. It can’t be undone. I’ve got a body I can fuck my way to eternity and back with—totally invulnerable to any disease. Shit, I enjoyed bare-backing this body. Now I’m gonna do that with it instead.’

Angel’s arm snaked through the bars so quickly Ingram didn’t see it coming. He grasped his T-shirt and pulled him to the bars.  ‘You have made a fatal mistake, Ingram. You’ve stolen something that belongs to me. I will have it back.’

Ingram shrugged. ‘And you’ve made such progress dislodging Illyria.’

Angel suddenly let him go. He spun around and went swiftly up to the lab. 

Illyria was turning slowing in the streaks of light, as if trying to count dust motes.

‘Illyria.’

‘Angel’

‘You sensed him inside Spike, didn’t you?’

She came up close and held his gaze unnervingly. ‘I sense Spike within you now. Passion. It is abhorrent to me.’

‘That’s because you’re a cold-hearted bitch. Now, tell me. What he’s done is not related to you at all, is it? That’s what the whole double bluff has been about—telling us he had information about you. It was to make us link what he’s done with what you’ve done.  But it’s not. He’s not you. You were a fucking God (he mumbled something else here, and her eyes widened, half-hearing the insult), but he was just a man. I want to know what he’s done.’

‘Why do you think I will inconvenience myself with such trivial things as your infatuation? I, who walked the earth….’

‘Blah. I’ve heard it before. I’ll tell you why, because somewhere in that cold heart of yours beats the faint memories of another whose heart was wider than your ego: Fred. Fred loved Spike. She was willing to give her life for Spike, and she would want to help him now. She’s inside you somewhere: her love, her memories.

Illyria nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I do feel this thing you call love for the soft one.’

‘The… soft one…?’

She eyed him coolly. ‘His heart was soft. For you.’ 

Angel’s breath hitched in, so he decided to stop breathing.  ‘Help me. Please.’

She looked surprised. ‘You solicit help for him and then for yourself. Are they equivalent?’

‘Yes. They are.’

‘Then I am sorry for you. There is no help.’  She turned away. ‘I am uninterested in this conversation now.’ 

He grabbed her arm.

It was hard to hear her reply and fly backward through the air, but he reckoned he carried it off with aplomb. ‘Spike is gone. Fred is gone. Now, half breed, take your wriggling passions away from me.’

His head ringing from the contact with the wall, Angel rose to his feet. He swallowed and left, and if he’d had a tail, he’d have had it well tucked.

As Angel travelled back up in the elevator, a call came through on his cell phone. He literally staggered, the sound catapulting him back to the last time he had heard it ring—as he had sat and listened to Spike despairing and needing him.  

It did not put him in a receptive mood to hear the pronouncement from Spec Ops. ‘We’ve found the coat, Sir.’

Angel had them bring it to his office.  If he was hoping the trappings of power would bolster him, it worked only while they were there. Left alone with the last tangible evidence of Spike’s existence, Angel did not hold together so well.  For the first time, he accepted that Spike was gone.  He knew that in his heart he had accepted Fred’s loss, and it now ended there: a friend missed. Yet he understood already that the missing of Spike would be endless. For the first time, he saw how much he had taken Spike for granted—not as his chidle, not for their shared history and memories. He had taken for granted the strong, intelligent, resourceful man who had emerged from that fuck-up childe. 

For the first time in a very long time, Angel had no idea what to do—no idea what he was going to do about Spike, or Ingram. He laughed a small bitter laugh, and Wesley, entering the office, said softly, ‘I’m glad you can still do that, Angel.’

‘I was just thinking: Spingram? or Ingike.’

Wesley winced. ‘Please, neither.’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘I think your options are limited—as were mine.’

Angel looked up sharply. ‘Fred?’

Wesley nodded. ‘I could have destroyed the thing that took her. I could have abandoned it—I chose to study it.’

‘So you can learn how to bring her back….’

Wesley gave a small, sad smile and shook his head. ‘No. I know that’s not possible. I’ve always known it really. I like the pretence, I think. It’s comforting.  Spike knew there was no way. He was more of a realist like that.’

Angel turned to stare out of the window to keep his expression private. Hearing Spike’s name, so casually used in the past tense was… distressing. Angel wasn’t ready to give in to tears just yet. ‘You’re wrong. He did this thing with Ingram because he believed it could work.’

‘Oh, Angel, are you really that stupid?’ Angel turned, angry, and Wesley came closer with a small gesture of contrition. ‘He did it because you believed it. He wanted to keep your hope alive.’

Angel mastered his feelings as he always did. ‘What do I do with him now? I can’t let him… go.’

‘Why not?’

Angel frowned. It was so obvious he was surprised he had to spell it out to Wesley. By the time he’d opened his mouth to reply, the clarity had left him. Why not indeed…?

‘I can’t let Ingram have Spike’s body.’

‘I’m not sure you have any choice now.’

‘No!’ 

Wesley laid a hand on Angel’s arm. ‘Whatever you do, I’ll be here, Angel. I’m sorry we argued. I mean….’

Angel covered Wesley’s hand. ‘Will you keep working on Ingram for me? If there is a way….’ Angel turned back to the view, this time to keep Wesley’s expression private. He didn’t want to be humoured. 

When he was ready, he went back to the holding cells and released Ingram.  All the way he’d thought the name quite easily. As soon as he saw the slim blond figure rise from the bed, it was Spike again, and he oscillated between the names in his mind as he was speaking. ‘I can’t hold you indefinitely.’

‘Well, okay then.’ He stretched and slid elegantly out of the open door.  ‘What now?’

Angel hadn’t worked this out. He shrugged. ‘I’m not going to put you in a glass room and study you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘What?’

Angel seized his arm. ‘You don’t have his memories!’

Ingram snatched his arm away. ‘Am I free to go?’

Angel turned his back and walked away without replying. He couldn’t keep Ingram, but he wasn’t about to admit that he would ever be free.

To his distinct unease, Ingram followed him up to the apartment and flung himself on the couch. He pouted. ‘This body has its own way of moving. It’s like I’m just on it for the ride… so to—hey!’ 

Angel dragged him up by the front of his T-shirt. ‘Never—never speak so lightly of what you’ve done.’

Ingram slid his hands onto Angel’s arms, rubbing his thumbs gently over the cotton of his shirt. ‘Let’s fuck.’

Angel pulled away as if Spike’s flesh burnt him. 

Ingram laughed. ‘Don’t give me that look.’

Angel backhanded him into the couch then dragged him up again. ‘I won’t make the same mistake twice: mistaking you for Spike. You are a parasite inside….’

‘You didn’t even make it once, Angel.’ He banged his hands off and poked him in the chest. ‘You knew! That’s why you’re beating yourself up today. Last night—you knew it was me. You heard me under his voice. And do you know what?’ He poked Angel triumphantly. ‘You were glad! You were actually glad that he was gone and you could have this body at last without the irritating person that usually inhabited it.  See, I know you, Angel. You’re top dog. You can never be less than that—never show weakness or need, never cry in front of anyone, never sweat or pant or do anything that takes you off the pedestal of superiority you wanted to be on in his eyes.  You thought good and fucked his body while he was out.’

It wasn’t true—Angel’s head told him quite happily that none of it was true, but his heart, always ready to betray him with guilt, told him something quite other. He listened to his heart and believed the lie.

Ingram nodded, seeing the capitulation. ‘We’ll fuck because you still crave this body and what it can do for you.  You’ll hold me, and in your mind I’ll be the perfect Spike: silent, absent and worshiping you by default.’

Angel hit him, which was a mistake, for it swiftly led to other things—things that gave him as much guilt as anything he’d done since getting his soul back.

Afterwards, they lay on the bed, sated, Ingram’s head on Angel’s belly. It was blond, rumpled and sticky with cum, and it was so easy to pretend it was Spike Angel left it there. 

‘What are you thinking?’

Angel hesitated then replied, ‘That one day I might just up and kill you for not being him.’

‘Perhaps I’ll become more like him the longer I stay in this incredible body—the more you come in this incredible body.’

Angel rose and pushed him off. ‘Get dressed and fuck off somewhere else.’

Ingram rose more leisurely, watching Angel as he stripped the bed angrily. ‘Guess I’ll go make sure all my money’s gotten transferred as I requested. You’re going to have a rich relative, Angel. Mind if I shower first?’

Angel only twitched up his eyebrow, and Ingram laughed. They both knew what had been the first thought that had stabbed into Angel’s mind.

Angry with himself for thinking of Spike’s body under the water, glistening and hot, Angel grabbed his clothes and went into the living room to dress.  He was still hard, despite the number of times he’d entered Spike’s body, despite the number of times he’d ejaculated into the willing channel—willing because its owner was absent.

He heard the sound of something breaking and turned quickly back to the bedroom.  

His fist covered in blood, Ingram was staring at the remains of the mirror in the bathroom, splinters of glass littering the sink. Angel swore, ‘What the…?’

‘It’s not possible.’

‘What’s not fucking possible? Look at this damn mess!’ If the thought flickered through his mind that Ingram had already begun to be more like Spike, he suppressed it.

‘It’s not possible that we don’t show up in mirrors.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did your research thoroughly. Information, power, and all that jazz.’

‘I knew it. I didn’t believe it. It’s not possible. I have form and substance, atoms and molecules. I exist. A mirror is purely a reflection; it has no conscious choice what it shows and what it doesn’t. This is against the laws of nature, and I refuse to accept it. He broke some more pieces off angrily, as if with this abuse they would obey his command.  

Angel stared at him, his whole body rigid with the need to control the huge rush of hope that had swamped him.  He tried to say in his normal angry voice, ‘Have this lot cleaned up when I get back.’

‘What makes you think I’ll still be here when you get back? I’ve got a new life to start living and….’

Angel had never put more into a performance. He came up behind Ingram and slipped his arms around his waist, staring into the remaining pieces of mirror. ‘Because you know what you want as much as I do. You want my body….’

‘And you want his.’

Angel flicked up an eyebrow in what he hoped was an expression of resignation.  ‘Then we have something in common.’

Ingram smiled. Angel’s heart broke a little more, but he turned nonchalantly and went out of sight to the elevator. 

He was running by the time he entered the lab.  

Wesley looked up from his computer, startled. ‘Science, Wes. We need to find out what he was doing when he was sacked from Fred’s school.’

‘I’m not with you, Angel.’  

‘He got out of bed and looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t accept it—don’t you see? He said it was against the laws of nature! What? So—taking Spike’s body wasn’t! So maybe it wasn’t! Maybe it was just done through science, and the fucking mumbling incantation was another bluff: smoke and mirrors to deflect us!’

Wesley was looking at him curiously, and Angel flinched. ‘What?’

‘Bed? I don’t think it’s a good idea that you get so… close to him….’ 

Angel actually blushed, as much as his preternatural paleness would allow, and he picked up a pen that suddenly needed close examination. ‘He’s very like Spike—physically.’

Wesley nodded as if the observation actually deserved that much. ‘Rather a given as it is Spike’s body.  You resisted Spike quite happily for over a century. Do you not think you could try a little restraint now?’

Angel narrowed his eyes. ‘Illyria wants you.’

It was Wesley’s turn to blush. ‘Perhaps I’m showing more restraint with these creatures we know nothing about.’

Angel pouted. ‘Anyway. Ingram’s research. I want to know what it was.’ 

Wesley opened his mouth to protest, but his phone buzzed, and he pressed the speaker button. ‘Wyndham-Price.’ 

He blushed and picked the handset up, turning away slightly. ‘Yes.’

Angel put a hand on the phone. ‘Who is it?’

Wesley hesitated then put the man back on speaker. ‘It’s Special Ops. I asked them to keep on eye on Ingram if he tried to leave the building.’

Angel suppressed his anger and said calmly, ‘Let’s hear what they have to say then.’

Wesley said, ‘Yes,’ once more, and the disembodied voice replied, ‘We have Spike in our sights now. He’s heading west on foot.’

Wesley looked up at Angel. ‘Do you want this done?’

Angel cursed but nodded, and Wesley said, ‘Don’t lose him. I want to know where he goes and what he does.’

He put the phone down. ‘I’m sorry, Angel, but Illyria is not Fred, and Ingram is not Spike.  It’s the reason I’ve kept the distance between us—so I don’t forget that fact.’

Angel nodded petulantly. 

‘Do you know where he’s going?’

‘He said something about money.’

‘Ah. Well, I guess I’ll make a visit to the University research department once more.’  For a moment they were both still, remembering Fred: her excitement at being chosen to present her paper, the horror that had followed.  Angel nodded, seemingly strengthened. ‘I need to concentrate on getting Gunn back. This has… distracted me.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Good.’ He glanced to the floor below. ‘I actually think she misses him.’

‘Gunn?’

‘Spike. They seemed to enjoy the sparring sessions. She misses him.’ He looked up but Angel had gone. He reflected on degrees of missing as he drove sadly over to Fred’s old haunts.

Angel got the call about an hour later. Unable to raise Wesley, the commander of the Special Ops team called him.  ‘He’s hunting, Sir.’

Angel felt an icy trickle down his spine. This, he had not reckoned on. It was an unwelcome reminder just how far Spike had come on his journey to be a better man: Angel no longer associated Spike with his demonic desires.  ‘Only intervene if there is no other option. I’m on my way.’

The team were sitting in a discrete van in a quiet side street, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Angel beckoned to the commander, and the young man climbed out, gesturing with some evident distaste toward a club. ‘He’s in there.’

Angel gritted his teeth as he saw what the club was. ‘I don’t think he’s… hunting.’

The man shrugged. ‘I’m thinking he could bite someone in there, and they wouldn’t even object.’

Angel crossed the street and entered the dance club. As with the club Spike had taken him to before, this one was packed with young men, gyrating to the music.  

He took up a position over the floor, leaning on the rail of the deck and tried to spot Spike. It didn’t take long. The light caught on his hair, making it glow, bright even in this world of bright young things.

He was dancing, Ingram clearly at home in this environment, and now enjoying a body younger and less exhaustible than his own. The Spec Ops commander had been right: it was hard to tell this activity from hunting.  Ingram seemed to have cut a young man off from the crowd; he had him cornered by the wall, mesmerising him apparently with the swaying of his body. After a while, he entwined their fingers and pulled him into the dark under the deck.

Angel jogged down the steps and followed. The place reminded him of opium dens he’d visited in another life, except here the occupants were always in pairs. He felt drugged: entwining bodies, sounds of pleasure and pain, and seemingly quite at home, Spike’s lithe beauty drawing him on.

Ingram was bucking against the young man. Angel wanted to leave, didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to hear it. Yet something made him stay. Something wasn’t quite right. 

He tore Ingram away, and the blond figure snarled at him, in full game face, blood dripping from his fangs.  It turned Angel on as much as it revolted him, and before he could let the wrong emotion overtake him, he punched into the demonic face. Ingram crumpled into his victim.  Angel picked him up, settled him over his shoulder and pushing through the dancing figures, carried Spike out to the van.

He deposited him on the floor and said brusquely. ‘Put him in the cells again.’

Wesley winced when Angel slammed the door so hard a couple of his books fell off a shelf. ‘Spike?’

Angel didn’t bother to even confirm this. ‘What did you find out?’

‘I found out that people didn’t like Ingram.’

‘Well, colour me surprised.’ Angel flung himself down onto the couch. ‘He’s back in the cells.’

‘Trouble?’

‘He bit someone.’

Wesley made a face, and Angel immediately bristled. ‘What?’

‘Well…. No, I’m not even going to try and say it.’

Angel rose. ‘What? Tell me.’

Wesley went back to his research with a murmured, ‘And that tone encourages confidences.’

Angel perched on the edge of the desk next to him and, after a moment, reached over and placed one finger lightly on Wesley’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a pissy few centuries, Wesley. It catches up on you, ya know?’

Wesley blinked ruefully. ‘I was going to say that maybe you should treat him more like Spike in other ways than you are….’

Angel pouted, not liking the way this was going so far.

‘I mean…. All right, put it this way: what would you do if that had been Spike tonight?’

Angel tipped his head to one side, regarding him. ‘I’d—. I’d point out the error of his ways.’

‘At last. I think it’s time you showed Spike more discipline and less….’

‘Less?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry. I was trying to think of sometime that begins with D to describe what you are currently doing… alliteration? Only one came to mind—and that’s not a word I particularly want to use with you when you are only inches away and thinking about disciplining Spike.’

Angel rose, coughed slightly and adjusted his jacket. Wesley slid his chair further under the desk.  ‘Quite.  Where are you going?’

‘To play a little game called sire and childe.’

Ingram was lying on Spike’s back, working Spike’s cock. It was such an outrage, an insult, that Angel hardly had to open the cell door: he almost melted the bars with his rage.

Ingram cursed when he was dragged from the bed and slammed into the wall.  ‘This is the second time tonight you’ve stopped me getting off, Angel. What’s with you?’

‘With me? I’ll tell you what’s with me….’ Ingram flew backward into the bars on the opposite side of the cell and slid down in a heap to the floor.  Angel heaved him up again.  ‘You have some lessons to learn about being a vampire that you couldn’t get from those books of yours.’

‘There’s nothing you can…. Oofff.’  He doubled up with pain as Angel’s fist sank into his abs.  

Angel hauled him up again. ‘You’re wrong, Ingram. I can teach you about pain. You’ve still got a human sensibility inside that invulnerable body. You have no idea what real pain feels like.’ He proceeded to demonstrate the feeling to Ingram for a while longer.

By the time Ingram was once more face to the wall, he was bleeding copiously into it, and was, Angel noticed, far less vocal in his outrage.

He leant against the smaller body. ‘Have you learnt your lesson, Bodythief?’

Ingram took a breath then said softly, ‘I’ve learnt that causing pain gives you the biggest freaking hard on I’ve seen on anyone, and that feeling the pain’s done the same for me.’

Angel grunted and leant harder on the slim body.  He shoved his hand down the back of the jeans and slid it over the cool cheeks, parting them, seeking a slightly warmer indentation.  Ingram cried out in triumph and pleasure as Angel’s finger circled him.  Angel smiled and brushed the elegant neck with his lips. ‘Like that?’

Ingram nodded and arched slightly, panting, ‘Yeah.’

‘Hmm.  Good, isn’t it? Pleasure and pain. See… I give both, and I take both away.’ He bit savagely into Ingram’s neck, deliberately ripping into the skin carelessly, slicing with his fangs until the tough outer layer gave and the blood spurted onto his tongue.  He sucked viciously, and for every long pull of blood, he rammed his finger into the dry hole.  The body began to sag in his arms, and he swung them around and lay on Ingram face down on the bed, still taking him: fangs and finger, hard, remorseless and with absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

‘Angel…?’

Angel grunted and withdrew his mouth long enough to say, ‘You took the body; you take the role.’

‘Angel…?’

Angel snatched his mouth off, and it hung open as his mind processed the sound.  Very cautiously, his heart almost beating once more, he croaked, ‘Spike?’

Spike licked his lips as if they were dry and he was puzzled as to why this was. ‘What happened?’

Angel cried out and flung him over onto his back, pulling his hand free of the jeans and clamping the other one over the spurting wound. ‘Spike?’

‘Bloody hell, Angel, what the fuck is happening?’

‘Spike?’

‘Duh! Will you stop sodding saying that!’

‘Spike!’

‘Angel!’ Spike tried to sit up, but he groaned and held his head. ‘Fucking hell, what did that bastard give me?’

‘Spike?’

Spike narrowed his eyes, then reared up and head-butted Angel on the nose. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

Angel held his nose. ‘He was glad of the pain and something to do with his hands. He was afraid he was going to kiss Spike.’

He lowered his hands. ‘What do you remember? I mean—.’

‘Hey, some fucker took my coat! Angel! Some wino took my bloody….’

‘It’s upstairs. It’s okay….’ And was he really discussing a piece of leather when…? ‘Spike…?’

Spike suddenly smiled and lay back on the bed with a rueful squint. ‘Are you lying on me?’ Before Angel could reply, Spike suddenly turned his head and said in outrage, ‘Hey, this is a fucking cell!’ His eyes widened and then he looked intensely suspicious. ‘Are you making a freaking porn movie with my unconscious body?’ He dislodged Angel’s hand and felt the wound himself. ‘You bit me! Ouch!’

Angel began to laugh, and that seemed to freak Spike out even more than waking up to find Angel lying on him and biting him in a cell.  He tried to sit up again but collapsed back onto the bed. He put a hand to his temple. ‘What’s happening to me?’

‘You were with…. Spike?’ Angel took his shoulders and shook him, trying to bring back the focus in his eyes. Spike’s head lolled, and he murmured, ‘He’s too strong. I’m… sorry….’ Angel cried out and slapped him. 

‘No! Spike! You’re stronger than him. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re way stronger than me! Spike! Please!’ 

Blue eyes focused on him again, and a weak voice said, ‘You bastard, you sucked me until I passed out!’

Angel climbed off and went to the bars, peering out nonchalantly as if he’d not just had a conversation with his childe.  ‘Learn your lesson, Ingram.’

Ingram didn’t reply, but he sat up slowly. ‘What now?’

Angel laughed. ‘You know what? I’m suddenly not so keen to have you running around damaging that body. You stay here.’

‘What! You can’t….’

Angel swung the door shut and walked away.

‘You want me! You can’t have me if I’m in here! Angel! Come the fuck back! You want me!’

As Angel walked away as calmly as he could, he had never felt more keenly the contrast between what he really wanted from that blond body and what was being offered now.

Chapter 6

Wesley had gone home, so Angel made his way over there and knocked hard on the door.  Wesley had been in the shower and answered cautiously, peering around the door, a towel around his waist and another one rubbing his hair.  ‘Angel!’

‘He came back. Spike came back.’

Wesley opened the door and stepped back. He hesitated then said precisely, ‘Illyria is Fred sometimes. I don’t mean she puts Fred on… she is Fred more than Fred was. It’s something she does….’

‘No. This isn’t like that. It was Spike. He had no memory of Ingram in his body.’ He pouted and mumbled, ‘Not like that, anyway.’

‘You’re mistaken. You must be.’

‘Why? We know this isn’t like Illyria. We know that’s just what Ingram wanted us to think. I told you—science. Spike is still in there, and we can bring him back.’

‘No! This is delusion. You’re deluded.’

Angel slammed him back against the wall. ‘Do you think I don’t know my own childe?’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘I could ask you that, Angel. You’re the one I found about to fuck what you thought was Spike.’

Angel’s face crumpled, and he spun away.  Wesley cursed and went to pour him a drink. ‘I’m sorry. Being with the Goddess-Of-The-Blunt-Comment I’m losing my ability to tell white lies.’

‘I don’t want your lies, Wesley; I want your help.’  Angel took the offered drink and downed it in one. ‘He’s in there. I know.’

Wesley nodded. ‘All right. It’s possible that what I’ve discovered so far supports that to some extent.’

Angel grabbed his arm. ‘What?’

Wesley made a face. ‘It’s not much, but I did discover the reason why he was banned from the research facilities.’ He gestured to the couch, and they sat side by side. After a moment, Wesley adjusted the towel and glanced toward the bedroom as if he wanted to put on something more substantial. He sighed and then said, ‘Everyone had to put in a research proposal. I saw Fred’s.’ He smiled softly. ‘In her handwriting. All those tiny squiggles she loved….’ Angel didn’t have the heart to interrupt, but he pictured tearing Wesley’s head off to dip into his brain and lick the information he wanted.  ‘Ingram’s proposal was based upon some experiments that had been done some years before, and when it was examined by his professors, they cut off his research grant. He was banned from the facilities.’ He got up and poured himself a drink, and with his back to Angel, asked softly, ‘Have you ever heard of Mengele?’

‘Josef?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Sure. I met him once.’

Wesley whirled around.  

Angel hunched into himself. ‘What about him?’

‘Well, one of his obsessions was on personality—how it develops and changes. He did his most infamous experiments on twins, trying to discover how one twin’s personality varied from the other—how they could be… altered.’

‘So?’

‘Well, in Ingram’s proposal, he wanted to take this further. He said he had developed a way to clone a person.’

‘Not gonna win him the Nobel Prize! Been done!’

‘He believed he could clone a person’s mind—personality if you like. He proposed that he could grow a different person inside someone.’

Angel rose from the couch and began to pace. ‘Clone? You mean transfer a person with….’

‘DNA, yes. Transfer a personality through selected strands of DNA, then accelerated cloning.’

‘But how could he have given Spike his…. Oh.’

‘Hmm. It rather explains the bizarre request to start with, doesn’t it? The… one night….’

‘He implanted Spike with his personality. Is that what you are trying to tell me?’

‘Yes. I think that’s exactly what he did.’

‘So, what about Spike?’

‘It appears—if what you say is true, and as I’m wearing only a very small towel, I really don’t want to dispute with you now—that Spike is still in there. Perhaps—and this is mere speculation on my part—perhaps Spike was too strong a personality to entirely displace.’

‘Why can’t he fight back? Why can’t he push him out? When I bit him, he….’

‘When you what?’

‘Bit him. You said discipline….’

‘Ah, yes, and a stern lecture and being sent to his room just wouldn’t have done…. But this may be the key….’

‘Huh?’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘Oh.’ Angel paced, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The towel was very skimpy.

‘DNA. Spike’s demonic DNA. I don’t know what it is, but you must have it.’

‘Huh?’

‘It was boosted when you treated him like a demon. Somehow, that enabled him to assert his DNA over Ingram’s.’ He saw Angel’s mystified expression. ‘You called to him, Angel.’

‘Oh. So… I just bite or hit….’

‘Hmm. Hardly practical. And Ingram was still in there, despite Spike’s spectacular return.  No, we need something permanent.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, I have no idea.  I just pose the hypothesis that we need it.’

Angel gave him a dark look. 

Wesley looked nervous.

Angel made for the door. ‘Let’s see how much Ingram really wants to be a member of the House of Aurelius.’

Wesley shivered, and tried to tell himself that it was just the cold.

It was then a painful time for all of them. Wesley went back to doing what he did best: watching—watching Angel trying to beat the human out of Spike.  Occasionally it worked, and Spike would speak from the battered body, but in an irony that made Angel weep, he could not stay: the pain from the beating fading him in and out of consciousness, even as Angel fought for him to stay.  In despair, Angel would then feed him his blood, which left him too weak to be vicious enough to bring Spike back. Using Spike’s fantastic strength, Ingram then wounded Angel so often he had to retreat. 

After a week of watching Angel suffer, Wesley was not there one day. Angel did not notice his absence, intent as he was on Spike. No sexual absorption could have rivalled the total physical obsession he had with Spike’s body: every place where pain could be more effectively produced, where defeat could be efficiently harvested and fear tuned to demonic fury was known. He studied skin and muscle and tendon as he never had before.

The moments when he held the bloodied body in his arms and Spike came back were worth all the pain hurting him caused. Spike tried to resist being held so intimately, but they both knew his protests were sham—that he was more than happy to lie with his head on Angel’s lap, as he tried to keep Ingram at bay. Angel was careful not to let Ingram know of Spike’s returns, but he tried to encourage Spike by telling him snippets of Ingram’s activities—how he used and abused Spike’s body.  Some things though, he kept hidden; some things he dreaded Spike discovering.  

The world outside the lab and the cell became irrelevant to Angel. He took Ingram in hard, vicious combat during the day then took him at night in different ways—ways that left them equally exhausted, only degrees of his guilt differentiating between the two.

One day, fighting as usual, the world intruded: Illyria appeared. One minute there had been space, and the next, it was filled by Illyria.  Angel began to speak, but she winked out as quickly as she had appeared.  That night, far more disconcertingly, she appeared again.  With Ingram pressed to bars of the cell, Angel deep in his arse, she appeared once more.  She stared at them and then was gone.  Furious and embarrassed in equal measure, Angel pulled out, and for the first time in many nights left them both unsatisfied. 

Wesley was in bed when Angel arrived, but he wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He pulled on some pants and answered the door, fairly sure who it was.

Angel didn’t even wait to be offered a seat. ‘What the fuck is she doing?’

Wesley nodded. ‘You’ve seen it too.’

‘Seen her, yeah! Kinda when I didn’t need to!’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that all you’re going to say: ah!’

‘What do you want me to say, Master?’ He genuflected, and Angel had the grace to flush. 

‘What the hell is happening?’

‘She’s outgrown this dimension, I think. It’s cracking apart.’

‘Huh! Should I be saying shit?’

‘I have once or twice.’

Angel sat down on the couch and ran his fingers though his hair, suddenly aware he hadn’t showered and that he still stank of Spike. He liked it, but he was fairly sure Wesley wouldn’t. ‘We have to do something.’

‘I know. I’ve…. There’s possibly a way. It involves… draining her power.’

‘Well, good, so?’

‘She’s not going to consent.’

‘You plot to destroy me.’

Wesley was pleased to see Angel jumped as much as he did. Illyria stared at them both, her head on one side, her eyes less dog-like now—more snake about to strike.  Angel stood up slowly. ‘How are you doing this?’

‘Why do you reek of the other half-breed?’

‘Huh?’

‘Spike. Your body swims in his essence.’

‘I—.’ Angel tried to stay in a commanding position, which suddenly wasn’t easy. ‘We’ve been fighting. You know that. You watch.’

‘You lie. Your tongue slides deceitful over the truth. Spike fights with me.’

Angel glanced at Wesley, and when he looked back, she was gone.

‘Fuck.’

‘I concur.’

‘Did you have the impression she was confused?’

Wesley licked his lips. ‘I think she was from a previous time.’

Angel suddenly laughed and grabbed Wesley’s arm. ‘We can use this! We can go back and….’

‘Angel! For God’s sake! I don’t even know if she knows what’s happening, let alone being able to use this!’  

Angel bowed his head for a moment. ‘It’s not working: the beatings…. I can’t hold him here long enough….’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘What am I going to do?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ll tackle her tomorrow… see if she knows something….’

Angel was in Wesley’s office, waiting for him before the human arrived. The man looked tired, as if his sleepless night had continued. Angel, he noticed, was showered and looking as fresh he usually did. He harrumphed silently and slid in behind his desk. 

‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘Is this the one you wanted?’

They both turned and caught the bizarre sight of Gunn falling to the ground. They were so stunned that neither moved forward nor spoke. Illyria looked down like a lioness with prey and repeated her question.

The quickest to recover, Wesley suddenly jumped and said blankly, ‘Yes. He is.’

She looked directly at Angel. ‘I am owed.’ With an icy look she spun around and strode out.

Angel watched her retreating back as he helped Gunn to his feet and murmured to Wesley, ‘She knows we need to stop her. This was an… offering.’  

‘I’m afraid—incredible as it is—it won’t be enough.’ 

Gunn looked between them bleakly, and Wesley patted him on the arm and led him out.

Angel went to his office to think. It was something he used to do a lot but had given over in preference to actually doing: thoughtless action that he now regretted. Even now, even trying to concentrate on Gunn or Illyria, his mind was on Spike. It was exhausting and distracting: thinking about Spike’s body, knowing it wasn’t him inside as he did things to it that gave him so much pleasure, then thinking about Spike and what would happen when he came back, if he did, if he didn’t, and then it all began again… thoughts of the body that consumed him with need. Guilt flooded his soul like a pool of tar: black and sticky and burning.  Occasionally, just occasionally, the thought flitted across his mind that he’d be better off if Spike didn’t return. Angel had no doubt that the privileges Ingram allowed him with the slim, hard body its true owner would not. In very bleak moments, to torture himself to the maximum, Angel allowed himself to wish that Ingram would retain possession of Spike’s body—as long as he shared it with him.

When he looked up from his reverie, Wesley was watching him from the door. Angel started and tried to look busy. ‘What?’

‘I want to try something—with Illyria. I need your help.’

Angel stood up. ‘What?’

‘I think I have a way to drain her power, but she will know what I’m going to do. You have to do it.’

‘Why won’t she read me, too?’

‘Because you’ll be fighting with Ingram as usual. She’ll be distracted. I’ll speak to her; when her back is turned, you have to do it.’

Angel handled the large weapon with ease, but with a look of scepticism Wesley did not miss. ‘All you have to do is fire it at her, and she’ll be… drained.  Go get Ingram.’

Ingram seemed in a good mood.  He didn’t want to fight; he wanted to do something else that began with f, but Angel wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t in the mood when Ingram grabbed him and rubbed them together. He wasn’t in the mood when the blond figure dropped to his knees and unzipped him. He wasn’t in the mood as Ingram sucked and fondled and enjoyed himself on his knees. He got slightly more into the mood when he came; then he cried out and felt his knees weaken. He quickly reverted to pissy though, so zipped up and dragged Ingram to his feet and out of the door.

They walked side by side down to the lab, Angel’s arm protectively on Ingram, not that he thought the man would try to run, but to remind him not to bother to try.

He wasn’t sure who he hated more as he made the long elevator descent. It was a close run thing, but he reckoned he hated himself just a little more than his companion on the ride—not for enjoying the blowjob, but for knowing that he would never get one from Spike. Once he thought that, there was no other thought to think but how much more pleasant life would be if Spike never came back.

He was so angry when he exited the elevator that he almost crashed into a maintenance cart that had been positioned too close to the doors. He gracefully sidestepped, but heard a crash from behind and turned to find Ingram sprawled on the floor.

Before he could intervene, Ingram leapt to his feet and tore into the man who’d been pushing the cart.  ‘You fucking ugly little runt! I’m gonna tear your fucking heart out and stick it….’

‘Hey!’ Really angry, Angel tore Ingram off the small, inoffensive (but really incredibly ugly) man.  As he held the outraged body of what had once been his childe, Angel had one of his rare moments of complete clarity. All the confusion and darkness that obscured his view of the truth lifted. He didn’t want this man. He wanted Spike back. He wanted the one who’d have leapt to his feet and cursed, but made it into a joke. He wanted the one who’d have mock-punched the small man and made him feel okay about it. He wanted the one who’d have lit a cigarette and shared it with him, utterly unconcerned about his appearance or anyone else’s.  He wanted Spike.

The fight was uneven, Angel—cresting on righteous fury that he couldn’t force Spike to come back to him, that he’d wasted so much time over the years not appreciating what he had, and that now he had Ingram’s spittle on his dick, not Spike’s—had the best of the hits to start with.

Ingram soon caught up though.  Glimpsing Wesley and Illyria by the door, Angel became distracted—not by the thought of what he had to do, but by something in his friend’s expression.  It was habitually bleak these days, but now there was something else there too: something almost demonic. It nagged at Angel that he might have missed something in the man’s conversation to explain this away, but he could not bring the faint disquiet to the surface and examine it—not while he was being pounded into the wall by Ingram, anyway.

Ingram was triumphant, and crowed as he drew blood from Angel’s forehead and nose.  Angel pushed him back and noticed that Illyria and Wesley had parted and that he and Ingram were now between them. He held Ingram in a headlock to stop the pummelling, and then pushed him away, making a show of heading over to the towels, which covered the weapon.

He sensed Wesley was ready, moved the towels to one side, hefted the weapon and, without hesitation, aimed it at Illyria. 

A bright beam arced from the weapon, or from her—Angel couldn’t tell which.  He wasn’t concentrating too much for at the exact same time that he hit Illyria, Wesley stepped casually forward and pushed Ingram into the light stream.

Angel’s arms shook with the effort to contain the power surging out of Illyria. He couldn’t scream or drop the weapon, despite trying to do both. Ingram hung illuminated and suspended as the power, like lightning, surged through him. Angel didn’t notice what Illyria did, until he fell, drained, and the light went out.  Ingram fell too. Angel wondered if time was playing tricks on them for it seemed to take him a lifetime to get to his feet and cross the small space between them. He cradled Spike’s head in his lap in so familiar a way that he was almost not surprised when the blue eyes opened and focused on him.  Angel licked his lips. Spike blinked. ‘He’s gone.’

Angel lifted his eyes to Wesley, who was watching his demon obsession from afar, a look of intense sorrow on his face. He seemed to sense Angel’s regard and pouted. ‘He needed more of a boost than you could give him. I hoped this would work.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because you’d have put it before the need to stop Illyria. If it had killed Spike—burnt him up—you would have stopped. I couldn’t let that happen.’

Abashed at the truth in this, Angel lowered his face to Spike’s. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Spike pushed him off and leapt nimbly to his feet. ‘What the fuck is happening here at all? Okay, I’m just going to have a universal what the fuck! Cus, this is freaking me out!’

Angel stood up. ‘Are you sure he’s gone?’

Spike gave him one of this best you-are-such-a-total-wanker looks, which more than anything persuaded Angel that he had.

Spike went over to Illyria. ‘What’s up with you, bint?’

She looked up at him, the weight of a thousand worlds on her shoulders. ‘I am empty.’

‘Yeah. So am I. Good, hey?’  He turned around, surveying the room, rubbing the side of his face. ‘Is this permanent?’

Neither Wesley nor Angel knew if he was speaking of Illyria or himself so didn’t reply. Spike just circled his shoulders and nodded. ‘Okay, talk to yourself Spike. I’m going for a drink. I’m going to get totally plastered.’

He stomped out, and Angel risked a small glance at Wesley.  Wesley pouted, looking at the defeated demon at his feet.  ‘My theory of keeping them at a distance hasn’t make it any easier, Angel. I just thought I’d tell you that.’

Angel laughed bitterly.  ‘Fucked if we fuck and fucked if we don’t.’

‘Exactly.’

‘We need to get back to work, Wesley. We need to put this behind us. It’s done now. Over.’

Wesley nodded and gave a last glance to Illyria. ‘Yes, over.’ He turned and followed Angel out.

No one saw Spike for a few days. He was very noticeable by his absence, the place seeming to go into stasis until he returned, which he did early one morning.

Angel came down from his apartment to find Spike sitting on the couch in his office, smoking, and watching smoke rings dissipate with apparent absorption.

‘Mornin’.’

Angel nodded at him and went to stand by the window. 

‘So….’

Refusing to take the bait to initiate the conversation, Angel kept silent.

Spike narrowed his eyes at Angel and stretched his legs out. ‘Nasty business.’

Angel nodded. ‘For you. Yes.’

‘Reckon you had a time of it, too.’

Angel suppressed a wince and said carefully, ‘For some reason, I didn’t like the idea of a human taking your body.’

‘Unless it suited your plans, course. Don’t forget how all this started.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The tape.’

‘Oh.’ Angel blushed deeply. ‘Destroyed.’

‘Uh huh. After you had a good listen, I’m thinking.’

Angel turned and sat at his desk, suddenly needing the safety and stability of that evidence of his power. ‘I had to listen to work out what had happened to you.’

Spike rose and crushed his cigarette under one foot. ‘I got fucked, Angel, that’s what happened to me. In more ways than one.’  He strode out with an air of arrogance that Angel did not hear in his words.

Spike went into Wesley’s office without knocking and sat on a chair without asking. He put his feet up on the desk and lit another cigarette. ‘So, human, now you’ve all had your jollies, I wanna know what the fuck happened.’

Wesley leant back in his seat. ‘I’m not sure that we know exactly. He found some way to project his mind into you.’

‘Uh huh. Project. That’s a nice little euphemism.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I’m treating you like Angel does. He somehow cloned himself inside your body through the exchange of bodily fluid. Call me sceptical, but I suspect that’s the reason he made the odd deal in the first place.’

‘And there was me thinking I was just irresistible.’

Wesley smiled faintly. ‘I think he had the whole thing worked out: taking your body, ensuring Angel’s compliance, transferring all his….’

‘Compliance?’

Wesley felt an icy stab in his bowels and glanced toward the door, just to gauge the distance. ‘I think you should discuss this with….’

‘I’m discussing this with you.’ As if to make his point, Spike swung his legs down and came around to Wesley’s side of the desk, perching in front of him. ‘Now, that’s more friendly. So, tell me how the fucker got Angel to… comply.’

‘It was a trick, Spike. He tricked Angel as effectively as he tricked you. Is Angel to be blamed for that?’

‘Stop hedging.’

‘When Ingram regained consciousness in your body, we didn’t know… of course we didn’t, how could we? We thought it was you. Angel thought it was you. By the time I discovered it wasn’t, he’d been… snared. He’d become obsessed with…. I’m sorry, I’m really not going to discuss this with you any further. You need to talk to….’

Spike seemed to agree with this assessment for he levered off the desk and strode out.  

Wesley snatched up the phone, but Angel’s was engaged.  He sank back in his chair, realised he was powerless to intervene, so switched his mind once more to Illyria.

Angel was having a fairly heated conversation on the telephone when Spike walked in. He went up to the desk and cut him off.

Angel rose, enraged. Spike had never done anything so blatantly…. He caught the expression and sat down again, replacing the handset carefully.  Spike nodded. ‘Yeah. I know.’

Angel tented his hands under his chin and decided the best course of action was to say nothing.

Spike stared at the familiar profile for a while, and suddenly, Wesley’s words caught up with him. He’d heard them, of course, only he hadn’t really… heard them. Obsessed and enraged by the idea of Angel fucking his body, he hadn’t really taken in the fact that Angel had… fucked his body.  Angel had thought it was him and… fucked him.  Suddenly, he spun on his heel and left as abruptly as he’d come.

Angel stood up and for an absurd moment wanted to restrain him as urgently as he’d wanted him to leave a second before.  He hesitated for a moment then jogged to catch him up. ‘We need to talk.’

Spike waved his hand in a small gesture of dismissal. ‘No, we don’t. I need to get drunk.’

‘That’s your answer to everything, and it’s an answer to nothing.’

‘I’m not asking you to do it.’

‘Stop. I want to explain.’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

Suddenly, Angel shoved him hard and tipped him into an empty office, standing with his back to the door to prevent him leaving. ‘We talk.’

‘Angel, stand aside or I’ll….’

‘You’ll make an unseemly amount of noise and then everyone will know your business.’

Spike narrowed his eyes in disgust at Angel’s tactics, but turned away sullenly. ‘Talk then.’

‘It was—. I was—. Okay, what do you know?’

Spike turned, curiosity in his eyes, but he appeared to let it drop. ‘I know you fucked him—when you thought it was me.’

Angel let out a silent breath of relief and nodded. ‘It was a very bad time, Spike.  You were sick; he—. I thought it was what you wanted.’

Spike came close and poked him hard in the chest. ‘Then you were very, very mistaken.’

Angel looked down at the finger. ‘That’s what he did. That’s how it started.’

Spike jumped back as if he’d been stung. A look of total disgust crossed his face. ‘How the bloody hell could you believe that was me! Jesus, Angel! We’ve known each other over a century. Have I ever given you the impression that I wanted your cock up my bottom? Have I?’

Angel hesitated for a moment, pictured hanging for a very large sheep and replied, ‘When you straddled me and ground your hard dick into me? That time, it crossed my mind that you might.’

‘You fucker! I was about to…. I just wanted it to be…. I mean—.’  Angel cocked up an eyebrow, and Spike turned away to light a cigarette. After a while, he turned back apparently calmer and said, ‘I want you to remember that it was not me.’

Angel nodded obediently.

‘I want you to forget it, in fact.’

Angel nodded again.

‘It was a one-off thing. We’ve done some weird one-off things in our time, I reckon, and this is just one of them.’

Angel risked a soft, ‘Sure,’ and added a small nod.

Spike flicked his cigarette away. ‘So, was I good?’

Angel’s jaw dropped; Spike grinned and exited through another door.

Chapter 7

They never alluded to the incident, as Angel thought of it, or the fuck, which is how Spike thought of it. They both had it on their minds when they were together though, and it created an atmosphere between them.  They’d always had an atmosphere between them, but this was different. It was almost pleasurable, and they sought it out.

Spike was in such a confusing place, that Angel’s familiarity actually calmed him: the way he always hitched his pants before crossing his legs; the way he ran his fingers through his hair when he was anxious; the way he sometimes, inexplicably, grinned as if he were merely the actor playing his role and the absurdity of it all struck him. All this was so familiar to Spike that the great hole of confusion into which he’d fallen was softened. He still fell; he just didn’t hit so hard when he landed.

And the confusion was fairly extreme for… he’d enjoyed being fucked.

So easy to think, so confusing to know….

He’d enjoyed every moment of his time with Ingram. Like a man who has only ever played polite parlour games after tea with elderly aunts, he felt the shock of discovering what down and dirty games with men could be like. The only part of the evening he had not enjoyed, had been Ingram.  He had loved the things he’d done but hated the man he done them with.

Yet now….

Spike watched everything Angel did with new eyes, the old familiarity suddenly not so familiar. When Angel hitched his pants, Spike watched the muscles in the strong thighs twitch, and his cock twitched in response. When Angel ran his fingers through his hair, Spike imagined his fingers tangled in the long, dark locks, and his mouth watered in response.

When Angel grinned, Spike wanted to press his mouth to those soft lips and taste Angel’s amusement.

He could not get it out of his head that Angel had been in his body.

How had they done it? Where? On the office desk? On the conference table? In Angel’s bed? Had he lain on his back as he had at first with Ingram, or had Angel taken him from behind, animal like, as he’d allowed Ingram to do later. What had Angel’s hands felt like on his skin? Had Angel’s tongue bathed him? What sounds had he made—had they made together?

Spike spent his entire time in a state of arousal, his body now woken to new pleasures and aching for them.

Angel ran his fingers through his hair, but stopped when he noticed Spike watching him. Spike still stared at the fingers as if in a trance, and even when spoken too, he continued to be… engrossed. Angel leant forward and said sharply, ‘Spike!’

Spike roused and stared around the table.  He looked down at his agenda for the meeting and said annoyed, ‘Cars. Use of. See! I heard.’

Angel pouted, with a small half-smile mixed in with the pout. ‘We’re on item… seven.’

‘Oh.’ Spike frowned and peered at his papers with great concentration.

‘So, any other business?’ Angel went around the table, no one had any further points, so he dismissed the meeting, watching Gunn’s slow, careful progress out of the room.

Spike was still pretending to be interested in the paperwork, and Angel said as much to himself as to Spike, ‘He’s still in pain.’

Spike shrugged. ‘’S not the kind that’s gonna be helped with Tylenol, I’m thinking.’

Angel tented his hands under his chin. ‘He sees his error in front of him every time he sees Illyria. That can’t be easy. At least we… ate… our mistakes.’

‘’Cept your penchant for making children, yeah.’

Angel pouted some more and watched Spike folding and unfolding the agenda.  He sensed that Spike had something on his mind, dreaded that it would be something too personal: like the sunlight that now danced on elegant fingers, which had danced on him; like the way Spike’s hair felt when he’d touched it; like the way his skin had warmed to the friction of their bodies writhing; like the way his voice had lowered and lost its rough edges as softer words had slid off his lips.

‘Angel…?’

Angel rose with an all-encompassing grunt and went into his office.

Spike came in, too, and threw himself into the couch.  ‘I was thinking….’

Angel looked up from some paperwork he had suddenly found urgent. ‘What?’

Spike frowned. ‘I was wondering if you’d want to…. Jesus. Do you want to go for a drink or something tonight…?’  He lit a cigarette, even though he knew it was banned in Angel’s office and leant back to watch the smoke.

Angel rearranged his pen a few times and then replied shortly, ‘Sure.’

Spike glanced over but didn’t say anything more. After a few moments he rose and left. 

They both had the strange sense that this new tension between them had just tightened a notch.

Angel spent some considerable time standing in front of his closet that evening. He knew he thought too much about appearances—his mostly—but it was a character flaw he wasn’t about to work too hard to lose. Three centuries and he reckoned some things just were. He liked clothes. 

At this very moment, he hated them. Nothing was right. Nothing said just the right thing: that this was merely a very casual drink between old acquaintances so they could discuss work away from the office environment. He could see the outfit he wanted in his mind—suit with the jacket undone, possibly; suit with jacket off. For some reason though, his eyes didn’t stray to that end of the closet; they strayed to the fun end. Black leather pants and black silk shirt didn’t say anything about acquaintances or offices; he knew this. He heard skin rubbing on skin, heard moans of desire, felt the heat of bodies expending energy on each other.  Nevertheless, it was the leather and silk he wanted to wear.

This need led him to uncomfortable thoughts about the evening—what he wanted from it, what he was expecting from it.  

Even more uncomfortable were his thoughts about Spike’s expectations. He had the distinct impression that Spike had actually meant the offer to be as casual as it sounded: a very casual drink between old acquaintances so they could discuss work away from the office environment.

With a grunt of annoyance, he made his decision, pulled on the leather pants and silk shirt, grabbed his cell phone and went out to the elevator. He would judge Spike’s intent by his clothes. 

Spike was late. 

Angel was angry and feeling self-conscious by the time he arrived, but his fury dissipated when Spike strode in. He looked as if he were going hunting: leather pants, too, a dark aubergine shirt, and dull silver jewellery drawing attention to his hands and neck.

Angel smiled inwardly and turned back to the bar to order him a drink.

Spike slid into a seat and lit a cigarette, accepting the drink when Angel passed it to him.

Finally sitting together, they suddenly had nothing to say. Spike offered Angel a cigarette, which was refused, so he blew some smoke and leant back, just staring at Angel.

Angel felt something stirring, something unfamiliar, so took command of the situation by saying casually, ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’

‘Hmm?’

‘This… meeting. Why?’

‘Because… I wanted to have a drink with you?’

Angel took a long drink and waved to the bar for another bottle. ‘We haven’t had a drink together for eighty years, Spike. Why now?’

Spike narrowed his eyes. ‘You have a good memory.’

‘So do you, and you didn’t answer my question.’

‘I don’t have to if I don’t want to.’

Angel made to stand and leave, but Spike put a hand on his arm. ‘Sorry. I’m nervous. Babbling.’ He grinned as if he found this amusing and added, ‘I wanted to talk about us.’

Angel sat down a little too heavily. ‘Us?’

‘Yes, Angel. Us. You and me.’

The second bottle arrived, and Angel busied himself pouring generous amounts before he said cautiously, ‘And we’re not talking… colleagues, I’m thinking.’  

Spike leant back with his drink. ‘You’d be thinking right.’

Angel flicked his eyes up for a moment, then went back to studying his drink as if he were afraid it was going to move suddenly and catch him unawares. ‘Last week you didn’t even like me. Now you’re using words like us.’

Spike leant forward so suddenly Angel’s glass wobbled, and he gave it an accusatory stare as if it had fulfilled his worst expectations. ‘Something fairly major has happened between last week and now. You decided to shag me.’

Angel held Spike’s gaze. ‘No. I thought you wanted me.’

‘So…. What? Nothing would have changed if Ingram hadn’t tricked you?’

‘No! You weren’t on a fucking cruise when all this was going on! You were getting fucked, too! So, if one of us is different, it’s you!’

Spike glanced toward the table behind Angel and pouted. ‘Maybe tell the whole sodding bar while you’re at it.’

They fell silent for a while broken once by both trying to speak at the same time and both lapsing angrily into silence. 

Angel suddenly leant forward and said, ‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy it.’

‘Why? So I can satisfy some perverse need of yours to have my life totally bloody miserable. No, I won’t tell you that. I did.’

Angel tried to mask his expression, but he wasn’t quick enough, and Spike added with an annoyed sigh, ‘But it hurt, too, and he was a total goyt. Happy now?’

Angel pouted and trailed his finger through a small spill on the table. ‘If I knew what a goyt was I might be.’

‘It’s pretty much what you’re being now.’

‘Oh. That bad.’

Spike laughed. ‘You’re not at your best, I’ll give you that.’

Angel looked up through lowered lids. ‘What’s my best, Spike?’

Spike took a long breath and leant forward, shifting slightly on the seat. ‘Shit, Angel, you can be such a….’

Angel leant back with an interested smile. ‘A what?’

Spike blew some smoke between them to obscure the issue a little more. ‘A contradiction. You can be such a contradiction. One minute you act like you believe what you’ve become, and then the next, you’re him: Angelus.’

Angel took a cigarette from Spike’s packet and leant forward putting it between his lips. Spike hesitated then leant forward too, cupping his hands and touching his cigarette to Angel’s.  They stayed with their mouths an inch apart for a little longer than it took to light the cigarette then both leant back, now watching the other through the thickening smoke.

‘What do you want?’

Angel flicked some ash from the tip of his cigarette and stared down at the slim column between his fingers. He reflected bitterly that he could have easily asked Spike that.  ‘I’m not sure that what I want comes into this.’

‘Why not?’

Angel shrugged faintly. ‘Force of habit. I’ve had a shitty last few years. I’ve gotten used to not considering what I want.’

‘Bullshit.’

Angel took a slightly shaky drag on his cigarette, and Spike said more cautiously, ‘What?’

Angel waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s a long story and not relevant to us.’

‘Us?’

Angel opened his mouth as if to add something to explain his comment but only took another drag on his cigarette.

Spike leant forward again, clearly restless and feeling confined in the seat. ‘Maybe it’s time to start having what you want. No reason why things can’t change.’

‘I’m not here to have what I—.’

‘Bullshit again, Angel! We all have needs. It’s what drives us!’ He slapped his hand onto the table. ‘I beat you for that damn cup because of this lassitude of yours. So…?’

Angel pouted looking petulant, and Spike added triumphantly, ‘You know I’m right.’

‘Nooo, I’m trying to remember what the original question was.’

Spike laughed ruefully. ‘Wanker.’

‘That had something to do with it, I do recall.’

Spike licked his lips softly, hearing an unusual tone in Angel’s voice. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew the effect it was having on him. Hard for days, he was now throbbing. It was uncomfortable and distracting.

‘Why don’t we…?’ He took another breath and tried again. ‘There’s nothing stopping us doing what we want.’

Angel leant forward again, and they were suddenly only inches apart.  Keeping his voice low, Angel said slightly hurriedly, ‘I can’t afford to do what I want, Spike. It always has consequences. I’ve lost members of my team; we’re in this freaking fight with powers we can’t even begin to understand. I don’t have time for a personal life. I’ve made that mistake too many times.’

Spike put his hand to Angel’s as if he were going to remove his cigarette, but then left it there, just lying on top of Angel’s loosely. ‘You didn’t deny that you want it.’

There was a very significant pause as they both stared at where their hands touched. ‘I’m not sure that I can. You have preternatural senses, Spike. Use them.’

Spike jerked his eyes up and met Angel’s gaze. 

Spike lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper. ‘Then let’s tell ourselves it’s the very last thing we want to do, but do it anyway—for the greater good.’

Angel’s eyes dilated, and Spike knew he’d won. 

Very slowly, he stood up.  ‘You coming?’

Angel slid out of the booth, and side-by-side they went out into the soft, night air.  Angel veered away from the car and began to walk back to the office, and needing the space, too, Spike was happy to follow.

‘What are you think…?’ 

Angel’s hand cupped around the back of his neck; he was dragged into an alley, and Angel whispered, ‘This—I’m thinking this,’ and clamped his lips to Spike’s, opening his mouth wide and pressing them tightly together.

Angel was the first to ease his tongue out of Spike’s mouth, ease his lips away. His voice was still low. ‘Tell me what you liked about being fucked—tell me!’ He shoved his hand down the back of Spike’s pants, cupping one hard cheek and squeezing, clamping them together. ‘Tell me!’

‘I liked it ramming into me.’

Angel groaned deeply. ‘I heard you and—I fucked you in my mind as I listened.’

They kissed some more, both amazed how erotic they found it—this familiar activity now touched with illicit newness: kissing each other; it was unthinkable and so, so good.

‘Did you enjoy my body, Angel? Tell me.’

‘Fuck, Spike, you were…. Every inch was like….’ He sought Spike out with one finger, releasing the button on his waistband for better access. ‘I licked you—here.’ He circled his finger over Spike’s dry, soft hole and everything else on their bodies became limpid, melting together.

Angel stroked his lips along Spike’s cheek and nuzzled into his ear. ‘Turn around.’

Spike tipped his face closer to Angel’s seeking the warm affection, replying, ‘Not here. This is more than a… fuck—for me, anyway.’

His tone was so unsure that Angel couldn’t help but remember the human Spike had once been, a surge of affection for a time when uncertainty had been the norm rising up in places that usually held only demonic need. He straightened and began to tidy Spike. ‘I’ll even buy you some freaking flowers if you want.’ He lowered his face closer, and they came together in a kiss that began wondering and exploratory, but became deep and intensely loving. Angel only pulled away when he sensed things getting out of control. He bent slightly and put a hand to the wall. With a groan, he whispered, ‘You almost made me come.’

Spike ran his fingers through Angel’s hair, and pressed close for a moment, then he began to walk slowly toward home with one meaningful look over his shoulder. Angel straightened, willed some self-control and trailed after the tight, hard body.

They even risked talking as they walked back to Wolfram and Hart and were surprised that they could form semi-coherent sentences.  Neither was too sure what they talked about, but they didn’t embarrass themselves and carried on a credible conversation until they entered the elevator.

The privacy of the small space made them both laugh and abandon this desultory attempt at normality. They came together in a kiss so hot that the elevator rattled slightly on its cable, and Angel glanced up. ‘Fuck.’

Spike murmured, ‘Let’s shag in here and bring the whole bloody edifice down.’

Angel twitched up his eyebrow and a feral smile crept over his face.  Suddenly, he slammed his hand onto the emergency stop; to the sounds of gears grinding, they came to a halt.  He turned back, his eyes lowered and dangerous.  Very slowly, he slid his hands up inside Spike’s shirt, tweaking his nipples. ‘I don’t think that’s showing the proper respect for my place of work, Childe.’  

Spike’s eyes dilated, half from the pleasure of having his nipples teased, and half from the promise of fun implicit in Angel’s words. He responded in the same vein. ‘That’s because it’s a crock of shit.’

The teasing became harsher—more like torture—and Spike winced, trying to wriggle out of Angel’s grasp. Angel thumped him back into the wall, and the elevator swung again.  ‘Maybe I will fuck you in here. Maybe this is just a fuck to me.’

‘Yeah? You don’t have the balls, Angel…. Omph.’ 

‘You do.’

Spike could only nod, tears coming into his eyes. Angel twisted his balls harder. ‘Say you’re sorry.’

‘Whatforyoumotherfucker?’

‘No. Let’s try one more time. Say: I’m very sorry, Sire.’

‘Ahhh!’ Spike was laughing too much by this time to give due weight to Angel’s game, so Angel stepped it up a notch.  In one swift move, he let Spike’s balls go, ripped open his pants and slid his hand in to grasp them without the protection of the leather.  

Spike paled even more than usual and sweat broke out on his brow. ‘I’m gonna need those soon, Pet, if you wanna have some fun later, like.’

Angel looked theatrically intrigued. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’ He squeezed absentmindedly.  

Spike groaned, despite a suspicion that this erotic sound would only make matters worse and pulled himself up to Angel’s ear, holding tight to Angel’s shoulders. In a very low tone, he said, ‘I want you to suck on ‘em.’

It was Angel’s turn to groan. He moved his hand slowly, grazing it hard over Spike’s erection, dragging the velvety skin high.  With his other hand he cupped around the back of Spike’s neck and pulled him into a prolonged kiss, their tongues clashing and entwining.  

Angel did not, Spike noticed, remove his hand. Spike took it in one of his and encouraged some more exploration.

As they kissed, Angel took hold of the thick column and eased it free.  He opened his mouth even wider and began to pull Spike, jerking him expertly.  Spike responded to both: the kiss and the hand job, clawing at Angel’s neck.  He thumped them back to the opposite wall and then pulling his mouth away, giving Angel a piercing look, he began to press on the broad shoulders.  

Angel fell to Spike as eagerly as he had once fallen to receive the host.  He took Spike in with similar devotion. 

He swallowed Spike’s cock to the back of his throat. 

To Spike, the sensation was mind-blowing and utterly unexpected. He arched back, crying out, and Angel caught him around the waist, holding him arched and taut while he sucked.

It had only taken him a few attempts before he’d leant how to do this: Ingram a very conscientious teacher. He’d allowed the man to deride him, teach him, praise him, and plunder his mouth until his voice was hoarse. 

He slid his hands from Spike’s waist to his backside and clamped them on the firm buttocks.  On one hard plunge, his fingers dipped into the shallow cleft. He’d been here many times before, and he craved the feel of the tight hole.

He tickled his finger around it as he continued to suck Spike off.  

Suddenly, the momentum changed. Spike jack-knifed forward and braced his hands on the wall. Now he was thrusting forcibly into Angel.  He snatched one hand off and clamped it around Angel’s wrist, increasing the pressure of the finger.  

It slipped through, and they both let out intense sounds of pleasure, Angel’s reverberating through the thick cock and making Spike pant.

Angel stroked his finger in and out, scratching his immaculate nails over the soft, wet walls. 

He could have stayed like that—on his knees and joined in a circle of flesh with Spike—forever, but his throat was suddenly coated by a thick, salty release.  

Spike was shuddering into Angel’s mouth, each pulse of cum he released greeted with a harsh, biting cry of pleasure.

Angel sensed it was over and began to withdraw his finger, but Spike held his wrist even tighter.  

They stayed still for a very long time, Angel gently nuzzling into Spike’s softening cock, licking and cleaning him, Spike swaying slightly on the finger, prolonging the pleasure.

Gradually, they fell apart.  Spike sank to his knees, his head bowed. 

Angel put a finger under his chin and tipped it up. ‘You’ve got approximately… two… minutes to recover.’ With a greedy smile, he bounced up and hit the stop button again.  Once more, gears complained, there was a jolt, and they began to rise.

Spike rose slightly shakily to his feet and tried to fasten his pants. Angel made a soft tsk sound and helped him, taking the opportunity to slide his hand down the back once more and cup Spike to him.  

Spike was about to lean in and kiss him, but the doors slid open.

Angel was about to demand the kiss anyway, when a groan from the direction of the hallway made him turn. He cried out softly and they both jogged over to Wesley who was lying on his side and trying uselessly to rise.

‘What happened?’

‘Illyria happened.’

‘She did this to you?’

Wesley nodded. ‘She’s still very powerful, despite the drain.’

Angel cursed, rose and strode off toward the lab. Spike helped Wesley to his feet, trying hard to appear as if this was exactly how he had planned to spend the rest of the evening. 

‘I think my arm is broken.’

Spike nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’

Wesley glanced after Angel. ‘I should have taken his advice.’

‘Not to tangle with Illyria?’

Wesley made a rueful noise and blinked slowly. ‘No, to tangle with her some more. I try to keep her at arms’ length, yet she beats me up; Angel fucked with Ingram every night, yet you’re still his best friend. I think I’ll rethink my gentlemanly watching strategy. Well…. I guess I’d better get to a hospital and get this seen to.  Spike?  Spike?’

Spike turned his head slowly back to the human and nodded. 

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You didn’t tell Angel what you were going to do with that stream of power from Illyria. I’ve been wondering why.’

‘Pushing you in? No, I didn’t tell him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well…. I thought he might try to stop me—if it was hurting you. I told you that.’

‘But that’s not the real reason, is it, Wesley?’

Wesley gave a small dismissive wave of his hand as if he didn’t want to get into it, but Spike took hold of his broken arm and jarred it.  Wesley paled, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He stared at Spike as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Ah. You didn’t know: about Angel and Ingram.’

‘No, I didn’t. I want you to tell me the real reason you didn’t tell Angel about your plan to bring me back.’ He kept his hand on Wesley’s arm and smiled icily.

Wesley swallowed. ‘I will tell you, but it will have nothing to do with the pain you’ve just caused me. I think you have the right to know—so whatever you do will be based on truth. It’s something Angel seems to neglect too often. I didn’t tell Angel because I was afraid he would stop me—afraid he didn’t want you back. Sometimes, looking at him with Ingram, I got the impression that he had something he’d wanted for a very long time. Now, please let go of my arm, and if you aren’t going to help me, then bloody well stay out of my way.’ He pushed past Spike, who allowed the human to jostle him, and limped painfully to his office.

Spike stayed in the lobby for a while, thinking. It was hard to bring himself down from the place he’d be in when they’d exited the elevator—not his recovered erection, that he willed down quite easily. The sense of easy intimacy between them had to be picked apart piece by piece until it wasn’t there anymore: for it hadn’t—been there. Angel, in his mind, had been blowing Ingram.  Angel hadn’t just fucked the man once by mistake, he’d done it systematically, night after night, clearly preferring the shell of his childe without its rightful occupant.

Spike’s first thoughts—to kill Angel or just run away—were so familiar, such old friends that he had surprisingly little trouble resisting them. Angel had spent the last hundred years pissing him off, and that’s exactly how he always reacted. Not this time though. For this time, what Angel had done seemed entirely… understandable.

Spike actually agreed with Angel: his body was better without him inside it. Every other lover he’d taken had thought exactly the same. Buffy hadn’t even attempted the desultory conversation Angel had. She hadn’t even tried that hard—come, fuck, go before he had a chance to make a connection. 

He got why they were like this. He really did.  He didn’t like himself most days. 

He felt time closing in on him. Whatever Angel was doing with Illyria couldn’t last forever, couldn’t last long enough for him to stop being what he was: irritating, snarky, melodramatic, dumb—whatever it was that other people saw in him, these masks he wore to compensate for not being able to be what he’d rather be: loving, kind and brave. 

His first thought to run flickered across his mind. How far could he go before Angel caught up with him? Not physically, of course: Angel wasn’t that obsessed with his body that he’d actually come after him. Spike had no doubt though that he would never run far enough not to want Angel, not to need him, not to drift back one day and try this all over again. He’d been doing that for a hundred and twenty years; why break the pattern now?

If he couldn’t run, he had to do the other: stay. 

Spike suddenly lifted his head and stared fixedly toward the conference room. Ingram—if Angel wanted him, he could have him. He’d be exactly what Angel wanted: that man in this body.  Spike had a vivid picture of himself as the human and saw it all playing out in his mind.

He dropped his head. This was being exactly what other people hated in him. This was so typically Spike: go for the most extreme solution.

He didn’t have to become someone else; he just had to stop being who he was. He had to lock himself away—lock away all these personality flaws that people found so repellent. He would turn himself into something desirable: something hollow.

He sensed Angel coming back along the hallway and closed his eyes for a moment, beginning the lock down.

Angel sensed something was different about Spike as soon as they re-entered the elevator together. As this something seemed to manifest itself in silence and no repetition of the affectionate intimacy they’d established on the walk over, he was grateful and thought no more about it. He’d had his arse royally kicked by Illyria—to the extent that she’d held him helpless, dangling from her skinny outstretched arm—and he was still smarting from the ignominy. All he really wanted was to go to bed—alone—and brood, but he now had Spike tagging along. Spike silent and thoughtful, therefore, was exactly what he needed right now.

They stared at each other. Angel sensed Spike’s arousal despite his silent, almost hostile stance.  Spike saw only Angel’s desire for his body, so maintained the silence he’d adopted as his best form of defence until he could decide what he was going to do, (run away or kill Angel still not entirely off his list of options).

They exited into Angel’s apartment, and Angel ran his fingers wearily through his hair. ‘Fuck, she pisses me off, sometimes. I’m going to shower.’ He turned and made a small face. ‘This isn’t how I planned… it.’ He expected Spike to come out with some amused snark about the situation, and was unnerved by his silence.  ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Whatever you want to do, Angel.’

The thought that’s a first flickered across Angel’s mind before he had time to stop it.  He held out his hand, and Spike obediently came into his embrace. He’d been about to ask for a rain check, until his libido, taken such a dent from Illyria, had recovered, but Spike’s hard, tight body recovered it anyway.  The hug turned very quickly into a kiss, and the kiss became roving of hands and desire more intense than he’d felt before his embarrassing confrontation with the ex-Goddess.  Yet still, Spike seemed distant—aroused, yes, but oddly compliant.  For a moment, the thought flickered across Angel’s mind that somehow Ingram had returned. He held Spike away, their mouths parting reluctantly, their tongues missing the contact already. ‘Are you… okay? What happened with Wesley?’  Angel turned and began to strip off his shirt, heading toward his promised shower.  

Spike replied neutrally, ‘I’m fine and nothing happened.’

Angel hesitated before removing his pants. The kind of frenzy he required to do this in front of someone else was missing, and he went into the bathroom to do it there. Suddenly, he found himself perching on the edge of the washbasin, thinking, arousal dipped to almost nothing once more.  He could not work out where the problem lay. Spike was…. What was Spike? Angel leant back cautiously and glanced out at Spike who was standing, staring at nothing.  All that Angel could think was that Spike had changed his mind. He had changed his mind and now didn’t have the heart to tell him.  Angel felt a surge of self-doubt. Ingram had not complained about his… technique… but then the human had needed him, wanted him to find him irresistible—as he had. Ingram would hardly have told Angel that his kisses were like kissing an old man, or that his body was heavy and gone to seed.  Spike, though, might have thought all this and was now regretting his impetuous decision to try Angel out. Spike might be missing Ingram—whose kisses and touch Angel knew that Spike had enjoyed.

His arousal was now utterly gone, his cock hanging flaccid and heavy in his pants. More importantly, he felt flaccid in his head—a disturbing sensation of wanting to sleep for a long time in a dark place, curled and insensible to his surroundings. He wanted to run away. He wanted to be someone else. 

He went back into the bedroom. Spike watched him and said flatly, ‘You’ve not showered.’

Angel shook his head. ‘I’m kinda beat. Can we do this another time?’

An expression seemed to flicker over Spike’s face, but it was so quick, Angel didn’t have time to read it. He nodded, seemingly utterly unfazed. ‘Sure thing.’

He spun on his heel and left.

Angel frowned, looked at his nails for a while then, with a curse, pulled on a clean shirt and strode out of the apartment.

Wesley had taken a number of painkillers—some prescribed, some not—and was not in the mood for visitors. When he saw Angel he actually blocked the way for a moment. ‘I’m very tired.’

Angel, not used to Wesley’s resistance, toed the ground and said contritely, ‘I came to see if you were okay.’

Knowing this was a lie, but feeling a surge of affection for Angel for attempting it so blatantly, Wesley huffed and let him in.

To give Angel credit, he attempted to appear interested in Wesley’s arm and told him the edited version of his confrontation with Illyria—the parts where feet had remained on the ground—but it didn’t take long before he got around to the real purpose of his visit. ‘What happened when I left you with Spike?’

As Wesley had been fearing something like this, he had his defence ready: the truth. ‘I told him your strategy of coping with Ingram and wished I’d taken the same tack with Illyria.’

‘You told him—what exactly?’

‘I told him that you found him irresistible—more so than you’d ever found Spike when he occupied his own body.’

Angel rose from the couch, unable to compute what he was hearing. He began the words that might have led to the final confrontation with Wesley, one that had begun with Connor, but only thinking them made him sit once more and stay silent. Who had begun these endless betrayals? Who had built their lives now on an edifice of lies and half-spoken truths? Not this man before him. He had. After all, Wesley had not known how the situation had changed between him and his childe. He could not have known what they had stepped out of the elevator intending to do that night—what they had just finished enjoying. More than this, though, he had spoken only the truth. It had crossed Angel’s mind that his life would be easier if Spike did not return to his body—if he left his body entirely to Angel to play with as he pleased, without the irritant inside.  It was ironic that only now Angel realised he didn’t want his life easier.  He didn’t want what had been offered to him in the bedroom that night: compliant Spike.

Angel pouted and stared at his fingers, for the first time considering what Spike had been thinking as they’d travelled up to the apartment together—what he’d been thinking as they’d kissed. He would have expected Spike, hearing what Wesley had told him, to turn on him, vicious and angry. It’s what always happened: he pissed Spike off—leaving him, stealing Drusilla, trying to kill him; the actual details were immaterial—and Spike turned on him and tried to kill him.  This time, however, Spike had stayed. This time, Spike had clearly been willing to go along with…. ‘Whatever you want, Angel.’

Wesley watched Angel from his chair, his heart pounding, pumping the blood into his arm in an extremely painful throb.  He’d almost seen his life flash in some trite, proverbial moment of pre-death as the vampire had risen like the angel of death from the couch. He’d actually seen death—his death—in Angel’s expression before something else had taken its place, something that now made Angel’s brow lower and his expression so dark and intense that Wesley felt it like tiny tendrils of obscuration in the room.  He had misread Angel’s involvement with Spike.  He had not realised that Angel had fallen quite so hard for his blond childe.  He felt deeply guilty that he had let a moment of pain and grief for Fred—what should have been an offer made freely by her in her own body—spread out and hurt other people: hurt Angel, which was all he really cared about.  He tried various apologies in his mind and finally settled for the truth. ‘I’m very sorry. He caught me unprepared. I was angry about Illyria.’ He lifted his arm, but even that small movement caused him intense pain. 

Angel’s dark expression did not lighten, and Wesley wondered if the vampire, for once, wanted to talk. He prompted him gently. ‘Can you tell me…?’

Angel pouted. ‘He wasn’t pissed off. It was… weird. It was like he… went away.’

‘Ingram?’ Wesley leant forward with a groan. This was something he’d not considered. ‘Are we entirely sure that he’s gone? Perhaps he’s still in there and under particular stress, he can come back!’

Angel shook his head. ‘It wasn’t him either. It was someone….’ He wanted to say dead, but didn’t want the usual quip that people made when vampires spoke of themselves as if they were alive. Remembering that this was Wesley, however, and that he never made trite quips, Angel shrugged and finished, ‘It was like he was dead inside.’

‘A shell?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah?’

‘Well… I was just recalling the… conversation… I had with Illyria that led to this.’ This time, he only looked at his cast and did not attempt to lift his arm. ‘She suggested, again, that we get better acquainted, and I pointed out… rather forcibly, I’m afraid… that I wasn’t interested in her, but in the body she inhabited.’

‘Spike didn’t break my arm, Wesley.’ Angel didn’t need to point out that not only would Spike not have been able to do this, he would have preferred it to the reaction he did get from Spike. Wesley heard both these anyway, unspoken as they were.

‘No, I understand that, but as I was—well, I supposed lying there in agony wouldn’t be overstating the case too much—pondering events, I tried to put myself in her position: what I would do if someone told me that.’

‘And?’

‘I think I’d take myself off somewhere and just let them have my body.’

‘Jesus, Wesley. That’s utter bullshit. You’ve got more self-respect than that! Spike’s got more….’

‘You’re entirely missing the point, Angel—I am so tempted to add as usual, but, as usual, I’m sitting here feeling vulnerable and you’re sitting there looking menacing. The point is: I would do that if I wanted someone more than I wanted myself.’

Angel didn’t want to have to ask, but as he was totally bemused he did risk a small, ‘Huh,’ but tried to make it sound more like a cough of agreement than admittance of total confusion.

Wesley leant forward—a huge sacrifice—and said very distinctly, ‘I think Spike must have decided that he wanted you more than he wanted himself. That to have you, he was willing to put himself to one side.’ He leant back again and said more to himself than to Angel, ‘I’m rather impressed. It’s a kind of religious allegory really.’

‘Huh?’ This one was more forceful, but Wesley ignored it. ‘What are you going to do?’

Angel did rise at that and began a more familiar pacing. Wesley felt relieved. He never felt death quite so close as when Angel was still and contained. He struggled to his feet and poured them both a whisky, eyeing his for a moment and wondering what interesting effects it would have on top of the painkillers.  

Angel took his whisky and tipped it down his throat in one then poured them both another. Wesley wasn’t about object, he couldn’t feel his arm anymore, and that was okay by him.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ Angel went to the window and leant on the glass. ‘It’s not something we can talk about.’ He pouted and Wesley felt a stab of something that went well beyond sympathy. He came closer.

‘Tell him I was… jealous. That I was… mistaken.’

Angel turned his full gaze on the human, and Wesley swallowed. ‘You weren’t mistaken. For a while, I did think life would be easier if Spike never came back. Jesus, I actually did think that.’

Wesley had the strangest feeling that Angel had heard, processed and filed away his comment about being jealous, but that he had chosen not to discuss it.  It unnerved him, and he felt unsure suddenly why he’d said it. Said it at last. He’d always felt it. He stood looking at the dark vampire but actually studying himself. He’d seen them exit the elevator. They’d been laughing at something. Angel’s hand had been down the back of Spike’s pants. And Spike—Spike…. Spike who could never do anything bad enough for Angel to actually turn on him; Spike who always seemed to have Angel’s real confidence; Spike who shared Angel’s history; Spike who turned slowly at the centre of Angel’s universe, holding him captive—Spike had been standing in the place he’d always wanted to occupy. 

Wesley didn’t like the outcome of his study much. 

Angel suddenly cursed softly and pushed off the glass, striding to the door and leaving. Wesley had seen a glimpse of his expression, and his self-hatred knew no bounds.

Chapter 8

The plan came to him sometime later on a strange floating sensation, which he couldn’t, for the life of him, attribute to anything in particular. It seemed such a brilliant plan that the bed actually stopped spinning for a while as he contemplated it. He studied it carefully from all angles—his inhibitions and pain were suppressed, not his intellect—and he could see no flaws.

He’d torn them apart; he’d glue them back together. 

The image of Angel and Spike being stuck together, and the various ideas for the substances that could be used to do the sticking, actually made him laugh, but by the time he’d had some considerable amusement, tears were running down his cheeks, and he was too sad to remember the joke. 

He tipped over into drug-induced unconsciousness, imagining knots in a spotless white handkerchief, each one representing a stage in his plan—whatever else he wanted to forget about this night, he did not want to forget that.

It was surprisingly easy to put into effect. Once he’d recovered from his hangover, which had taken twenty-four hours and a number of pints of water, Wesley was able to focus on his books, and he found what he wanted.

He spent another day gathering his materials, and then one more examining every tiny part of his motives to check their purity. He didn’t want to fool himself a second time as to why he was interfering in Angel’s life.

When he was totally happy that he had nothing in his heart but love—and the good kind of that—for Angel, he put the plan into action.  It was surprisingly easy.

Angel had spent time trying unsuccessfully to avoid Spike. He didn’t like him very much in this strange mood he’d adopted. Somehow, despite being entirely in the wrong, Spike had once again managed to seize the moral high ground. If he’d ranted and raved, tried to kill him, done all the usual Spike-esque things, Angel could have justifiably told himself that this is why he’d preferred Ingram, that this is why he’d so happily fucked the compliant one occupying Spike’s body.  Spike’s more normal immaturity would have validated Angel’s actions. Like this, however—mature, seeking to please, calm, responsive, responsible—Angel felt his guilt growing on him like fungus.  Which was so unfair, when he knew that this apparent Spike wasn’t the real Spike—that Spike was undoubtedly smirking behind the adult façade.

He so desperately missed the ranting and raving, the fighting and attempts to kill each other that he tried once or twice to initiate this familiarity by taunting Spike with Ingram.

He took his first opportunity when he woke that morning to find Spike standing at the end of the bed watching him. He’d sat up and swore angrily at the still figure. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘I wanted to see you.’

‘Why?’

Spike’s eyebrow rose at this. ‘Because we were going to get it on last night, and I woke up thinking about it—thinking about you.’

Angel winced inwardly. It was like talking to a total stranger. Spike would never say something so freakily honest—not when he was sober and actually meaning it. He got out of bed, deliberately flaunting his nakedness. ‘Well, okay then. I’ve kinda gotten used to your body in the bed, Spike.’ He actually pictured Spike’s face screwing up into outraged fury, felt Spike’s fists pounding on him and was so lost to this pleasant fantasy that Spike calmly removing his shirt was entirely missed until he stood semi-naked in front of him.

Angel stepped back and said, incredulous, ‘You’re going to let that go?’

Spike shrugged. ‘I’m glad you had the company, Angel. We all need company.’

Angel’s jaw dropped, and he tried a small punch, but it was like punching a baby: only fun when you really are a demon. Spike sort of smiled and nodded amiably, which was so unlike him that Angel stepped back and murmured, ‘I’m not doing this with you.’

That, at least, got some reaction. A dark expression flickered over Spike’s face, and Angel tried to capitalise on it, taunting him again by saying precisely, ‘He really was a great lay, Spike! I had to give him credit for that.’

Spike nodded and replied evenly, ‘Perhaps you could show me some of the things you enjoyed.’

Angel stumbled away and into the bathroom.  He shut himself in the shower and hoped that Spike would be gone when he came out. 

Spike listened to Angel showering for a while, toeing the ground thoughtfully. Angel hadn’t wanted him to come back, now it appeared he didn’t even want the corpse he inhabited. It kinda left him nowhere to go. He turned and went back down to the offices. He’d felt more substantial when he’d hadn’t needed the elevators to get around inside Wolfram and Hart.

Wesley summoned them both to a meeting that afternoon. Angel noticed that he seemed out of sorts and edgy and put it down to pain from his arm. Spike didn’t notice or care.

Wesley began to outline a case, and Angel stopped him with a small wave of his hand. ‘We really don’t have time for this shit, Wes. This is kinda small-fry compared to the….’

‘No. This is exactly the kind of thing we need to be doing. We’ve all been too distracted. We need something like this to get back on track.’

Angel had been about to argue some more, but the prospect of things being back as they were was too tempting.  He nodded, without looking at Spike, and sat back to hear the details.

Wesley let out a silent sigh of relief. ‘Right, well. Believe it or not, it appears to be a haunted house. Some very unpleasant things happened to the occupants—who are now dead unfortunately—and I’ve traced this back some decades. It rather reminds me of the Hyperion—which is why I immediately thought we should take on the case.’

‘Thesulac?’

‘He wasn’t the only one of his species.’

Angel leant forward, suddenly interested. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘You and I go there tonight and see….’ As Wesley spoke, he swung around slightly in his chair and appeared to knock his arm against the desk. He groaned deeply and swore uncharacteristically. 

Angel frowned. ‘You’re not going anywhere with….’

‘There’s no one else, Angel. I have to….’

Angel gritted his teeth. ‘Gunn.’

A look of annoyance flickered over Wesley’s face, but he suppressed it quickly and said even more quickly, ‘He’s not stable enough yet for something like that—something that can play on human emotions.’

Angel nodded at the wisdom of this. ‘Damn.’

Wesley appeared to be interested in his notes and said neutrally, ‘So, you and Spike will have to….’

‘No!’

Angel’s head turned quickly at Spike’s interjection.  It actually was Spike. But if the one he wanted made this short guest appearance, he bowed out pretty quickly, for Spike said in a much flatter tone, ‘I don’t think that is a good idea.’

Angel agreed, but it was half-hearted. He had the distinct impression that Spike’s emotional disappearance wasn’t as permanent as he’d been giving the impression—that something like this could be exactly what was need to bring him back.

Spike heard the half-hearted response and cursed inwardly. The last thing he wanted was to be shut up in a spooky old house with Angel. Things might…develop. Things might…come to a head.  His new persona was proving very hard to maintain, and the annoying thought had crept in that far from it being genuine and heartfelt, he was being merely… Spike-like—as usual. 

As he trailed behind Angel (the decision to take the case having apparently been made), it came to him in a startlingly clear flash of insight that he didn’t want to do this because he was having far too much fun pissing Angel off.    This only brought him back to the conclusion that he was despicable and that Angel was right not to love him.

Angel watched Spike out of the corner of his eye as he drove. Spike was inspecting his nails with a level of concentration their bitten appearance didn’t warrant.  He pouted, debated in his head if he could take the rejection, but said in a low voice, ‘You can’t hide from me forever.’

He was rewarded by a glance that proved his theory: the old Spike was not far from the surface of this bland new one.  He grinned, turned on some music guaranteed to irritate the old Spike, but which the new Spike could presumably not object to, and actually began to look forward the job. He half suspected that Wesley had set this up—this opportunity for them to be together like the old days—but for once, he didn’t object to being manipulated at all.

The house was very old—by American standards—and certainly had the potential to be haunted. Spike eyed it thoughtfully, then Angel.  As he had no idea how his new and improved persona would think about such a task, he’d decided to be silent, which was very not him anyway, thus beautifully suiting his plan. It was also annoying Angel, which was even better.  Angel commented on the house; he commented on the barricaded door; he commented on breaking down the barricaded door; and at every comment that elicited no reply, he glanced increasingly annoyed at Spike. Spike kept up an air of martyred innocence and followed Angel up the wide staircase.

The centre of the spectral activity had been identified by Wesley as the master bedroom. If Spike made a comment under his breath that sounded like, ‘Typical,’ Angel ignored it and pushed open the door cautiously. He could sense nothing out of the ordinary and shut the door behind them.

The room still contained its original furniture: a large emperor-sized bed, two huge, freestanding closets and a dressing table.  Spike stayed as far away from the bed as possible and went to look out of the window.  ‘How long before something happens, and what are we supposed to do when it does?’

Angel turned, surprised to hear his voice. ‘I’m not sure, and I don’t know.’

Spike’s shoulders tensed, as if he was having difficulty repressing a reply to this provocation, but he made no comment.

‘Might as well make yourself at home.’ Angel stretched out on the bed and folded his arms behind his head. ‘It’s quite comfortable.’

‘People may have died in that bed.’

Angel smiled at the more familiar turn their conversation was taking and replied lazily, ‘Someone dead’s lying in it now.’

Spike let the drape fall and went to one of the closets, opening it cautiously. When he’d inspected that one, he moved on to the other one, well aware that Angel was watching him.  Suddenly, Angel said, ‘I know you know, by the way—I know Wesley told you.’

‘Wesley tells me a lot of things.’

‘Some things he had no right to.’ That was guaranteed to get a response, and Angel almost heard Spike’s outraged, ‘No right? No right?’

Spike’s shoulders tensed as if he imagined himself saying it just as clearly, but the response when it came was mild. ‘It made no difference to anything.’

‘Ah. So… what? You were fucking leaking all over me in the elevator; you let me suck your brains out, then by the time I get back, you’re playing your freaky little games again?’

The comment about playing games so closely mirrored Spike’s own worries about his attitude that he almost slipped and rounded on Angel. Instead, he shrugged. ‘I still want you, Angel. If I was playing games, I’d be flouncing around and pretending I didn’t.’ He went up to the bed and stood alongside Angel, who unfolded his arms uncertainly. ‘We’ll do it now, if you want. If this has been some pathetic plan of Wesley’s to bring us together in a spooky house all night and fling us into each other’s arms then he’s deluded. I’ll fuck with you anyway. No biggie.’

‘I—. What was that?’

Spike hesitated and said, ‘Someone downstairs….’

Angel sighed. ‘Can we put this on hold? Can we actually have a conversation about this afterwards, Spike? I—. I don’t think an apology is what you want or what I particularly want to give you, but…. Shit.’  He stood up and faced the door, the sound of voices outside unmistakable.  He glanced at Spike. ‘Put the fucking I’m-not-Spike-anymore game to one side. You need to switch on now.’

Spike glared at him, and Angel nodded. ‘Good.’ 

The door swung open, and Angel straightened, annoyed. ‘Vampires! Freaking vampires!’

Spike laughed. ‘So much for a nice juicy haunting.’

Angel nodded wearily, counting four vampires. By their dress they were fledglings; by their attitude they were punks. He waded into two of the group, saw Spike doing the same, and had such a stab of desire for his blond childe for his grace and lithe beauty that he took the two vampires out with one stab, the stake propelled with such force that it impaled them both before they exploded into dust.  He caught a similar explosion out of the corner of his eye and turned to grin at Spike. 

He frowned instead. Two vampires were turning to him, and he could not see Spike.

He fought on instinct and eventually there was only one vampire left in the room: him.

He actually turned slowly in the bedroom as if seeking some place where Spike could be hidden.

That he had been dusted by two fledgling punks was impossible. That he had been dusted at all was impossible, so he had to be hiding somewhere—this being part of his latest irritating plan to piss him off.

When he’d turned and looked at the empty room, he could think of nothing else to do, so he just stood there.

As he watched his friends depart, Wesley felt a stab of anxiety that his plan wouldn’t work, that something would go wrong.

He debated following them to the house, but knew his presence would upset the dynamic he was attempting to create. He’d wait until they returned and see their faces then.

As he’d listened to their childish sparring over the last few days, he’d wanted to crash their heads together like recalcitrant infants.  He’d done this instead. He’d planned it to the nth degree, obsessing over details. What could go wrong?

After a few hours, the sun started to creep into the bedroom. Angel watched its progress across the faded carpet. He watched it touch the toe of his boot and then watched the smoke drifting lazily into the air. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he removed his foot from the light and stepped back into the shadows.

Having used up all his courage to make that small sacrifice to the need to go on, he had nothing left. He spent the day standing in those shadows, thinking—about the past, about the future. 

Eventually, he saw that it was dark once more. He’d spent his first day without Spike somewhere in the world—somewhere in his world, about to appear with a snarky comment, smoking his damn cigarettes, swaggering as if he owned the place. 

He cast a last look around the room. It didn’t seem much of a memorial either to Spike’s life or to his passion, which had now gone. Being hollow now, there was no room for the passion Spike had created in him.  He knew other emotions would come soon and wanted to be back in his own apartment before he gave them air to breathe.  Spike’s presence seemed palpable in the room, but he left it there as a dangerous delusion and made his way home.

Spike wasn’t especially pleased when his two attackers turned from him to Angel. He watched, puzzled, as Angel seemed to take an inordinate time to dust them, then, with an impatient huff, said more characteristically than he had for a while, ‘Need a hand there, Mate?’

Angel ignored him, which was par for the course, so he lit a cigarette and leant on the wall, waiting for Angel to take his angst out in any way he saw fit.  

When Angel had finished, Spike pushed off the wall and said in his new, neutral tone, ‘Is that supposed to be the haunting thing then, or is there more?’

Angel was standing in the middle of the room, and he turned slowly, staring into the corners and shadows.  Spike nodded. ‘I guess we’re staying then.’ He went and sat on the bed. ‘I should have brought a book.’

Angel continued to ignore him, and Spike sighed. He was getting very bored with all this neutrality and debated just dropping the game (and possibly dropping something else as well).  ‘So….’ He tested Angel’s mood to see if he was receptive to a flirtatious comment that dripped innuendo. 

Angel hung his head and remained standing in the middle of the room. 

‘Fuck you then!’

Angel didn’t reply; Spike blew a long stream of smoke at him, watching this with narrowed eyes. ‘Is this some sort of punishment? Do you think this is impressing me? Cus, ya know, you look like a pillock.’

When that didn’t get a response, Spike felt a twinge of anxiety. He got off the bed and came closer. ‘Hey, Angel…. Hey! Fucker!’

Suppressing a surge of panic, Spike poked Angel. He watched with dawning comprehension as his hand passed through the solid body. ‘Angel! Oh, FUCK! Angel!’ He tried, illogically, to shake Angel, but it had the same effect as the poke: none.  He stepped back and wrapped his arms around his body, the thought suddenly dawning on him that Angel thought he was dead.

He stood and watched Angel for the rest of the night, a few inches away, not moving, as still and silent as Angel himself.  He only stirred when he felt a burning sensation on his back. He turned, too distressed at watching Angel to fully take it in. It was only when Angel moved his foot that Spike realised the sun had come up—that it had come up and that it recognised him: vampire that could burn.  He cried out and put his hand in it, watching the smoke. He wasn’t dead; Angel just couldn’t see him.  He shouted this to Angel, hoping it would stir him from the rigid stance he’d maintained since dusting the vampires, and Angel suddenly turned and went to stand in one corner of the room. Spike suspected it wasn’t because of his shout; nevertheless he shouted and screamed some more. Angel remained impervious to the noise.

Spike sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. He couldn’t bear to see Angel any more.  He would rather his sire ranted and raved and vented his emotions in a blur of violence—this histrionic reaction so much more what he would have done. This almost catatonic introspection unnerved him, and he wanted it to stop.  He kept expecting Angel to move, to leave the house, but he stayed against the wall, not actually leaning on it, but just standing, head down, as if deep in thought. Spike picked his nails and felt a distinct stab of guilt. He couldn’t prove that the way he’d been behaving had brought on this bizarre state—neutrality causing invisibility—but he couldn’t prove it hadn’t either. He kept glancing up at Angel then down quickly. He felt he was intruding on something very personal, but as Angel’s grief was all about him anyway, it didn’t feel wrong to watch. Angel’s behaviour was having a strange effect on him though. It began with a sniff; then his vision wavered. Eventually, he had to wipe his sleeve over his eyes, and that infuriated him so much he stood up and began to pace, shouting at Angel, venting his anger. He’d been the one staked, or whatever, so why was Angel standing there like a fucking zombie?  The shouting still had no effect—either on Angel’s mood or his—so he sat back down.  

After a few minutes, he went up close to Angel and said in a low tone, ‘I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I’ve been such a total fuck up, Angel. I’m sorry I—. I’m just sorry, okay!’ It made him angry again, and he took his angst out on Angel, swiping his hands through the lowered face as if he were really slapping him.  It only made his eyes water again, so he sat heavily on the bed.  He stood then sat again. He hit the bed. It was quite solid: as with the sun, this seemed to find him real.  Suddenly, he grabbed the covers and ripped them off, waving them in front of Angel. Angel didn’t even blink and continued his silent contemplation of the floor.

Angel’s inability to see the covers scared Spike, so he let them drop. He wasn’t sure what had happened to him, but the thought began to sink in that he was in some serious shit (again).

It was a long day. One of the longest Spike had ever spent. He refused to admit to himself that this was due to guilt at causing Angel such a long day. He was actually getting angry at Angel’s reaction to his disappearance. It now seemed more histrionic than ranting and raving. 

When Angel finally pushed off the wall and went toward the door, Spike let out a heartfelt, ‘At last,’ and followed. Angel stopped so abruptly at the door that Spike stomped right through him. It almost amused him that this was his first time in Angel’s body, but the thought was lost as he watched Angel’s eyes roam around the room. The expression in them made him look away.

When they reached the car, Spike opened the door incredulous at its familiar solidarity. He slammed it a couple of times and shouted at Angel some more. It was beginning to freak him out. He slumped in the passenger seat and watched Angel out of the corner of his eye. Angel had one elbow on his window; the bottom half of his face was covered by his hand. He tapped a nervous rhythm on his cheek with one finger and then said softly, ‘Put some music on.’

Spike cried out, ‘Yesss!’ but Angel paid him no more attention than he had all day, however, and continued to stare at the CDs.  Suddenly, he raised his eyes to the building. ‘I’m sorry. I have to leave you here. You—. We—.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘No body.’ He slammed his hand into the wheel, making Spike jump. ‘No fucking body!’  He rammed the car into reverse and spun the car out.  

Spike, feeling uncharacteristically subdued, stared out at the passing buildings.  He wasn’t sure whether he entirely liked Angel’s mood.  As he watched the L.A. life, he reflected bitterly that it was probably a good thing that the dead didn’t get to see the way that they were grieved. It wasn’t that he wanted Angel tearing his hair and beating his chest, but a few stray strands? a few bruises? would that have been too much to ask?

He cast Angel increasingly annoyed glances as they made their way up to the offices.  They emerged into the lobby, and Angel actually went over to Harmony to collect his messages. He went to his office and listened to more messages on his machine. Only then did he go down the hallway toward Wesley’s office.  Spike trailed behind, feeling more and more insubstantial. If no one really misses you, what’s to say you’d existed at all?

Wesley rose from his desk and kept his eyes fixed rigidly on Angel. ‘How did it go?’

Angel shrugged. ‘Not one of our better cases.’

‘Did you—? I mean, did you get what you wanted?’

Angel frowned and picked up the book Wesley had been reading. ‘It wasn’t haunted. Just vampires.’  He looked up and said casually, ‘You haven’t asked where Spike is.’

Spike made a small sound of relief. ‘At bloody last!’

Wesley kept Angel’s gaze. ‘Err, no, I haven’t. Where’s Spike?’

‘He’s gone. My team is depleting. I need to shower and change; we’ll talk later.’  He turned and walked out.  

Spike let out a stream of obscenities—obscene even for him—and began to follow him out. 

‘Did you get what you wanted?’

Spike spun around.  Wesley twitched up an eyebrow.

Spike’s jaw dropped then he nodded. ‘Oh, surprise, surprise. We’re in some fucking spell and who’s to blame? Bloody Wyndham-Price, that’s who.’ He came forward menacingly. ‘You are so going to die.’

Wesley sat down and picked up a book.  Spike made a face. ‘Don’t tell me….’ He swiped his arm right through Wesley.  Wesley said, ‘Ow’ obligingly.

Spike perched on the edge of the desk and said in a very low voice, ‘Just tell me why you’ve done it.’

Wesley swivelled his chair around to face him. ‘Do I really have to tell you? Jesus, Vampire, can’t you work it out for yourself?’ He stood up and began to pace. ‘You two will be the death of everyone here! All day, everyday, you play these games with each other. Well, no longer! Angel will confront how he feels about you. Then you’ll be forced to come to terms with whatever those feelings are!’

Spike frowned deeply at the logic of this. ‘What about me confronting how I feel about him, Tosser?’

Wesley huffed ruefully, pointing out without words that they both already knew how Spike felt about Angel. Spike pouted. ‘So, how long is this little charade going to last?’

‘That’s up to you two.’

‘And that means?’

‘I didn’t set any parameters. The events will last as long as they last—until they’ve done what they’re supposed to do.’

Spike picked thoughtfully at a nail. ‘Until Angel’s… confronted these feelings…?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Oh, you stupid, stupid man.’

Wesley stopped pacing and turned to study Spike. Spike pushed off the desk and came very close. He thrust his face into Wesley’s. ‘It’s taken him a hundred and twenty years to sit at the same table with me. What did you think would happen? You fucking idiot, Wesley! I’ll be trapped like this for bloody ever!’

Wesley frowned, getting annoyed by the suspicion that he might have overlooked something. ‘You’re wrong. Angel thinks you’re dead, and he’ll….’

‘What? What will he do? He’s done his grieving—it that’s what you can call it—already. I died yesterday, and he stood and stared at the fucking wall. Boo hoo. Angel was sad for a few hours. He was probably thinking about the fucking team. It’s being depleted—did you know that?’

‘Cynicism is cheap. You’re wrong….’

‘And you’re repeating yourself. Got nothing new to add, Human? You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand! How can you understand something like Angel? Fuck! Fuck! I’ve done this insubstantial thing already!’  He spun around and swiped everything off Wesley’s desk. ‘How come I can do this? Why can’t I touch Angel? Why can’t I kill you? What have you done?’

‘I hardly think that you’d really comprehend the science, even if I did tell….'

'You patronising git! How dare you!'

'All right! I'll try and put it simply for you.’ Wesley sat down and fiddled with a piece of paper, mentally ordering his thoughts. ‘It's been postulated that there isn’t a precise static instant in time underlying a dynamical physical process at which the relative position of a body in relative motion or a specific physical magnitude could—theoretically—be precisely determined. Do you see the significance of this, Spike? It's quite revolutionary, because you can conclude that it's exactly because of this that time—relative interval as indicated by a clock, of course—and the continuity of a physical process is possible, with there being a necessary trade off of all precisely determined physical values at a time, for their continuity through time. What particularly fascinated me, and made me attempt this rather novel use of the theory, is that it's also shown to be the correct solution to the motion and infinity paradoxes, excluding the Stadium (although I’m not entirely convinced that it is wholly excluded), originally conceived—as you know—by the ancient Greek mathematician Zeno of Elea. So, your condition is entirely explainable by science. Do you see?'

Spike narrowed his eyes. He lit a cigarette, considering its precise and underlying physical process, wondered if he was having the piss taken out of him, decided that the human was quite serious, and determined that when he got out of this mess, he'd either kill Wesley or help him actually get a life.  

Wesley smiled inwardly and added, 'I'm right about this—Angel will come through. I understand Angel better than you think—better than you in some ways. You see him through the—what’s the word I’m looking for: handicap. You see him through the handicap of being his flesh and blood. The long history you share obscures your view of what he’s become now.  He will work this through in his own way, and when he’s done, you’ll come back.’

‘Fuck you!’  Spike stormed out and went into Angel’s office. Angel wasn’t there, so Spike stabbed the button for the elevator and rode up, his anger toward the human making him feel sick.

He heard the shower running when he got in and stood in the bedroom, hands on hips. Angel’s clothes were strewn over the floor in the typical way a man might undress, but strangely uncharacteristic for Angel.  

Spike waited for a few minutes. He couldn’t hear any noises coming from the bathroom but the sound of the water. Cautiously he walked in and peered around the dividing wall.

Angel was sitting on the floor of the stall, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, his chin resting on his arms. His eyes were open, but they were blank, not even blinking as the water streamed into them.

Spike felt a jolt of something deep in his belly, and however much he wanted Angel to grieve, he wanted this to stop.  He cursed and crouched down in front of the still figure, the water freakily soaking him, but Angel’s skin impervious to his touch. Nevertheless, he laid his hand in an approximation of touch on the warmed flesh and said softly, ‘Don’t do this. I’ll bloody kill him for making you suffer like this.’

‘Why can’t I let you go?’

Spike was so shocked by Angel’s plaintive question that he lost his balance and fell into the naked body. Recovering, feeling disoriented, he backed out and said nervously, ‘Angel?’

‘Are you haunting me?’

‘No! I’m sodding here!’

Angel sank his head so his forehead rested on his arms, his expression obscured, then he sighed and levered to his feet. He walked through Spike and went into the bedroom.

He seemed in no hurry to put on some clothes, and Spike figured as he was technically not there, it couldn’t hurt to look… technically.

Angel was much thinner than Spike had realised; what looked bulky in his clothes was now revealed as sleek, conditioned muscle. His body gleamed as if it had been oiled, as if his skin were reaching a level of perfection short-term skin of humans never could. 

Spike sat on the bed and watched Angel moving around the room, picking up his clothes, flinging them back down again—an apparently random set of actions that achieved precisely nothing.  
 
Spike watched the way Angel’s muscles expanded and contracted as he moved, the way his torso was held firm by rock-hard abdominals.   He watched the tattoo shifting on the shoulder blade; he watched the play of light and shadow on the smooth perfection; he watched anything and everything but what he was actually looking at: Angel’s semi-hard erection.  It rose just free of his body, stretched and long, but not hard enough to escape its soft covering. At every step, it swayed, hitting the solid thigh and thickening some more.

Spike didn’t watch it with an eager fascination that had developed since his night with Ingram. He knew what it felt like to stroke another man’s cock, to feel it thickening in his hand. He knew what the prominent vein felt like under the tip of his tongue, how it felt to run his tongue along, tracing a path. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it bulging his cheek. His mouth watered to the memory of pre-cum wiped on his lips and sperm shooting against his throat.  He swallowed at the memory of swallowing and licked his lips softly. Angel turned and sat on the bed alongside him. Spike murmured, ‘Jesus,’ and glanced down to see the deep red cockhead peeking out from its shadowy cave of skin. He lifted his face to Angel’s, but Angel seemed oblivious to the state of his body.  He pulled the covers back and stretched out on his back, folding his arms behind his head.  

After a few moments, he sat up and climbed out of bed again, once more going around the room with meaningless adjustments of things that were perfectly all right where they were. He fetched a book and took it back to bed, but Spike noticed he didn’t turn the pages. 

Eventually, not quite knowing what he did, Spike shed his clothes and slid into the bed. He reflected that if Angel rolled over in the night, he’d be subsumed, and in the mood he was in, that was pretty much okay by him.

Angel lay awake, his body yearning sleep, his mind yearning forgetfulness, his heart utterly unwilling to let him slip into that deceitful realm.

He didn’t want to think about Spike. 

Their whole relationship was based on him not thinking about Spike. If he once began, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop, and it was too late now: too late to think about Spike.  So, it was better not to begin—thinking about Spike. It was better not to think about him at all.

He didn’t know why he was surprised that it felt as if Spike were haunting him. He’d been fucking annoying his whole life; why stop now?  Everywhere he went, Angel felt as if Spike were watching him. It made things…difficult. He couldn’t remember a time he’d not climbed into bed and beaten off, relieving the ache that held him angsty and frustrated all day.  When he’d lived with Darla, they had fucked at least ten times a day, but it still had not satisfied him. He’d fucked Ingram seven times straight one night, and he’d still wanted more. He hated this bestial side of his nature, but accepted it, too. Self-hatred was par for the course for a souled demon.

Lying in bed now, feeling like he was being watched, he was so frustrated that he was reduced to reading—something he usually only bothered to do when trying to impress.  At least he wasn’t thinking about Spike….

He tossed the book into the corner of the room and turned his head to the empty space on the pillow. He’d found a blond hair there yesterday and had spent some time studying it, trying to decide whether it was Spike’s or Ingram’s and whether, in that confusion, he was going mad.  He could almost picture Spike lying there now, watching him with his perfect clarity of thought.  

Who would give him that clear vision now? Who would interpret the world for him?

Angel cursed softly. He was thinking about Spike again, so he shut him out and switched his mind to something else.  Cock… Spike—both banned topics, they didn’t leave much else to think about. He began to laugh, seeing his whole life reduced to these two obsessions.  

He climbed out of bed and went back into the shower. At least under that hot envelopment, he’d been able to blank out all feeling for a while.

Chapter 9

Spike breathed a sigh of relief when Angel left the bed. They’d stared at each other, inches apart, and his need to feel Angel’s body was so intense that he’d begun to stroke his hands over his own body instead, just to feel something.
  
He turned onto his back and nestled into the warmth that Angel left, listening to the shower.  He was hard, his cock responding to lying alongside Angel. He began to stroke up and down the velvety length, enjoying his own solidity if no one else could. As his body began to respond—balls rising and twitching; skin becoming sensitive and flushed and his breathing laboured—he had the bizarre thought that perhaps his cum would be real to Angel. Perhaps Angel would return to the bed and find it, wet on his sheets. Perhaps he would return early and catch it arcing from nowhere: magical, glistening seed. He turned onto his side and aimed, covering the slight indentation where Angel had lain, shooting streams of fluid into his version of reality. 

Angel returned, climbed naked onto the cum, turned onto his belly, put the pillow over his head and did not move again.

Spike watched the strong shoulders for a while, traced his finger over the griffon, which was more real that he was, then whispered, ‘Goodnight.’

There was no response, and Spike fell back onto his side, trying to resist the need to put his head under a pillow, too.

He was woken by a huge gasp and a sharp cry, ‘Spike!’ but Angel was still asleep, and there was nothing Spike could do but watch the restless dreaming.  Eventually, after another rasping cry, which sounded to Spike like, ‘Pitch!’ Angel woke. He sat up, sweating heavily, and swallowed, seeming to find it hard to get his bearings.  He pulled his knees up and folded his arms around them protectively.  Slowly, he put his forehead down then wrapped his arms tightly over his head. The cords in his muscles stood out, as if he were holding onto a great burden.

Spike couldn’t decide who he hated more: Wesley or himself. It was a close run thing. They’d both done this to Angel, but at least Wesley’s motives had been pure.  His, he didn’t care to examine.

Knowing it would not help, but wanting to do it anyway, Spike tried to run his fingers through Angel’s sleep-rumpled hair. For one startling moment, he actually felt it. For an even more alarming moment, Angel appeared to, too. He jerked away with a cry, staring around as if he had indeed been touched by a ghost. He put his hand up to his hair. ‘Spi—?’ Appearing to think better of giving into that particular madness, Angel snapped his jaw shut.

Spike tried in vain to make himself substantial again, but with Angel’s sad reverie over, he appeared to have dissolved into nothingness once more.

He sat back on his heels and stared at Angel, then said quietly, ‘You were willing to beat and break my body to bring me back, Pet. Why can’t you just let a little feeling out of that lock-down of yours? Hey, luv?’  He had a sickening feeling that this was something Angel would never do. How could he? A lifetime of denial wasn’t easy to overcome.

Angel slid back down, but Spike could see that he would not sleep again. He wondered how many nights Angel lay alone—sleepless like this. He risked one more touch, but it had no effect.  Depressed, he climbed out of bed and went to sit in the other room, smoking and thinking. 

Angel could not shake the impression of the dream. It wasn’t hard to interpret: a platform, a blond victim but, this time, the understanding of an adult.  He wasn’t surprised he’d dreamt of Spike; even his damn bed seemed to smell of him.  He was used to nightmares, waking in the middle of the night, shaking and sweat-coated. What he wasn’t used to was this feeling of being so… spooked. He was a vampire. When he wanted to be, he was a very scary vampire. So, ghostly fingers in his hair shouldn’t freak him out, but they did. 

When the alarm sounded, he turned it off calmly, having been awake the rest of the night.  He sighed heavily, trying to summon the motivation to leave the bed and start the day.  
 
He allowed himself to think of Spike for a moment: no more snarky entrances; no more derision; no more cigarette smoke ruining his clothes. 

It was better this way.

He should never have been released from the amulet. That had been the fundamental error from which all this pain flowed. 

Angel frowned deeply. Pain wasn’t the right word. Pain wasn’t the right word at all. He clamped down on the thought that Spike’s death could possibly cause him pain and substituted… confusion. Yeah, confusion—that he would allow. Spike confused him all right.

Feeling considerably better, and now ready to face the day, Angel swung his legs out of bed and went to shower.  Life was going to be so much simpler without Spike.

He had messages to return and then a conference. He couldn’t believe how much he’d let things slip over the past few weeks. He felt good: in control, busy, efficient. He felt more like himself than he had since…. It was no good thinking about amulets or the past in any way. He had a company to run and a world to save, and he needed to keep his thoughts on that.

Harmony knocked his newfound serenity considerably when she came in, red-eyed and pouty. ‘More messag—. Sorry.’ She sniffed and blew her nose loudly.  She saw Angel’s expression and burst into tears. ‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’  

A glimmer of hope flashed in her eyes, and she said nervously, ‘It’s not? He’s not dead?’

‘Oh.’ Angel pretended he hadn’t understood her from the beginning. ‘Spike. Yes. It’s true.’

‘Ohhh…!’ She ran out.

Angel felt absurdly angry at her pathetic display and muttered, ‘You only knew him a damn year. Try a hundred….’ Pouting, he realised the contradiction in this to his earlier profession of disdain for Spike’s parting and shut up.  He snatched up the telephone and began on his list of messages.

Wesley arrived early for the meeting to brief him on the agenda. Angel watched him surreptitiously, pretending to sign papers. Wesley would not be so easy to fool as…. He cursed softly and rose. He wasn’t trying to fool anyone. What had happened, had happened. To prove his point—if only to himself, as he seemed to be the only one having this conversation—he greeted Wesley cheerfully and poured them both a drink.

Wesley was staring at the couch with intense concentration, and Angel couldn’t help his eyes straying in that direction. ‘What?’ He passed the man a glass.

Wesley started and said, ‘Bloody hell, a bit early, isn’t it?’

Angel frowned and realised he was drinking at nine-thirty in the morning. He shrugged and tossed it back in one. 

‘Bad night?’

Angel gave him a puzzled look—he was pleased with this and increased it to utterly confused—and replied, ‘Nope. Why?’

Wesley glanced at the couch again, which, once more, led Angel to glance there too. ‘Well…. I thought the first night after… Spike?’

‘Spike’s gone. Where’s the agenda?’

Wesley shook his head and murmured irritably, ‘Yes, he does!’ and handed over a sheaf of papers. 

Angel frowned and said softly, ‘Huh?’ 

Wesley started and pointed to something, with great concentration, on the agenda.  

Angel took the papers and went toward the conference room. As he went, he heard Wesley say softly, ‘It’s just an act.’

He decided to ignore this, as it touched a little too closely on things he didn’t want to examine.  

By the time they were on item five, Angel felt totally back to normal, to the extent that he could even say something, miss the lack of a predicable, facetious reply, but not let it affect him unduly. Spike—sure, miss him. He could hear himself saying it to anyone who asked. Spike? Yeah, sure, he’s missed around here.

He suddenly looked up when he realised the meeting had gone quiet. ‘What?’

Wesley glanced at an empty chair, and then at Lorne. Lorne fiddled with his pen and murmured, ‘We need to have a party—for Spike.’

‘No!’ Everyone looked curiously at Angel, so he made some notes in the margin of his paper before looking up and adding, ‘It’s not necessary.’

‘Sorry, but it is.’ Lorne was clearly in one of his stubborn moods. 

Angel figured he didn’t have to go, so what the hell? He shrugged his consent. Wesley suddenly said, ‘He will. I’ll make sure of it,’ then turned to Angel, and before anyone could be confused at his first comment, added precisely, ‘We all need to be there. Everyone in this company will miss Spike, and you will be there.’

Angel covered his annoyance with a small laugh. ‘I never said I wouldn’t.’ The spooky feeling returned: not only was he being watched and touched, his thoughts were now being overheard.  He shook himself slightly. ‘So, when do you propose to hold this party?’

‘Tonight.’

Damn. Too soon. Everything is too… raw….

‘Sure.’

Lorne blew him a kiss and turned to Wesley. ‘Do you think he’d want a theme?’

Wesley hesitated as if listening to his inner voice and replied with a smile, ‘Leather.’

Angel rose so quickly his chair crashed to the ground.  He strode out of the meeting without explanation or apology.

His smile of amusement at suggesting a leather party for his own wake quickly fading, Spike jogged after Angel just in time to enter the elevator with him. He glanced over, wondering about Wesley’s claim that this was all an act.

It was a pretty bloody good act if it was. 

Angel was staring at his shoes with great concentration.  He swallowed once or twice and contorted his face as if he had a nervous tic, or an unaccustomed itch.

Spike sighed, bent his head to light a cigarette, and Angel snapped his head up, staring around. He gave one sharp sniff and then backed against the wall with a cry, covering his face. 

Spike frowned and stared at the tip of his cigarette. He looked over to Angel. ‘Are you grieving? Was that all an act?’

Angel’s knees appeared to buckle, and he slid slowly down the wall.  Spike crouched in front of him and tentatively stretched out his hand. He snatched it back when a choked sob came from the huddled figure. Another sob escaped the lock-down.  The doors suddenly slid open, and Spike jumped once more, his nerves strung out.  Suddenly, Angel began to cry.  Spike murmured, ‘Oh! Fuck!’ and Angel raised tear-streaked eyes with a look of unfeigned horror. ‘Spike?’

Spike knelt in front of him again. ‘It’s me! Angel!’

Angel licked his lips. ‘Don’t leave me, Spike. Haunt me….’

‘Fuck! I’m not haunting you! I’m here!’

Angel appeared to notice for the first time that he was huddled and he cursed and pushed to his feet, walking straight through Spike again. This time, though, he stopped. Slowly he turned his head and stared around the apparently empty space. ‘I’m going mad.’ He wiped his face savagely with the back of one hand and went into the bedroom, shedding his clothes and heading straight for the shower.

Spike took the elevator back down and pounded down the hallway to Wesley’s office. He burst in and swept some books off the desk again. ‘Stop this! Now!’

‘No.’

‘You bastard! What right have you…?’

Wesley stood up abruptly with only the slightest wince as his arm hit the desk. ‘He sits there in total denial, Spike, and if I bring you back now he’ll still be in….’

‘No! He’s not in bloody anything! He’s….’

Wesley jerked his head to one side in an uncanny copy of Illyria’s favourite stance, and said curiously, ‘What?’

Spike gritted his teeth. ‘He’s in pain. He’s in pain, and it’s making me more substantial—like you said.’

‘So… why do you want it to stop?’

‘Fuck you, Wesley! It’s hurting him!’

Wesley came closer. ‘Not as much as denying his feelings for you was hurting him.’

Spike pouted, secretly pleased by this but not wanting that to dilute his anger. ‘Bring me back now, and he’ll still know how much he….’

‘No.’ Wesley spoke very softly. ‘I told you: if he’s ready to really love you, then you’ll come back.’

‘You are so full of crap, Wes. Romantic, human crap.’

Wesley smiled, hearing something in this Spike would have flayed him for pointing out. He nodded and only risked, ‘The universe owes you, Vampire—both of you.’ Even that was too much.  With a glare, Spike stormed out and returned to his strange Angel-stalking.  

Angel came to a decision while he was showering: he’d go to the party, and he’d play CEO, and he’d not let one crack form in his armour that would allow Spike’s haunting presence through.  Every time the grief threatened to overwhelm him, there was essence of Spike, curling around him. That way madness lay; he knew this. He had to stay sane and focused and rational. He could not afford to miss Spike.  If he played the part well enough, perhaps he could fool himself, too.

He held the closet doors open and looked at his leather pants. The memories they evoked made him hear the urgent whispers again: Angel, it’s me; I’m here.  He shouted, ‘No! You’re not! You’ll never be here again,’ and pulled them on angrily. He added a sleeveless leather shirt, and straightened, breathing quietly, just for the company.  ‘I do not miss you. I will attend this party for you, and then I will pack you away.’

He exited the elevator to find the party in full swing—if a large number of gloomy people dressed uncomfortably in leather could be called… swinging.  He went straight to the bar and helped himself to a large drink before seeking Wesley out. He smiled, knowing the façade was perfect. ‘What’s up?’

Wesley raised an eyebrow. ‘Not spirits.’

‘Why are there so many people here?’ Angel refilled his glass from a passing waiter.

Wesley looked at him slowly then at Spike, who was standing close to his side, looking around the room. Angel frowned but resisted the temptation to follow the direction of the man’s gaze.  Wesley smiled then returned his eyes to Angel. ‘Because everyone loved Spike.’ 

Spike turned back to him and contorted his face. ‘They bloody well did not! They all hated me.’

‘Most of these people didn’t even know him.’ 

Wesley made a small face at Spike, but replied to Angel, ‘Sure they did. He got around, made friends, talked to people. It’s you who knows no one.’

Spike narrowed his eyes at the man. ‘Stop bullying him.  He’s feeling fragile.’

Wesley smiled softly. ‘He doesn’t look fragile.’

Angel put his drink down slowly. ‘Who doesn’t…?’

Wesley picked the glass up and said brightly, ‘Another?’

Angel, left on his own, wrapped his arms tightly around his body.  

Things went well for a few hours. Angel maintained his habitual level of broody silence, and no one knew anything was any different.  It was only as the maudlin hours of the evening began, when people had drunk enough to let their feelings show, that things began to slip away from him. 

It began with Harmony. She sought Angel out, and after a sniff, she pressed something into his hand.  Angel looked down. ‘He’d want you to have it.’

Spike’s lighter lay, small and insignificant, in his palm. He tried to give it back to her—quickly, as if it burnt him—but she wiped her eyes and gave a small, brave smile. ‘He was always talking about you, so I guess it’s where he’d want it to be.’

Spike could have hit her (and tried once before he felt stupid and desisted). Angel shoved the lighter deep into his pocket and nodded his thanks.  When she’d moved on, an insignificant man came and stood at Angel’s side. Spike could see that Angel was reaching badly for his name, and whispered, ‘Lenny,’ as if that could help.

Lenny smiled anxiously at Angel then said in a low voice, ‘He always said he wanted you to go first—so I guess this kinda sucks.’

Spike groaned, spied the drinks table and wondered if time theory would break down enough for him to get totally plastered. He wandered over to give it a try.

Angel flushed with embarrassment at the implied sentiment in the human’s voice and at not having the slightest clue who the man was. He just echoed, ‘Go first?’ in a weak voice, playing with Spike’s lighter in his pocket.

‘Yeah, he always said he didn’t want you to be left alone…. Scared him.’

Angel began to feel angry now, this casual assumption from complete strangers that they knew his childe better than he did.  He didn’t explore the nagging thought that the anger was because these complete strangers actually did know his childe better then he did.  ‘Who are you?’

The man flushed at Angel’s uncharacteristic bluntness. ‘I’m Lenny—from the car pool? Spike and me used to play poker while we waited—for you usually. Shit, he could play a mean game of poker.’

‘I know. I taught him.’

‘Oh, well, any time you want to come down and….’ He implied the rest of the sentence, miming dealing a hand and wandered off.

A demon with an odd appearance (even for a demon) sidled up and offered Angel a drink, which he took gratefully. ‘We’re gonna miss him.’

Angel nodded, wearily. 

‘He was a real gent.’

‘And you are at the right party?’ It was petty, but it made him feel better.  Suddenly a figure caught his eye, staring at him. He tried to place the face, and it came to him: the janitor. The small scene between Ingram and the man came back to him, and with total clarity he remembered making the comparison between the human’s treatment of the small, ugly man, and Spike’s.

Angel turned back to the demon and said sincerely, ‘Yeah. He was.’

‘Yep, he was one of life’s gracious creatures, man. Never… judged, ya know?’

Angel did and smiled softly. ‘Sometimes, I used to wish he’d be more….’

‘Judgemental?’

‘Cautious.’  Angel plunged into memories he didn’t want: Spike’s enthusiasm’s, his total abandon of any common sense when he had a plan; his amazing ability to bounce back.  Except from this. Something had finally defeated him. It didn’t seem right.

When Angel lifted his head, the demon had moved on. For one heart-wrenching moment, Angel thought he saw Spike standing by the bar: his faint presence; florescent lighting glinting on his blond hair; and his pale, flawless skin.  Someone moved, and the shape dissolved into wishes.  

The janitor confronted Angel, and Angel cursed inwardly at, yet again, not having the least idea what he was called. He nodded weakly.  

The man had to crane his neck to look up at Angel. It did nothing for his features. ‘You miss him.’

Slightly surprised at the bluntness of the observation, and even more surprised to have it made by someone so lowly, (although only considerably more torture than he’d received in hell would make him admit to that almost English level of snobbery), he could only nod coolly. 

‘I miss him more than you can know.’

Angel frowned. ‘You knew Spike, too.’

‘Oh, yeah, old friends… if you know what I mean….’

Yeah. As if Angel was going to fall for that—this pathetic implication that this weasel-faced man had known Spike…. Not only wouldn’t Spike give this little freak the time of day, he’d wouldn’t stand beside him in case his ugly little…. 

Angel gritted his teeth and tried to remain gracious, as Spike would do. It was the least he could do. 

With a malicious look, the little man wandered off. 

Angel turned to leave.

Suddenly, music started, and it held him captive in its sad embrace.

Spike spotted Wesley and marched up to him furiously. ‘Those are my CDs!’

Wesley shrugged. ‘Of course. It’s your wake. I thought it would be a nice touch: Spike’s swansong, so to speak!’

‘I want them all back in perfect condition!’

Angel was staring at his feet when the singer began.  Wesley saw Spike’s face and said softly, ‘I think you sang it better.’

Faith pours from your walls, drowning your calls, I've tried to hear, you're not near. Remembering when I saw your face, shining my way, pure timing. Now I've fallen in deep, slow silent sleep, it's killing me, I'm dying.

Spike glanced over at Angel. ‘Turn it off!’

Wesley shook his head. ‘No. He sat and listened to you singing this. He listened to your fear and your doubt, but still he let you go to Ingram. But worse, Spike; I let you go. We both deserve this.’

Angel’s head had lifted. He’d clearly recognised the track, remembered Spike’s subtle harmony.

Now this slick fallen rift, came like a gift, your body moves ever nearer. And you will dry this tear. Now that we're here, and grieve for me, not history But now I'm dry of thoughts, wait for the rain, Then it's replaced, sun setting

Suddenly, he was in motion.  He strode through the throng on the floor and sought Hamilton out.  Spike murmured a small, uncertain sound and walked through people to stand at his side.  He caught the tail end of Hamilton’s greeting. 

‘…impressive number of people. You must be… surprised.’

‘I’m not here to talk about Spike.’

Hamilton laughed. ‘Well, that will be a first for all of us.’

Angel ignored him. ‘I’m here to deal for him.’

Hamilton laid his glass down and began to walk slowly toward one of the hallways. He glanced behind, clearly inviting Angel to follow.  ‘I confess I’m intrigued, Angel. Deal for Spike?’

‘I want him brought back.’

Spike wanted to interject something suitably risible but didn’t waste his breath.  

Hamilton made a small gesture. ‘I’m embarrassed to say, Angel, that we can’t locate him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He seems to have slipped off our radar, so to speak. Of course, we will find him, eventually, but suffice to say, he’s not in any of our regular hell dimensions. But as I pointed out to the Senior Partners, he’s utterly unique! The first souled vampire ever to be staked. I wonder if there’s a hell reserved just for him…?’

‘Yes, you overdressed fairy, there is: listening to you blather all day.’ Neither of them heard, but it made Spike feel better to say it.

‘What exactly do you think you have to offer us, Angel?’

‘Me. My soul.’

Hamilton stopped. ‘That is interesting. You’d be willing to sell your soul for Spike?’

Angel flushed slightly at his choice of expression. ‘Exchange. I prefer to think of it as an exchange.’

‘I don’t believe you, Angel.  You wouldn’t give us that even to bring your son back. You created this edifice of lies instead. But for that blond moron, you’d sacrifice the apocalypse.’

‘I’m not critical to the apocalypse!’

‘Hey! Deny I’m a moron, you… moron!’

‘Yes, Angel, you are.  Souless you will be our greatest ally.’

‘Can it be done?’

Spike suddenly got that Angel was serious, not just drunk and maudlin.  He stopped and put his hand out as if to lay it on Angel’s arm, but they just carried on walking.  He jogged to catch up and stood in front of them, but they walked through him.  He debated fetching Wesley, but suddenly felt reluctant to expose Angel’s decision to those critical eyes.

He entered the elevator with the other two and thrust his hands into his pockets, mumbling softly to himself. 

Hamilton glanced over at Angel. ‘Do you hear something?’

Angel hesitated then replied, ‘I hear it all the time.’

Hamilton nodded. ‘Perhaps we’re haunted. I wouldn’t be surprised. I hear this whole place is built upon the….’

‘Do we have a deal?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I thought you understood that. My apologies.  I will have the contract drawn up tonight.’  The doors opened, and he exited. 

Angel leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.  The façade had cracked wide open; he was free falling. He’d bring Spike back, and then he could think again. Then he could decide what to do next. Like this, he was paralysed—pretending, denying.

Tears began to run down his face, but he reckoned they’d stop when he put his name to the contract. He couldn’t remember Angelus ever crying.  

He’d be Angelus once more, and then the pain would stop; then he would no longer remember that Spike was gracious, and kind and brave.  They would both be what they once were, and life would be simple again.

Spike stood alongside Angel, unwilling to leave him but needing to fetch Wesley. He looked deep into Angel’s dilated eyes, came so close his essence almost dissolved into the more solid form.  ‘Why haven’t I come back?’

Angel had no answers for him, so he rephrased his question. ‘If you’re so fucking sad, Angel, so fucking sad that you’d give up your bloody soul, why haven’t I come back?’

Still, Angel had no reply. He only brushed the back of his hand over his eyes and exited the elevator.

He did not return to the party but went to his office and stared out at the lights, hands plunged deep in his pockets.  The paralysis had not lifted. He couldn’t think clearly enough to do anything other than wait and let events take their course. Hamilton would come; they would sign the contract, and Spike would return.  It was very, very simple, and this simplicity soothed him.

Spike also watched the lights, but he watched Angel more.  When Hamilton arrived, Angel nodded at his private elevator, and they entered it together. 

Hamilton had a leather folder in his hand.

Spike began to run. He tore out of the office into the lobby. He couldn’t see Wesley anywhere, and ran through people seeking him out.  He crashed down the hallway to Wesley’s office, cursed at its emptiness, and took the elevator down to the lab. 

‘Wesley!’

Wesley turned from the table he was leaning over. ‘You got me thinking earlier….’

‘Angel’s signing over his soul to Marcus Hamilton—to get me back.’

Wesley straightened and pouted. ‘You must be mistaken.’

‘Fuck you! I was there!’  He tried to grab Wesley’s arm (a hundred years of being solid, a hard habit to kick).  

Wesley frowned, his pout making the expression almost comic. ‘There is no way….’

‘I told you, Wesley! I told you: you don’t get Angel! Now come on! Please!’

Whether because of Spike’s final, uncharacteristic plea, or his expression, Wesley suddenly began to run.  Spike ran behind him, effortlessly matching his pace.

Wesley entered Angel’s elevator then paused, holding the doors. Spike cursed and began to urge him on, but Wesley shook his head. ‘Go to my office and fetch the stake that’s in my top draw.’

At Spike’s look, he said lightly, ‘Angel may have already signed it.’ He glanced up. ‘I don’t fancy saying hello to Angelus all that much.’

Spike cursed again. ‘Wait here.’

Wesley nodded, waited until he was out of sight and then let the doors slide close.  Time was of the essence. Angelus wouldn’t kill him straightaway; that wasn’t his style.

He exited into soft candlelight.  The darkness wrapped around him.
 
Before there was time for panic to well, he saw Angel standing by the window, systematically tearing a sheet of paper into tiny pieces of confetti, which fluttered like snow around his bare feet.

‘Angel?’

Angel didn’t turn his head. He held out the remaining handful of snow and let it drop: a magnanimous Santa Claus.

Wesley came closer. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘It looks like you’re tearing up the contract.’

‘Good visual acuity, Wes. I’m impressed.’

Wesley wasn’t too sure he wasn’t talking to Angelus. He’d never felt so keenly the inseparable nature of the two. ‘Perhaps I should have asked why are you doing it?’

Angel smiled, a small bitter twist of his lips. ‘Because I don’t want Spike back—not like this.’  He turned fully and came very close to Wesley. ‘What is this? Why don’t I want him? It doesn’t matter that I’d be Angelus—he’d still be in that body that I want more than…. Why don’t I want it? Does it matter that he wouldn’t be to me then what he is to me now? That he wouldn’t come into the office all snarky and irritating every day; that he wouldn’t laugh at me when I’m being pompous. He always does that—why don’t any of you do that? Does it matter that he wouldn’t be the one I rely on to tell me the truth? He couldn’t tell Angelus the truth; he’d have to be silent. So, what is this, Wes? Why don’t I want him to come back like this? Why do I know he wouldn’t want this? If he were here, if he knew what I was doing, he’d try to stop me.’ Angel stared down at the white covering. ‘What is this? Why do I care more about what he wants than what I want?’

Wesley put his hand on Angel’s arm. ‘It’s called truth. It’s what the likes of Ingram and Illyria will never understand. They can’t be what we really want—what’s inside the shell. I’ve always known it, and I think for the first time, you’re seeing it, too.’

Angel hung his head. ‘How can there be truth in this edifice of lies? This whole life built on lies….’

‘It’s really rather simple, I think. It’s just love. Not what you want, but what he wants—it’s just love.’

Angel raised a tear-streaked face. ‘That’s bullshit.’

Wesley smiled ruefully.

‘I can’t love Spi…. How can I…?’ His eyes suddenly widened. ‘And if I do, it’s too late! Fuck! It’s too damned late….’

Wesley stepped back out of respect for the great flood of grief, which suddenly hit Angel. Like any river dammed too long, the sudden outpouring was too strong for the frail banks, too all-encompassing. Fragile and human, Wesley retreated lest he be washed away, too.

Stronger arms took Angel in a hard embrace, shoring him up.  A more powerful body pressed against his and held him as the world dissolved into water. 

There was no vomit, but in all other respects, Angel was six once more. This time though, the strong embrace kept the horror from taking him over as it once had that small child, sending him on a path that would take three hundred years to escape.  Spike’s embrace reassured him that the world had changed, and that there were now entirely different definitions of sin to the one that had held him captive to fear.

When Angel came back to a realisation of himself, he was lying on the bed, and Spike was sitting alongside him.  He stared at the blond figure then curled on his side, wrapping his arms protectively around his body. ‘Go away. I’m entirely mad now.’

‘You theatrical ponce.’ Spike wrapped his fingers around Angel’s bicep and began to squeeze. He was very, very strong.

Angel frowned. He turned back. He cursed. He said, ‘Ow’ very loudly, and then he sat up, pushing Spike’s very corporeal fingers away.  

Spike sighed ruefully. ‘I wasn’t dead. Bloody Wesley… found a way to bring me back. I was….’ 

Angel put the back of his hand to Spike’s cheek then withdrew it. ‘You weren’t dead?’

‘Well, course, technically….’

‘Spike!’

‘No! I slipped into another… it was a time thing… big objects… kinda too complicated for you, Angel. But I was here… hanging around like a great….’

Angel suddenly turned away again and flung an arm over his face. ‘This is another spell—you’re here, then you’re not, then you’re someone else, then you’re back, then you’re….’

Spike leant over Angel and opened the leather shirt.  Full game face, fangs sharp and willing, he sliced the smooth chest open and drank from Angel’s bleeding nipple. 

Angel wriggled in considerable pain and tried to push him off, but it only increased Spike’s intense sucking.  Finally, Angel allowed himself to believe the reality of blood. After a very long time, after the crimson fluid reunited them, he said calmly, ‘That’s enough.’

Spike sat up, wiping the back of his mouth cheekily. ‘One day, you’ll let me go too far.’

‘Never happen.’ Angel gave a weak smile. ‘So… not dead?’

Spike flicked up his eyebrow. ‘Nope. Here all the time, haunting you.’

Angel frowned. ‘All the time?’ He glanced toward the shower thoughtfully. 

Spike looked innocent. 

Angel swung his legs off the bed slightly shakily and went into the living room to pour them both a drink. As he handed one over, Spike said a little too quickly, ‘So, no longed-for reunion? No… kiss?’

Angel looked down at his feet and noticed small pieces of paper stuck to one of them. Idly, he peeled them off, pouting with concentration.

‘Oh.’

Angel put his drink down. ‘I’m kinda in a bad place with this, Spike.’

‘Have you been reading Comso again? I’ve told you….’

Angel quirked his mouth despite himself but added quickly, ‘I can’t do these extremes—here, not here, not you, you….’

Spike felt his body tingling from the loss of touch he’d been anticipating. He wrapped his arms around his body—a poor substitute for Angel’s better embrace.  ‘I’ll go tell Wesley the good….’ He couldn’t be bothered to finish—what was good about any of this?— and turned to go to the elevator.

A hand landed feather-light on his arm. ‘Spike.’

Spike kept his back to Angel, but Angel nudged him around and held him by both arms, studying him. ‘Ingram said that I put myself on a pedestal—that I need for you to see me as perfect.’

‘What a crock of….’

‘Shhh.’ Angel put a finger over his mouth, the touch of Spike’s lips almost undoing him, throwing him off his intent. ‘He was right. I do. I can’t have you see me… emotional… see me…. Fuck it—see me cry! See me lost or… pathetic. But you did. You’ve seen it all, and I can’t take that back now or make myself what I was.’

‘I never thought you were bloody perfect!’

‘I did! I thought that about myself. So, now I don’t know you, but I don’t even know me. How the fuck can we start something when I’ve lost both of us?’  

‘So, you’re saying we….’

‘I’m saying we go back to the day before we met Ingram. We go back to what we know.’

Spike shook him off, stepping away from him. ‘We can’t do that! It’s all up here….’ He tapped his temple. ‘In our bloody memories! Shit, Angel, I can feel your tongue on me now! I can remember your hands stroking me as you sucked….’

Angel backed him to the wall and cupped him hard and urgent, his mouth pressed into the hollow of his neck. ‘Do you think I’ve forgotten? I’ve forgotten nothing. And if it’s real, it will still be there. If it’s real, Spike. Can you tell me what’s real anymore? Because I’m damned if I know.’

Spike turned his head so their lips came together, not in a kiss exactly, just resting together almost like old friends.  When he spoke, he could feel the vibrations through Angel’s lips. ‘I know this is real.’

Angel smiled. ‘Then it will be real tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because now is too short. I don’t want now anymore. I had that with Ingram. I fucked your body in the now.’

He dropped Ingram’s name between them like a grenade, waiting to see where the shrapnel hit, how it would split them and make them bleed. Spike stared into his dark eyes and suddenly nodded. He eased himself out of Angel’s crush and bent his head to light a cigarette. ‘Back to how we were?’

Angel allowed himself a breath of relief. ‘Until we can see the starting line again.’

Spike laughed. ‘You should stop listening to pseudo fucking philosophers, Angel.’

Angel smiled. ‘I don’t know; he makes a lot of sense sometimes.’

‘So… if we’re back to normal, there’ll be none of these cosy little chats…. I’ll bug the hell out of you all day….’

‘Of course. Only to be expected.  I’ll make your life a living hell: nagging, brooding and being miserable.’

‘Totally relying on it.  I’ll make sure I fuck up even the simplest tasks you give me….’

‘I won’t be giving you any—and making sure you know that I’m not.’

‘So… we know where we stand.’

‘We know where we stand.’

Spike stepped into the elevator, but just as the doors were closing, he thrust his hand between them. ‘Wear the leather tomorrow, Angel. Cus… you know I fancy the arse off you, and I know you’ll be wanting to fuck me on the conference table. Night.’  The doors slid shut, and Angel was left leaning into them as if he could physically stop Spike’s descent.

Angel had forgotten, with all the other things he’d had to think about, that he had a new client scheduled for a meeting at nine that morning.

Once more, he had not read the briefs. When he walked into the conference room, Wesley was already there, chatting to Gunn. Lorne joined them after a few minutes, and for a while, it seemed very familiar—soothing to Angel’s fragile nerves.  

There was something missing though, and Angel felt an increasing sense of tension as he waited for the first glimpse of Spike. He had no idea what they would say or do, decisions and plans made in the heat of the moment the previous night, didn’t seem to hold up quite so well in the bright, accusatory light of day. 

Wesley, Gunn and Lorne were deep in a separate conversation when Spike sauntered in, so Angel was the only one who looked up.  Spike twitched an eyebrow up in greeting and sat next to him. 

Very pointedly, he put his briefcase on the ground and made to open it.

Angel watched this, incredulous, then began to laugh quietly. He’d said it: back to before Ingram had walked in and shattered their lives.  He said too softly for the others to hear, ‘There’d better not be a fucking bleep, bleep thing in there.’

Spike looked up with theatrical offence. ‘Now, Pet, that would be trite. No one’s ever accused me of that! I’ve got something a lot more fun.’ He put his hand down as if to produce something, then paused. ‘Nah. I’ll keep it till later.’

Harmony suddenly appeared, ushering in a couple of aggressive looking demons.  

The meeting began.  Angel tried to concentrate on the flow of conversation, but his gaze kept straying to Spike, whose eyes were fixed intently on him the whole time. Every time Angel looked over, Spike made a small move to his case. Angel’s eyes would narrow fractionally, and Spike’s hand would withdraw teasingly. On one play of this game, Angel snorted with amusement, and all eyes turned to him. He stood up. ‘This meeting’s concluded. Whatever it is you want, we’re not doing it. Evil’s taking a day off at Wolfram and Hart.’ 

Wesley tried to sooth things over; Gunn and Lorne looked delighted. Spike rose and stretched.  ‘Guess I’ll go visit the smurf.’

He sauntered out with a last amused glance at Angel.

Half an hour after the aborted meeting, Angel decided that he’d had his finger off the pulse of the company for too long. It was time he checked out how things were coming along…. It seemed a good idea to start with Illyria. It was only his duty.

Instead of going into the gallery with Wesley, he went into the training room and leant on the wall. 

Spike glanced across, took a savage kick to the head for inattention and fell like a stone. He groaned. ‘Haven’t you got something better to do than watch me get my arse pummelled?’

Angel inspected a nail. ‘Nope.’

‘You….’ He never finished; Illyria kicked him so hard he crashed into the wall. He dragged himself to his feet in a fighter’s stance. He landed one good blow on her and crowed with delight. She didn’t take being mocked very well, and the next punch knocked him unconscious.

Angel waited until Spike sat up, groggily holding his head, then left with a bored expression.

Spike caught him up before he made it to the elevator.  Angel bent around to look at his head. ‘You’re still bleeding.’

‘She’s a bloody head-case that girl.’

Angel pressed the button and thrust his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly awkward.

Spike mirrored his position but said easily, ‘So, how’s the pretending that you don’t wanna shag me going?’

Angel heard a number of replies flash through his mind, but nodded ruefully and admitted, ‘Not good.’

Spike laughed. ‘So, if we get in the elevator together, I might get my arse pummelled another way?’

Angel pouted but was saved a reply when a couple of women joined them, waiting for the elevator. They nodded at Angel shyly but continued their conversation. 

Angel glanced over at Spike and discovered himself under observation.  The elevator arrived; they all stepped in.  The inane chatter of the women continued.  They appeared to know Spike and began to include him in their conversation.  He lit a cigarette, much to their disgust, and exited with them on their floor. 

Angel spent the rest of the journey to his more elevated position swearing. It hardly fitted the CEO of such a prestigious firm, but he enjoyed it anyway.

He didn’t have a lot of time to miss Spike, because half an hour later, the blond figure sauntered into the office and flung himself on the couch. ‘Fancy some lunch?’

Angel looked up from his desk. ‘Lunch?’

‘Yeah. It’s great. You get to the middle of the day and feel peckish, so you go eat someone… I mean something. ‘S fun. You should try it.’

Angel leant back in his chair, tapping a pencil against his lips. ‘I told you: we need things to be as….’

‘Bollocks.’ Spike stood up, stretched lazily, and then came over, perching on the side of the desk, swinging his leg. ‘You coming?’

Angel snorted faintly, and Spike rolled his eyes. ‘Great—schoolboy humour.’

Angel began to doodle on his daily planner. ‘I keep expecting Wesley to burst in with a crossbow.’

Spike frowned. ‘Huh?’

Angel shrugged. ‘You had to be there…. What I mean is that I keep expecting you to leap up and say: Ah ha! It’s me! Ingram!’

Spike nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never said ah ha in my life. That’s fucking embarrassing.’

‘You’re not really getting my point.’

Spike snorted, and Angel rolled his eyes. ‘Go away.’

Spike stood up. ‘Last chance before I sweep Harmony away from her desk and take her to lunch instead….’

Angel readjusted his pen in a straighter line. ‘Not a… nooner….’

Spike walked behind Angel’s chair, forcing Angel to spin slowly around.

‘Why not?’

Angel suddenly lifted one leg, effectively capturing Spike (capture in the loosest sense of the word, given he could have stepped back or around, or just pushed Angel’s leg away. As Spike made no attempt to do any of these, it at least appeared to be an imprisonment).  ‘Because I wouldn’t like it.’

Spike hid a grin by tipping a cigarette into his mouth from a scrunched packet. ‘Maybe you should try it first—before you condemn it, like.’

‘Go eat, Spike, but do it alone.’

‘Sheesh. You are so possessive.’

Angel smiled broadly and lowered his leg. ‘I told you: things back to exactly where they were.’

Spike gave him a penetrating look. Agonisingly slowly, he dragged his gaze down the solid body, coming to a stop in Angel’s lap. Just as slowly, he drew his eyes back up. He flicked up an eyebrow. ‘Yeah.’  With that damning comment, Spike sauntered back out, and Angel was left knowing his body had betrayed him once more. 

Angel had a series of performance appraisals to conduct throughout the afternoon, and he unnerved a number of his employees by keeping his eyes more on the door than he did on them.  Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of Spike, either talking to Harmony, or just walking past.  Between meetings, he made a point of going out to the lobby and being visible, but for some reason, these times didn’t seem to coincide with anyone interesting passing by.

Before he knew it, it was five o’clock, and the building began to empty around him.  Angry suddenly, he strode out and went back down to the lab. Only Illyria and Wesley were there, so he didn’t stay, but strode even more angrily back toward the elevator.  On a whim, he pushed down and exited in the garage.  Listening, he caught voices and grinned. He followed the sound of laughter to a small office and found a number of men playing poker. 

They all looked up nervously, except one, who just took a long swig from a bottle of beer. This one then made his excuses, threw down his cards, glanced at Angel and strode out into the darkened garage.

Angel followed, his anger now indiscriminate and simmering.  It made him silent for longer than he’d intended, and when he finally spoke, his tone was snappy and irritable. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

Spike stopped and leant on one of the cars, lighting a cigarette. When he’d finished, he lifted his head, blew a stream of smoke at Angel and replied, ‘Going out.’

Angel jerked his head back. This, he had not anticipated.

Seeing the small but intense reaction, Spike waved his cigarette in an off-hand gesture. ‘Yeah, this bloke at work…. He’s been dying to ask me all day—he’s finally plucked up courage.’

Angel blinked slowly, a wave of unaccustomed pleasure flooding his body. He leant back on the adjacent car and said lightly, ‘Maybe it wasn’t courage he lacked. Maybe he didn’t have that true masochistic spirit to actually want your company for an evening.’

Spike narrowed his eyes, considering this. ‘Nah. He fancies me.’

Angel didn’t dignify this with a direct response but asked, ‘Is this an out-of-office meeting to discuss work?’

‘Angel. I don’t work when I’m here. I’m hardly likely to do it in my own time.’

Angel smiled softly. ‘So, what time are you meeting him—this guy at work?’

‘Oh, I don’t know… I’ve something to do first…. Seven?’

‘Where?’

‘Well, he’d insist on a gay dance club—seeing as he’s a poofter. But the bar around the corner from my place will do. First real date an’ all.’

Angel nodded serenely. ‘Have a good evening then.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve got some family business to sort.’

Spike hesitated but then took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Really.’

Angel nodded. ‘Yeah—things I should have said and done a long time ago. But that’s the beauty of family, I guess: doesn’t matter how much you take them for granted, they’re there when you need it—when you realise you need them.’

‘Who’s this lucky member of the House of Aurelius? Do I know him?’

‘I’m not sure I do tonight.’

Spike pushed off the car. ‘Well, we’ve both got interesting evenings lined up then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘See ya.’

Angel just nodded and watched Spike saunter away.  Before he got out of earshot though, he asked pointedly, ‘What are you going to wear?’

Spike stopped but didn’t turn around. After some time, he replied, ‘Something he’d like. It’s a first date, after all.’

Chapter 10

Angel got to the bar ten minutes early.  He’d played their conversation back in his mind the whole intervening two hours.  It had amused him to torture himself with the thought that Spike had actually been talking about someone else—that he would walk in here soon with Lenny or some other employee of the company. Amused and aroused him…. 

He selected a seat where he could see the door and drank steadily.

When Spike entered the bar, the glass slipped from Angel’s hand.

He tried not to stare.

He tried to rise to his feet.

He mopped at the spilt drink, trying to process what he was seeing.

Spike had shaved his head. 

Spike had had his hair shaved—a close, light brown stubble was all that was now left of what had been longish, blond locks.

It wasn’t the hair—or lack of it—that Angel stared at. It was Spike’s head. Every bone was now revealed in perfect alignment. He’d never seen a head better suited to such a cut. 

Torn denims, a sleeveless T-shirt and the hair…. The bartender refused to serve him and demanded to see some ID.

Angel came up to the bar and, half in shock, ordered drinks for them both. Spike suddenly seemed shy and slid into the seat, lighting a cigarette intently. 

When Angel sat down, he asked softly, ‘Well?’

‘I—.’ Angel hesitated. ‘Can I touch it?’

Spike laughed. ‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’  He lowered his head obediently. 

Angel stretched out his hand and ran it lightly over the stubble. ‘Jesus.’

Spike grinned and sat back, smoking and watching Angel.

‘Why?’

Spike’s face suddenly became less readable.  He leant forward and said deceptively calmly, ‘So you won’t get us mixed up anymore.’ He glanced up then continued, ‘I make my own starting lines when I want them.’

Angel couldn’t take his eyes off the bone structure, the artist in him longing to sketch Spike, the man in him wanting to do something else.

He ran his hand over it once more, and Spike half-shrugged him off. ‘People are looking.’

‘Are they jealous?’

Spike almost blushed and leant back out of reach. ‘Drink up, poof.’

‘Why? What’s the rush?’

‘None at all. I just wanna get you drunk so I can seduce you.’

Angel toyed with his drink, swirling it around in the glass. ‘Who says I need to be drunk for that?’

Spike suddenly leant forward and said in a low voice, ‘Ingram taught me some fun things, Angel. Did he teach you, too?’

Angel felt a surge of anger rise from his belly at this so casual mention of the man who’d torn apart his life.  He sat dumbfounded that Spike could be so insensitive. But the anger didn’t grow as it always did. It swirled around for a while and then sank back, and its wake left him acutely aware of nuances in Spike’s expression.  Suddenly, he knew that it was over: Spike’s anger at being used, and his guilt for allowing Spike to be used.  He realised that the past was just that: the past—and not just the recent past either. By that one question, Spike had done what Angel had always hoped he would. He’d closed the gap for him between his widely divergent paths.

In response, he marked the spot where these paths met as his own new starting line. He leant forward, grabbed Spike’s wrist in an almost painful grip and very slowly pulled it toward his mouth.  Deliberately, seductively, he took a drag of Spike’s cigarette, knowing they were still being watched. ‘Yeah, he did.  He liked me to practice them, too.’

Spike rose, pushing his chair so hard it fell over. He didn’t even stop to check that Angel was following.

They hit the night air, and Angel asked almost breathlessly, ‘Where?’

‘My place.’  Spike jogged across the street, clearly impatient when Angel had to wait for a moment for traffic.

They hit the apartment block running and fumbled with the outer door key.  By the time they made it to Spike’s door, fingers wouldn’t work, and the key was dropped in the dark. Finally, Spike turned sideward and kicked the door in.  They tumbled into the dark in a confusion of denim and leather.  

Thumped up against a wall, Spike tore desperately at buttons, not sure whether they were Angel’s or his, aware only that he needed to remove what separated them.

Angel shoved his hand inside Spike’s pants and found what he wanted.

Released, their cocks stood hard and urgent, already wet from the intense excitement.

For their first time, it was nothing like either of them expected: both, somewhere in their human halves, expecting long, slow kisses, and pleasures taken and enjoyed in slow time.  This was nothing like a movie scene: they kissed and their teeth clashed together painfully; when Angel began to work Spike’s cock, the shaved head flung back and hit the wall hard.

They didn’t care which cock they jerked off—just that they had one and that it was hot and hard. They mashed cockheads together in desperate need for friction.  They still tried to kiss, but kept missing lips, tasting hair and ears and sweat pooling in the hollows of necks.  

Finally, sweat and pre-ejaculate making their hands impossibly slippery, they grabbed onto clothes and just stood, grinding their hips, thrusting and dry fucking each other.

Things weren’t dry for long.  With a sound more of pain than pleasure, Angel whimpered as his cock spurted long, high shots of sperm between them.  Spike shuddered, hit his head once more as he arched back and cried out with a ragged, pained sob as he shot his load to join Angel’s.

It was a few moments before they realised they were still holding each other with death-like grips on arms. They prized their fingers off, Angel staggering slightly at the loss of support.  

Spike slid down the wall, his pants tangled around his thighs and caught on his boots.  Angel fell to his knees, then twisted around to sit next to him, leaning gratefully on the wall, too.

He made a desultory attempt to pull his pants high enough to cover his still semi-hard erection, then gave up the attempt and just closed his eyes so he couldn’t see it.

In the dark of his head, Angel heard the click of a lighter and smelt the distinctive smoke of Spike’s brand of cigarettes.  He smiled when the end of one touched his lips, and he opened them obediently, summoning just enough energy to hold it.

They smoked silently for a while, both coming down from that place of almost frightening intensity, which had made them paw at each other with such mindless need.

Finally, Angel opened his eyes. He looked once again at Spike’s hair and leant into it for a moment, rubbing his cheek curiously against the stubble. When Spike made an affectionate noise of derision, he straightened.  

After a moment of thinking, Angel tipped his head to one side and said curiously, ‘Where’d the bed go?’

Spike chuckled. ‘Too small. I threw it out.’ He nudged Angel, and Angel turned to look the other way.

A large mattress, still wrapped in plastic, was propped against the living room wall.

Angel huffed. ‘So… you were pretty sure I’d come…?’

Spike turned his head and frowned. ‘I got it for the bloke I was telling you about—from the office.’

Angel nodded sagely but made no further comment.

‘So, how did that family business that you had to do go?’

Angel smiled and flicked his cigarette away.  He cupped his hands around Spike’s neck and pulled him close, staring down at his mouth greedily. ‘I’ll let you know.’ He kissed him, utterly aware who it was; whose mouth he eased his tongue into; whose tongue met his and played. He kissed with the thought Spike, Spike, Spike rolling around in his mind like an incantation of desire.  Thoughtlessly, one hand roamed around Spike’s head, feeling the shape of the skull and rubbing the erotic bristle.

Spike eased him off to say raggedly, ‘Bed?’

Angel shook his head and lowered him to the floor.  Their clothes were damp and hard to remove: pants catching on boots, shoes refusing to come off; but they managed the whole undressing process without their mouths separating, without sparing one thought for what they were doing with their hands, committing every thought to what they were feeling through their lips and tongues and eager mouths.

Angel only withdrew from the kiss when his hand brushed Spike’s chest. Spike arched up with such an intense moan of pleasure that Angel immediately ducked his mouth to a nipple and fastened on with blunt teeth. Spike laughed. ‘Did he tell you I like that?’

Angel nodded, his teeth still fastened around the erect nipple. The motion made Spike pant with pleasure. ‘Bloody hell.’

Angel turned his attention to the other nipple, and a similarly satisfactory noise issued from Spike.  

Angel rose back up and took Spike’s bottom lip in his mouth. Twitching up his eyebrows, he mumbled mockingly, ‘I know other things you like….’

Spike narrowed his eyes, speaking with difficulty. ‘What?’

Angel grinned. He separated Spike’s balls, pressing his thumb between them hard.  Spike’s eyes widened, he gasped and sucked in his breath.  Angel chuckled and attacked one prominently exposed ribcage, laughing. ‘I know what you hate, too!’

Spike howled in outrage at being tickled and rolled away.  Angel lunged and caught him, trying to pin him down. Spike fought back, and after one fervent look of pure delight, they indulged this more familiar passion.

Suddenly, it was anything but familiar. It was entirely new. Fighting naked, fighting with an intimate knowledge of the other’s desires, the violence lasted about a minute before passion overcame them again. Once more, Spike feebly indicated the new mattress, but Angel didn’t want to wait.  With one decided motion, he turned Spike onto his belly and braced over him, one hand seeking him out.

Spike pressed his face into the faded carpet as Angel’s finger found him.  He tensed, and Angel bit lightly into his shoulder. ‘Okay?’

Spike nodded.  

Angel kept his eyes fixed to what he could see of Spike’s face and eased his finger in.  He knew how Spike’s body would respond; he wanted to make sure its owner liked it, too.

Spike suddenly relaxed and pushed back on the intrusion. Angel moaned his pleasure and began to play, exploring—not so much the channel, which he knew pretty well, but the different sounds he could coax from Spike.

These were utterly new. These were delightful, and he indulged himself for a long time, finger and tongue working Spike’s arse in unison: spreading, licking, teasing and probing. 

Eventually, Spike stopped making any sound, for he was twisted around, kissing Angel deeply.  Angel played his tongue as he was playing his finger: pushing it in, teasing Spike with it, drawing out the anticipation.

Spike murmured into the kiss, ‘Get some butter or something.’

Angel pulled back. ‘You want lube?’

Spike frowned at something in Angel’s expression and said doubtfully, ‘Well… yeah…?’

Angel’s smile was feral. He leant closer, held his cock to Spike’s moist pink hole, then suddenly groaned and jerked his head back, stretching his neck, exposing every chord.  

Spike shuddered as a cool spill of cum pooled into the natural well of his backside.  It lay there, glistening and thick. 

Angel took a deep breath of satisfaction and said, ‘There, lube.’ Still bone-hard, he pushed in and sank deep into the sticky fluid, spilling it out and down Spike’s flawless cheeks in small rivulets of passion. 

Spike’s whole body tightened, a taut bow, caught between shock and pleasure.  

Angel put a hand to Spike’s flat belly and heaved him closer, embedding his cock until he could feel his thick bush brushing Spike’s firm flesh.  He wrapped one leg over him and held them both still, nuzzling into the erotic stubble on the side of Spike’s head. ‘Only when you’re ready.’ 

Angel’s voice was a whisper on Spike’s scalp. 

After all the bitter, defensive uses of his tongue over the last hundred and twenty years, for the first time, Spike opened his mouth and said exactly what came into his head—without thinking of the consequences.  It was said and could not be denied or taken back. It set the foundation for their relationship—for all that was to come.  He exhaled deeply and on that breath said, ‘You are so much bigger than Ingram!’

Angel’s face suffused with hot pleasure. Blood rushed to his cock as well, bringing forth a groan from Spike. 

Angel didn’t wait any longer for permission to move. He eased the entire length of his cock back out of Spike until the greedy, sucking hole closed around the ridge of his cockhead. Then he made the equally slow journey home.

Spike’s hand came back to grasp his thigh, and the second spontaneous comment of the night escaped him. ‘Harder.’

Angel pushed him flat and braced either side of the slim body. He dipped slowly at the waist and ground from side to side. Ingram had screamed his delight at this. Spike bit his hand and remained silent. Angel heard far more genuine pleasure in this mute reaction than he ever had in the human’s vaunting noise.

He couldn’t stay as quiet; the intense tightness of Spike’s backside created friction the whole length of his erection.  He made soft grunts of enjoyment at each dip, moaning faintly as he withdrew.

Thoughtlessly, Angel raked his nails down Spike’s spine. It broke the almost trance-like mood between them.  Spike rose on his hands and knees, saying something incoherent, but scrabbling so frantically to reseat Angel against him that Angel didn’t need a translation.  He knelt to the offered backside and plunged in deep once more.

Spike was alive with pleasure.  He thrust back and dipped; he arched to every stroke of Angel’s thick cock.  He’d thought he’d enjoyed this with the human. He knew now he’d held himself back the whole time, unwilling to demean himself under such coercion. He held nothing back now. He let Angel know every nuance of his enjoyment: how each of the skilful strokes brought him so much pleasure. He could feel Angel swelling on the praise, filling him deeper and stretching him wider.  His whole channel felt sensitive to the pleasure as if that one small gland of desire had come awake and stretched lazily, entwining itself like a serpent around his entire rectum.  His insides quivered on the brink of orgasm, but he didn’t want to come. He never wanted to come again but, instead, stay hung—like this—suspended between Angel punching in and Angel pulling out. There was nothing more.  

He kept this thought for all of another minute until his whole body screamed with the need to shoot. 

He flung one arm behind to Angel’s thrusting waist. ‘Now.’

Angel grunted and hung suspended against him.  For a minute Spike thought it was over too soon and that he’d not be able to…. Angel pushed back in so slowly that Spike’s rectum turned over with pleasure. It curled out and whimpered; it sat up and begged. These spasms pleasured Angel so intensely that he cried out, and his shuddering against Spike became frantic. All Spike could feel then was wave after wave of intense pleasure, set free and conducted by Angel’s commanding orgasm.  

Angel’s cum ran in rivulets down the backs of Spike’s thighs; Spike’s spurted to the floor—random jerks of seed from his dick, which pumped entirely free of any hand control.  Cum soaked Angel’s cock; clung in tiny, glistening droplets to his dark hair. Some cum shot from Spike; it dampened already sweat-dampened hair, which sparsely graced his armpits.  It didn’t seem to matter who it came from; sperm coated and joined them, giving their flesh and hair indistinguishable glistening. 

For the first time, it hit them both what they were doing, and when they sank exhausted and sated to the floor, it was with a sense of rightness that no sexual experience had brought them before.  Men, they were already obsessed with their own bodies: cock and cum, flat chest and pebbled nipples, heavy balls and strong muscles—and now they had someone to share these obsessions with.

Angel began to laugh first, but his amused self-derision hit Spike, too, and he joined in, turning over, pulling Angel onto him, wrapping arms and legs around the broader form and now resembling a desperate beetle trying to right itself.

Angel nuzzled into one nipple, then slid his mouth over and pressed into Spike’s armpit, breathing in deeply.

Spike swiped him across the head. ‘That’s too freaky.’

‘I like it.’

‘You like Proust; who’s gonna trust your judgement.  Shower?’

Angel shrugged, his mouth still exploring Spike’s sticky body. ‘Sure. Go first if you want….’

Spike shook his head affectionately. ‘I’ll try that again in my more seductive voice: shower?’

Angel lifted his face, his expression still creased with uncharacteristic humour. ‘Ahh.’

Spike twitched up an eyebrow. ‘Course. I’ve no poofy products….’ Angel leapt to his feet, wincing as his skin pulled free of Spike’s with an audible squelch.  He put his hand down.

Spike allowed Angel to pull him to his feet, overdoing, slightly, the theatrical groans and complaints of aching muscles and battered flesh.  

He led the way and turned the water on, testing it with one hand idly.  Angel watched Spike’s hand as the water ran over it, mesmerised.  Spike bent one leg up onto the shower wall and watched Angel watching him. 

When the water was hot enough, even for them, they stepped in together. It was a little awkward at first, this being something they’d never done before with any lovers.  After a moment, Angel frowned and held Spike still.  ‘What’s…?’ He looked down at his own arms and let out a small, impressed whistle. ‘I don’t bruise easy.’

Spike looked at where Angel was indicating. On both biceps were the complete and perfect outlines of Angel’s fingers, as if he’d dipped his hands into mottled purple and yellow paint before grasping him.  His fingers ghosted Angel’s pale flesh. ‘Jeez. Guess we were desperate.’

Angel trickled his fingers over the bruises once more and then took the soap, lathering it and running the silky substance over Spike’s skin, covering every mark.  

He’d saved the best for last. 

He rubbed the small bar vigorously and then put both hands to Spike’s head.  Spike laughed but obediently dipped his neck. Angel scrubbed his fingers deep into Spike’s scalp, wondering if he missed the long, blond locks. When the water ran over the hair, rinsing it, he knew he didn’t. He thumbed the incredible bone structure for a while; spread his hands on either side of the amazing skull. His hold was incredibly gentle, all the more erotic as they both knew he could crush it if he wanted. He didn’t. He pulled Spike into a wet kiss, his lips tasting faintly of soap.  With some licking and sucking, the flavour returned to normal, and he pushed Spike against the wall, spreading his arms, rubbing their cocks together again as they met tongue to tongue.

Angel let go one of Spike’s arms and held his head once more. Spike slid his hand around Angel’s waist and flared his fingers over one hard cheek.

He stroked and squeezed and fondled Angel as they kissed, almost unconscious of what he did, lost to the taste of Angel’s mouth on his.  It was only when Angel flinched and straightened that Spike realised he’d touched Angel’s hole.  He looked up but saw no hostility, only doubt and puzzlement. He didn’t push his luck, but turned the shower off and said casually, ‘Don’t worry about it, Pet. He said some people were just life’s natural tops. He was. He never allowed himself to be fucked.’

Angel took the towel Spike offered him and dried off silently, but as Spike was leaving the bathroom, he grabbed his arm. ‘But he did. I fucked him. You know that.’

Spike wondered what Angel was trying to say: whether this was affirmation that he would only ever be the top, or that people could change.

He took the towel and rubbed Angel’s hair for him, running a finger lightly over a prominent nipple.  ‘Do you remember what I said to you just after we found Wesley with his arm broken?’

‘When? When you were playing your latest let’s-piss-Angel-off game?’

‘Well… yeah… then.’ 

Angel smiled indulgently. ‘No, I don’t remember. Remind me….’

‘I said: anything you want, Angel—whatever you want. And, yeah, I was fucking around as usual, but I kinda meant that.’ He put the towel carefully back on the rack, pouting slightly with thought. ‘It’s always been like that for me: whatever you want…. Guess that’s why I’m still here, hanging around.’

Angel came up behind and slipped both arms around his waist. Spike twitched up an eyebrow and twisted around to confirm what poked between them. ‘Sheesh.’

Angel sniffed in pleasure but said softly, ‘I’m not sure I know what I want—in this.’

Spike leant back for a moment, then indicated the whole thing was getting too slushy by stomping hard on Angel’s feet and twisting away.  He slapped the firm backside as he went into the bedroom. As if it were nothing special, in the spirit of his previous gesture, he said lightly, ‘Nothing to lose by trying, Pet. There’s only me here.’  He pulled on some clean jeans, amused himself by holding up another pair and offering them to Angel, then went into the kitchen to heat some food.

Feeling he ought to be annoyed by the jibe about his waist size, but not caring in the least (he was much bigger than Ingram—where it counted), Angel wrapped a dry towel tightly around himself and followed.  He mulled over Spike’s words as they watched the microwave plate turning its small circles, heating some blood.

Without consciously knowing what they did, they touched all the time: just small brushes of hands as they both reached for something at the same time, each leaning into the other for a moment as they passed.  Before they knew it, they were kissing, waiting for the blood to reheat, amused that they’d let it get cold while they kissed before.

Spike straightened first and collected the blood bags, taking them to the couch. He held one up to Angel, and Angel sat down, too, clearly tense.

‘We could just get into it and see what happens.’

Angel nodded then pouted, drinking his food, but not really tasting it.  ‘What if I don’t like it?’

‘Then we stop. What if I don’t like it…?’  The soft question hung in the air, and Angel turned with a frown. 

‘That’s not possible—I mean….’ He frowned some more then added quickly, ‘Fucking you is the best thing I’ve ever felt.’

Spike sat back then after a moment, pulled Angel to him, the dark head resting on his shoulder. He stroked Angel’s hair and said distinctly, ‘And it’s not possible to not enjoy taking it as well, Angel. Trust me.’

Angel chuckled. ‘You almost had me there, but trust you? Jeez. Hell would freeze over.’

‘You know very well that somewhere there’s a frozen hell dimension. Hang on, that’s Sunderland in January.’

‘Be serious.’

‘I am! ‘Sides, who you gonna trust if not me? Least you know I hate you.’

‘Good point.’

Spike bent his head and kissed Angel’s face.  He put his hand to the warm thigh and ran it up under the towel.  ‘We don’t have to decide tonight, Pet. Sleep on it.’

Angel grinned. ‘Who wants to sleep?’ He grabbed Spike’s wrist and encouraged his hand higher. Out of sight, under the towel, Spike’s fingers met Angel’s hardness.  They both hissed and watched, fascinated, as the towel rose and fell, offering, in the gap, the occasional, highly erotic glimpse of dark hair.  

Angel tipped his head back on the couch and murmured, ‘Do you think every man fantasises about this?’

‘What? Me giving them a hand job?’

‘Not you specifically, Moron. Any man….’

Spike didn’t make his characteristic, snarky reply. He considered this for some time and then said, curious at his discovery, ‘I sometimes do. So… I guess… yeah. Maybe.’

Angel gritted his teeth in pleasure at the way Spike was pulling his foreskin, rubbing his palm over his swollen tip and pressing the heel of his hand into his balls.  

On a whim, Spike rearranged the towel, so the prominent erection stuck up between the fold.  He smiled at his own genius. ‘Glory hole.’

Angel groaned so deeply Spike knew beyond a doubt that he’d just discovered another of Angel’s kinks.  He bent his head and licked lightly over the tip, capturing the first taste of Angel’s clear fluid, a prelude, a teaser for the thicker release to come.  

To his surprise, Angel eased him off. ‘Just your hand. I wanna watch.’

Spike moaned and slid his free arm behind Angel’s neck, climbing up on the couch further and twisting to him.  He ran his hand up the solid, vertical shaft, deliberately dragging the foreskin up to its longest extent.  Just when Angel thought he could stand no more, Spike rolled it down, the cockhead popping out like a purple squeeze-up lolly.

Angel arched into Spike’s arm. ‘Christ.’

‘How often do you do this yourself?’

Angel made a small, embarrassed sound. ‘I’m not gonna tell you that!’

‘Uh huh. A lot then.’

‘Ahh….’ Angel sagged then rose again, tense.  ‘Oh… God….’

‘Who you thinking about?’

‘I’m not going to… oh… tell you… ugh… that!’

‘Uh huh. Me. Interesting….’

Angel cursed, but it wasn’t in response to the provocation. He shot a stream of cum into the air that arced gracefully like a thin, white rainbow before splattering on the floor.  He let out a long groan of relief, and another, smaller arc landed on his thighs.  With a small moan of completion, the final load bubbled out over Spike’s fist.

Sweating, hard himself, Spike brought his hand to his lips and licked at the salty fluid. ‘Do you know, this is almost blood. One tiny change to its molecular structure, and it would be: blood.’

Angel lolled his head over. ‘That’s sounds like a little Ingram lesson to me.’

Spike blushed faintly. ‘Well, yeah. He liked to combine all his passions: science, fucking….’

Angel smiled and grabbed Spike’s wrist. Tentatively, he licked at the tacky substance and made a face. Spike crowed with delight and said in a theatrical voice, ‘You have man-juice inside you now….’

Angel winced at the term but said distinctly, ‘It’s a start.’

Spike nodded. ‘So… what you gonna do? About….’

‘Going home?’

‘Well, yeah.’

Angel cuffed him affectionately. ‘I’m not. Let’s tackle that plastic.’

Together they unwrapped the new mattress and dragged it into the bedroom.  Seeing it there made them both suddenly very weary. An initial embarrassment overcame them at the actual mechanics of getting into bed together, but Angel went for another shower; Spike stripped and dived under the sheet, and Angel was then able to join him without the need to discuss who went where or what the hell they were doing climbing into bed side by side.

Angel folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.  

He knew sleep would not come that night. He never slept well as a rule. The intense changes to his regimented, almost monastic life over the past twenty-four hours were guaranteed to keep him tense and thoughtful. 

Spike, he noticed, tipped over into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.  The temptation to run his fingertips yet again over the soft fluff that now covered Spike’s scalp was almost irresistible—almost. He enjoyed watching Spike sleep and did not want to disturb him.

His mind ran over the things they’d done: the sounds and feelings, the aromas and tastes. He stiffened automatically, his mouth watering at the memories.  Half way through recalling the slow fucking—his cock, red and engorged, soaked with cum, sliding in and out of the Spike’s stretched, clinging hole—he reversed them: Spike now behind him, thrusting, his body stretched open and… clinging.

Very quickly, he swapped things back and continued enjoying the memory of fucking Spike. Gradually though, the other version crept into his mind, and he toyed with it, touching himself as he pictured Spike’s body braced over his, heard Spike’s grunts of penetration, felt the rug burns on his back as he was jerked and humped.

He came as quietly as he could. There was very little release, just a small shot of thick cum onto his belly, which he left there to dry. He wasn’t too sure that he hadn’t swapped the fantasy back at the last minute—couldn’t say definitely whether he ejaculated to thoughts of Spike in him or him in Spike. 

Pondering this kept him awake for the few hours remaining of the night.

At six o’clock, he gently shook Spike awake and said sadly, ‘I have to go.’

Spike didn’t reply. He hardly appeared to wake, but patted around with one hand, found what he was looking for, punched speed-dial, waited for a moment, and then said in a croaky, just woken voice, ‘It’s me…. I know that, it’s the same bloody time here, you bint. Calm down, you twat! When you get in, tell Wesley that Angel’s not coming into work. Case. Saving the world. Whatever you fucking like. Byeee.’

He dropped the phone, curled into a tight ball in his warm spot and lay still. After a moment, he said brusquely, ‘Go to sleep, Angel. I haven’t got a bloody wink listening to you brood all night.’

Angel let go over a hundred years of anxiety in the time it took him to pull Spike into a tight spoon.  He slept so soundly that he didn’t hear or feel Spike slip out of the bed a few hours later. He slept the proverbial sleep of the dead, not because he was dead, but because he felt alive for the first time. He felt safe, and he felt wanted and, for some odd reason, that enabled him to lie utterly vulnerable for over eight hours of solid sleep.

Spike woke with one of Angel’s heavy, sleep-leaden arms draped over his waist.  He took the opportunity to glance at the expensive wristwatch and saw that it was only eight.  He wouldn’t get up this early if he were going into the office; to do so on a newly wangled day off was almost obscene.

He pictured himself lying there, snuggled into Angel’s sleeping body all day, and the picture held so much allure that it took him another hour to actually slide silently from the bed.

He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, although they might have guessed it from observing his movements for the rest of the morning, but he wanted to watch Angel. He wanted to watch Angel in his bed. 

He went for a shower and then stood drying himself in the bedroom, staring down at the sleeping figure.

He tidied around, pausing in the doorway to the bedroom every time he passed, studying the smooth features.

All his life, he’d accumulated things. In funds, the things came from shops. Broke, he salvaged them from dumps. He didn’t give himself a hard time about this quirk in his personality. He’d liked his home when he was human, and he guessed he just tried to recreate that sense of security and peace now that it was gone.

By lunchtime, therefore, he’d decided that he liked having Angel in his apartment and in his bed. (He liked having him in his body, too, but that was more difficult to admit than this slightly poofy interest in home decorating.)  Angel was the best thing he’d acquired in a very long time.   

He suddenly had the absurd desire to cook something, to have a meal waiting for Angel when he woke. He utterly ignored the fact that Angel purported not to like eating; he knew different. He had no trouble at all recalling their first meal in Rome—another century, when they were other people—unfamiliar food that slipped and wriggled on their forks.  He remembered a waiter laughing at Angelus’s attempts to eat the stuff. He hadn’t laughed for long, and his entrails had soon resembled the spaghetti—longer, more bloated, but just as slippery. The impression the derisive laughter had made on Angelus had lasted a lot longer. Over a century later, and still Angel purported not to like eating.

So… not spaghetti. Spike knew he couldn’t cook, so his options were limited.

He wrote a brief note for Angel should he wake and slipped out.

The owners of the Korean shop on the corner were used to Spike appearing from their basement. Their more generous acceptance of demons and their respect for ancestors, gave him an honoured status in their eyes: this demon with God inside.

Spike took their awed glances in good part and hoped they never saw him the day after one of his drunken binges.

His first ingredient was easy: alcohol. He bought half a dozen bottles of Angel’s favourite wine, which he reckoned could soon become his favourite, too.  Ice cream followed the wine into the cart, and he tossed in some chocolate as well.  He reckoned that was probably the limit of his culinary expertise and wheeled the cart to the checkout, realising, just in time, that he was leaning on the handle and skating along like someone who was absurdly happy.

Straightening and remembering that he was, indeed, a demon (and very ancient and worthy), he paid for his purchases and left with a cool nod at the wizened old man grinning inanely at him from the counter.

He hugged the bags to his chest as he negotiated the tunnels that led to his apartment. 

As he hoisted up into the basement, he had a startling moment of complete clarity that Angel would not be there when he got back.  

His note would have been moved and would now be on the table where he would see a scrawled addition as soon as he walked in; or by the microwave, as Angel knew he’d gone for food, and by putting it there he’d be guaranteed to see it. He took his mind off the location of the note—that wasn’t the moment of clarity. The clear thought was that the bed would be empty and Angel would be gone. It didn’t really matter why—business, a telephone call, guilt, bored with him, disgusted by him…. None of that mattered; what mattered was that Angel would not be there.  He got it; he really did. It was a like a script in a predicable show: build the audience up with the expectation of the heroes finally getting together… love starting to blossom…. Have one of them go to the store with this dumb notion that they could be like real people and have a life that involved waking up together, going to bed together, eating, sleeping, fucking. Build up all that expectation, but the audience knows what it really is: false hope. When the hero gets home, his lover is gone. Dramatic irony. It’s bound to sell. 

He stood for a long time in the dark of the basement, until the ice cream began to drip between his fingers, until the bag got so soggy that the chocolate fell out. He wanted to drop the wine, hear the bottles smash like all his bloody foolish plans, but he didn’t want to add to the fucking script writer’s dramatic irony: red wine, splashing like blood around his feet.

He went slowly down the hallway and elbowed open his door.

Angel lay stretched out on his belly in the bed. Spike could not detect that he had moved even an inch since he’d left. 

He was still beautiful, but more importantly, he was still there.

Spike grinned at nothing in particular, and then cursed softly as the sticky mess in the bags began to ruin his tidy apartment. He put everything down on the counter and watched, fascinated, as Angel turned over, spreading his long limbs once more and parting his lips, as if he wanted to call Spike a moron, even in sleep.

Spike grinned again, realised he hadn’t stopped grinning from the first one and just let his face remain in that position as he uncorked a couple of bottles to let them breathe. It was nice something in the apartment needed to.

Chapter 11

Angel woke with a deep sigh of contentment. He had not dreamt, and he had actually slept, both of these novel for him. Even more novel was to wake to flickering candlelight, and Spike’s mouth descending to his.

Before he was fully awake, lips brushed his, and utterly aroused, with his customary waking hardness, he opened his mouth wide to enjoy the kiss. His mouth flooded with warmed exquisite wine.  He groaned and swallowed, and the sensual mouthful was repeated, some wine spilling down onto his chest.  Spike, straddled naked across Angel’s sheet-clad lap, dipped his head and licked at the spill.  Angel stretched his neck back at the pleasure, his flesh tingling from the erotic touch.  

Very slowly, Spike twitched off the sheet. 

It was hard to tell in the soft candlelight, but Spike thought Angel blushed at the size of his erection, as if it said something about his dreams that he would rather remain private.  He bent once more and took Angel’s mouth, slipping his tongue in to retrieve a flavour of the wine, smiling into the soft warmth of Angel’s lips. ‘Good evening.’

Angel ran his hands up Spike’s back. For a moment, Spike thought Angel was just enjoying the touch of his bare skin, then he got that Angel was lifting him.  Arching back with pleasure, he allowed Angel to impale him on the hard, vertical evidence of his need.  

The both grunted with effort, Angel from feeling his foreskin dragged down hard by the tightness of Spike’s sphincter, Spike from the bizarre sensation of being slowly filled: stretched and taken. 

Eventually, there was nothing left to take inside. They both stilled, panting and sweating heavily. Spike’s fingers were spread out over Angel’s broad chest, red welts blossoming where the tips lay, where he’d gored Angel unthinkingly as he’d been filled.  Angel held his hands loosely around Spike’s waist, half pulling him down and half holding him off, as if keeping himself ready to stop the descent if it hurt too much.

When his breathing stilled, Spike brought his legs up and crouched.  Angel whispered an incoherent curse of realisation before Spike lifted up and began to fuck him. 

Angel flung his arms back, trying desperately to find something to grasp, but there was only wall.  He braced his strong arms like a man trying to hold himself on a cross.  Spike watched the flare and hardening of every muscle as he rode up and down on the preternatural hardness of Angel’s erection.  Once more his prostate gland seemed to swell to unnatural proportions, dominating his whole body, sending huge, crashing waves of pleasure into his dick, which responded beautifully to the stimulation, rising of its own accord and spraying Angel’s chest with precum.

The waves of pleasure flowing down Angel’s cock and through his groin were so intense that Angel closed his eyes, reducing stimuli to that which counted, bucking helplessly beneath his ardent rider.  When Spike’s lips touched his though, he opened them once more. Overloaded now, he surrendered to the all-encompassing pleasure. 

Spike parted his lips and….

Angel licked something, frowning.

Spike chuckled and continued to tongue small squares of chocolate between Angel’s lips, pushing them in with a grin.  He fed Angel from his mouth for a while then, with a moan, used his fingers to work the sticky mass in, pushing into Angel’s mouth like a careless toddler, wiping chocolate around his soft walls. Deliberately, with great concentration, he smeared some out over one of Angel’s cheeks. Then he drew a broad band over the bridge of the aristocratic nose.  Angel lay beneath his lover, allowed himself to be messed by food, and did not once complain that it ruined his dignity.

When his game was finished, Spike sat back on Angel’s hardness.  He came out of his squatting position and knelt.  Sinuously, like a snake, he dipped at the waist and rubbed his cock up Angel’s belly. Angel groaned, stretching his facial muscles, making the mask of chocolate crack.  Spike slipped his arms under Angel, lay on him and dry fucked him hard, each thrust and withdrawal making the heavy erection in him swell and twitch.  

Angel felt that sense of being overwhelmed once more. There was almost too much physical sensation to cope with. He felt like exploding with the vast pressure inside, and then Spike slipped his hand back and sought out his balls. Lying untouched, unnoticed, hard and heavy, one touch and Angel’ brain almost fried with the increased intensity.  He yanked his legs up to give Spike better access, and the movement sent him thudding even harder into Spike.

Hands on Spike’s waist, they did it again: Angel thrusting his hips in time to Spike’s fucking.  

They didn’t miss a beat and fucked each other hard and fast until, accompanied by startled cries, something hit Angel’s chocolate mask, mixing brackish salt with the sweet sugar.  When he recognised the intoxicating aroma of his childe’s sex, his body erupted in response.  

Arched with the intensity of his release, only Angel’s head and heels touched the bed.  Spike continued to ride him, but more gently, squeezing and releasing to milk Angel into his body.  As the last shots tickled his sensitive walls and began to flood out around his friction-hot hole, he flicked out his tongue and began to clean Angel’s face—chocolate, cum and sweat—with long, sensuous licks.

When they were both done, Spike stretched out limpid and sated on Angel’s body, Angel raised his head and said softly, ‘Good evening.’

Spike chuckled, the rumble of amusement vibrating between them.  

Angel made a sound of contentment deep in his throat and rolled them so he could lie on his side, Spike’s back tucked to his belly.  Idly, he stroked Spike’s hip, then almost more idly, slipped a finger into his sopping hole.  He murmured in appreciation and played with the slickness for a while: easing it in and out on his fingers, probing the soft walls, testing the stretch of the gradually retightening muscles.  Spike’s moan of pleasure was lost on a sharper note of intense delight when Angel’s cock suddenly re-entered him to be just as swiftly withdrawn, and then fingers worked him once more.

It went on for hours: the teasing tickling and stretching, the deep probing and playing and then, when Spike least expected it, a sudden penetration by Angel’s hardness.  Angel would arch, thrusting in; Spike’s whole body would be plunged into spasm at the intrusion, but then he’d be empty again and aching to be filled.  Time after time Angel climbed Spike up the long, slow stairs to release, only to turn him around and ease him down before they reached the summit.

Finally, Spike could take it no more.  He pushed up onto his hands and knees and begged in a low, submissive tone, ‘Please, finish me off. Please….’

Angel made a high-pitched noise of delight in his throat and knelt to Spike’s backside, positioning himself.  He lay over the slim, smooth back and with rapid jerks of his hips, humped them both to prolonged and very messy orgasms.

Spike was so stretched when they’d finished that Angel plopped out with a squelching sound.  With a groan of temporary exhaustion, Spike eased down onto the bed, Angel lying heavy over him like a blanket of predatory muscle.

Slowly, Angel lifted his hand to Spike’s head and stroked his skull absentmindedly, as if he were rewarding an obedient pet.  Spike grinned into the mattress and didn’t mind Angel’s strange expression of affection.  

After a while, quite naturally, as if it were something he did every day, Spike said lightly, ‘I love you.’

Angel stopped the intimate stroking of his thumb around Spike’s ear. He’d heard that said to him many times before by different people and it always meant the same: at this moment, what we’ve done has made me love you.  He didn’t hear this in Spike’s words, he heard you do realise that I’ve always loved you.  He was surprised that two such different sentiments could be contained within the same words.  He went back to his stroking. He wasn’t ready to admit this truism yet, not quite so able to admit that his entire persona of the aggrieved sire was a sham.  Instead, he bent his face between Spike’s shoulder blades and nibbled lightly into the skin, licking over the bites, blowing on the cool trail of saliva.  

In a soft voice, he said, ‘You always were a fuckingly bad demon.’

Spike smiled inwardly. He heard Angel’s better sentiment disguised in this comment.  He knew it wouldn’t be long before it came out of hiding.

Angel suddenly changed the subject and said with a slight catch to his voice, ‘You liked that.’

Spike had drifted slightly under the sensual touch of Angel’s fingers on his scalp and dragged himself back to nod. 

‘So… I’m thinking… maybe I would.’ Angel’s hand poised mid-stroke, tense as the rest of his deceptively draped body.

Spike rolled them, careful not to separate their flesh too quickly. Side by side, face-to-face, he stared into the deep pools of brown and smiled. ‘I’m thinking maybe you would, too.’

Angel ruffled his stubble once more with a fond smile and sat up. ‘I have to go check in with the evil empire for a few hours.’

Spike stretched at the sense of anticipation he felt stiffening him once more.  He folded his arms behind his head, blatantly allowing Angel to see this arousal.  ‘You coming back here afterwards?’

‘Aren’t you coming in?’

Spike groaned and curled on his side, twitching the sheet.  ‘’S middle of the night….’

Angel stared down at the figure alongside him and had never felt such a struggle to leave a bed.  He swatted Spike hard on the rump and went in search of his clothes.  He leant in the doorway when he was dressed. ‘Spike?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I—.’ 

Spike opened one eye, listening intently. 

‘I won’t be long.’

Spike smiled. Angel would say it in his own good time.  He gave him a dismissive wave as if he didn’t care one way or the other and went back to sleep.

Angel had not enjoyed the beauty of the night so much for a very long time. It was like the old days: a heady sense of power, the earth alive under his feet, blood scent strong around him. He considered fetching the car but decided to walk.  Even the air tasted good, so he smiled and breathed. Demon and human, both warring sides of his nature swelled to the beauty. He didn’t consciously put down this newfound appreciation of a familiar L.A. evening to Spike, but he did play their wake-up sex through his mind as he strode along.  If he grinned occasionally, if he walked with a particular spring in his step, he assigned this to the breathing and let it be. 

After a while, he began to sense that he was being followed. As soon as the realisation came to him, it struck him that he’d been followed since leaving Spike’s apartment, only then he’d been too distracted to notice. As it was a human, he wasn’t too concerned.  However, he did stop and window-shop for a while, trying to catch the reflection of his stalker in the glass.  

For a fleeting moment, he saw a figure.  He walked on again, brow lowered. He’d recognised the man, but he could not place him.  This, more than the fact of being followed, freaked him slightly. Not only did the artist in him take pride in never forgetting a face, the demon in him couldn’t. Photographic memory shouldn’t be selective, and Angel was angry that it seemed to be so now.

The anger did him no good, for when he decided to confront the man—turning a corner and waiting for him to catch up, hands on hips and leather coat swaying to his ever-present demonic power—he made a serious error of judgement.  

The man appeared around the corner and stopped, startled, and Angel recognised the janitor from work.  If he had not been so angry with himself for not instantly remembering the man, he might have been more cautious. As it was, the fact that this little pissant, ugly cleaner of other people’s crap actually had the audacity to follow him, threw Angel’s caution to the wind—he, with his heady sense of power; he, hearing the power of the earth under his feet; he, feasting mentally on the blood of this human. He, hot still from Spike caresses and smelling still of that warm body…. 

‘What do you want?’

The man tipped his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Well, you, I guess.’

Angel began to turn away dismissively, and that was the last thing he remembered until he woke with his head throbbing, the taste of his own blood in his mouth, and bound, the predator subdued.  

He lifted his head, more cautious now. He had badly underestimated the situation, and he would not make that mistake again. His experience told him that as he had woken—thus apparently not dead—he would soon be free and whoever had done this to him would be dead. That was just the way things were. He was over three hundred years old. His enemies weren’t.

He was lying on a bed in a small room, but it wasn’t a… real room.  He sat up, ignoring for a moment his cell, and examined his bindings. He was handcuffed behind his back, and the cuffs were attached by a chain to the floor.  One surreptitious yank and he concluded they were magically enhanced, so he put his thoughts to other things that he might be able to affect.  He was naked, which did not bode well. He decided not to think about this either.

That only left his room to consider. It appeared to be made up of three false walls on rollers and a fourth one off to one side. The gap allowed him to look into the larger room beyond, which appeared to be a windowless basement.  

‘Good, isn’t it?’

The small man came into sight in the shadows of the larger room.  Angel stayed calm. ‘I don’t recall your name.’

‘No. You never asked it.’

‘All right. What’s your name?’

‘You can call me Sir.’

Angel smiled and didn’t bother to reply.  He tested his restraints and said instead, ‘You know you can’t keep me here.’

The man look intrigued. ‘Actually, I don’t. I’ve spent the last few weeks studying very useful things, Angel: how to tranquillise you, how to restrain you…. Seems to me I’ve done a damn fine job. But I always did like to study new things.’

Angel suddenly felt his blood run cold, which as it was always fairly cool, and didn’t really run, was a very unnerving sensation. With a slightly high-pitched tone that he regretted but couldn’t alter, he said, ‘Ingram.’

The man began to clap in a theatrical, ironic way.  He came closer into the light, a few feet from Angel. ‘Well done.’

Angel asked softly, ‘How?’

Ingram twitched up an eyebrow. ‘I guess little Bennie was just one of life’s unfortunates—wrong time, wrong place, ya know? He was outside the lab, dabbing around with his pathetic mop and his pathetic life and Kazam! I come winging out of Spike’s body with nowhere to go!’

‘So you took him.’

Spittle flecked Ingram’s lips as he bent close. ‘I had no choice! Do you think I wanted this body? Look at me, Angel! Look at me!’

Angel did and decided not to risk a reply. 

Ingram heard it anyway. ‘Yeah. I can’t even fuck a dog like this! Look at me!’ He held out hands that were slightly gnarled from a lifetime of water and strong cleaning chemicals. His arms were thin, short even for his five-foot stature.  His face, flushed with fury, resembled the surface of a crater: small eruptions scattered over his nose and in the corners of his mouth, bleeding yellow pus where he’d shaved the tops off.  He had very little hair, which was unfortunate as his scalp was peeling off, great flakes of it falling to his thin shoulders when he shook his head.  ‘I was the most beautiful man in New York, Angel. When I got sick I took Spike’s body, and then I was the most beautiful man in L.A.’

‘What? You think you can take my body now?’ 

Ingram suddenly lost his anger.  Like a balloon pricked, he withered. ‘No. I can’t do it again. Spike’s was carefully planned—all my intelligence, all my planning, all my money went into that one. This was a blind, panicked fleeing. I hit the man so hard I knocked the life out of him and stuck fast, like a burr inside his mind.’

Angel would rather Ingram wanted his body for a swap. The alternative, given he was naked and currently helpless, was not particularly attractive.

He didn’t need to ask, for the man suddenly looked up from his reverie and said more cheerfully, ‘So, you stole Spike’s body from me, and I’m going to make you pay for that.’

Angel kicked out with his foot, ineffective but enjoyable. ‘I gave it back to its rightful owner.’

‘Oh, and such a great use he’s made of it.’

Angel could have kicked himself, but a grin of pleasure crept around his defensive lock-down. 

Ingram immediately came closer. ‘Oh. Now, that’s interesting. You two have finally gotten it together.’  

Angel tried to look nonchalant. ‘I was fucking him long before. You know that.’

‘You were fucking me, Angel. I was in his body, so you had no choice.’

Angel didn’t dignify this with a reply.  ‘So, let’s get this thing on. I’ll go along with it for a while, then I’ll escape and kill you for good.’

Ingram didn’t appear to hear; he wandered over to one of the walls and wobbled it. ‘Do you like this place? It’s great, isn’t it? One of my old studios.’ He peered out into the darkened basement. ‘We brought them here. They performed, and we filmed them. Can you believe that people would pay to see kids being fucked by old men?’

Angel half rose to his feet, but the chains prevented him standing fully.  ‘You bastard.’

‘Oh, don’t give me that judgemental look, you hypocrite. I sent them home alive! What did you do, Angel? How many of your child victims did you leave alive?’

‘You have a soul!’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Huh?’

‘Go on, I’m intrigued. I’ve studied extensively all my life, and I’ll be damned if I know what it is.’

‘It’s the desire to live a good life.’

‘In whose definition of good? If you were a Crusader, you’d be applauded for hacking the heads off heathen children. If you were a member of the Inquisition, you’d go to heaven for torturing and burning harmless old women. If you were in al-Qaeda, you’d be a martyr for flying a plane into a building full of innocent people. So, you tell me, Angel, because I’m intrigued: what’s a good life?’

‘This isn’t. This isn’t the way to make things right.’

Ingram began to laugh. ‘Who said I wanted to make things right? I want the world to burn. I want to bring kingdoms down and have people kneel in fear at my name. But I’m a fucking janitor with halitosis and acne. So, I’ll get my kicks where I can. I’ll play with you until the goodness is all gone, Angel, until you cry out to your dark gods for mercy.’

Angel leant back against the headboard and swung a leg lazily off the bed.  ‘Jeez, where have I heard all this before?  Oh, yeah—hell.  Funny old thing: the devil had a small dick, too.’

Ingram came close, almost too close, but he backed off quickly.  ‘What’s your pleasure Angel, front or back?’

Angel stretched, as well as he could with his arms pinned behind his back. ‘Surprise me, little man; I’ve been tortured on both before.’

Ingram began to laugh. ‘Who said anything about torture? I know you’ve been to hell, Angel. How could I recreate that delight? Oh, no, I’m going to recreate something much more pleasant.  Now, Angel, if you’re ready for your close-up….’

He reached behind the fourth wall and produced a gun. Aiming it at the helpless vampire, he shot him in the chest with a large dart.  Angel writhed, clearly trying to fight the drug, but he sagged and lay still.  Ingram snickered. ‘Yeah, as if I’m as stupid as I look.’ He fired again.  Angel rose and bellowed in anger, but this one actually did knock him unconscious, and he sagged, finally defeated to the bed.

The idea occurred to Spike just as he was drifting off into an orgasm-induced snooze: he’d surprise Angel at work.

It seemed right in so many ways: sealing this newfound relationship; reminding Angel of the old one—the one where he spent an inordinate amount of time pissing his sire off.

He grinned and peeled out of bed, eying ruefully his new mattress. If he didn’t know better, he’d be doing more than just eyeing the brown stains. There were some major advantages to being a vampire: brown stains were pretty much always chocolate. 

Humming quietly, he stood under some very hot water for a while, turning his head in slow rotations, enjoying the sensation of the stinging heat on his scalp. Dressing, he grabbed his keys and phone and headed out to the office like a regular employee.

He’d genuinely forgotten his new appearance until a girl from the typing pool entered the elevator with him and squealed her delight, insisting on touching it.  As squealing women wanting to touch him up in elevators was an opportunity never to be missed, he surrendered gracefully and bowed his head.  He was tempted to offer something else to touch, but he was saving that for someone else.  More people came in; the admiration was repeated. He was getting bored of it now, particularly as he couldn’t see how pretty he appeared to be.

Harmony was the last obstacle. She was less complimentary, and Spike wondered if somewhere in the air that filled her brain, connections were being made. New hair; new beginnings. To have new beginnings, you usually had to leave the old behind.  She did run her hand over it, but whatever she thought, she kept to herself. 

‘Poof busy?’

‘Huh?’

‘Is Angel busy?’

‘He’s not here.’

Spike kept his curse inside. No need to seem too disappointed.  He wandered down to Wesley’s office instead.

Wesley looked up from his books and swore.  Spike frowned severely. ‘Don’t. You’re a man. I’m a man. We don’t talk about hair.’

‘Oh. Well, it’s very nice.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So, are you feeling quite well after your adventures in the land of the nonentity?’

‘No thanks to you, yes.  Did Angel call in?’

‘No, should he have done?’

‘He was coming in. Guess he got distracted.’

‘He’s probably out saving damsels. He does that sometimes.’

Spike flung himself into the armchair and lit a cigarette. If he couldn’t annoy Angel, then annoying Wesley was a pretty good fallback position. ‘So, we were going to discuss getting you a real life, Wes.’

Wesley went back to his books. ‘I have a life, Spike.’ He added in a very low voice, ‘Unlike you, I might add.’

Spike grinned inwardly but said in an aggrieved tone, ‘Jeez, human, that’s below the belt.’

‘You should know.’

‘Are you insinuating something?’

‘I’m not the one who sat down very gingerly.’

Spike opened his mouth to make a very cutting reply but couldn’t think of one.  He stood up nonchalantly. ‘I’m going to Smurfville.’

‘Any message for Angel when he gets in?’

Spike studied the human to see if he was taking the piss once more, but Wesley was pouring with great concentration over a scroll. He stubbed his cigarette out on it and ignoring the indignant cry, went toward the elevators. 

He passed an hour or so trading insults with Illyria, then made his way back up. His initial plan to just surprise Angel and hang around annoying him was changing.  Now his mind roamed over their night and day together. He could taste Angel’s lips on his and wanted that taste for real. He wanted to push his tongue into Angel’s mouth to see if it was as good as he remembered. He wanted to bend Angel back over his desk and grind them together, matching heat and urgency.  He wanted to push Angel closer to the idea of being taken. He was so close. He’d sensed Angel’s curiosity to try something new, sensed his slow capitulation to the idea of being penetrated. 

Achingly hard, he emerged into the lobby to find Angel’s office still empty.  He stormed in and flung himself into Angel’s chair as if that sacrilege would conjure the dark presence. It only conjured Harmony, nervously shooing him out. He ignored her, put his feet up on the desk and made himself at home. He reckoned now he had a special dispensation from the boss.

Angel woke with his head pounding, and it felt as if a long time had passed.  He was uncomfortable, and when he focused his thoughts, he realised he was fastened at each wrist and ankle to rings in the floor and bend double over something hard that pressed uncomfortably into his belly.  He swallowed the need to vomit and wondered how long he’d been in this demeaning position.

‘Wakey, wakey.’

Angel opened his eyes and saw the feet of the human to one side.  

‘Fuck off.’

‘Goody. We begin.’

‘Ingram….’

‘Yes, Angel.’ The human was walking around Angel, and the imprisoned vampire kept his gaze fixed on the feet. 

‘You don’t want to do this.  Believe me.’

‘No, you don’t want me to do it.’  He stood between Angel’s open legs, and Angel closed his eyes to the indignity of knowing that he was fully exposed to the man’s gaze.

‘Let’s begin.’

Angel tensed himself for the first lash against his back; he’d been tied down and whipped like this once before, but that had been over the back of a chair and he’d been seven. 

When nothing hit him, he opened his eyes once more and twisted his neck around as best he could.  Ingram was talking softly on a cell phone. When he finished, he snapped it off and went into the darkness of the basement beyond the lighted room.

Angel felt oddly let down. He tested his restraints.  Each wrist was fixed by a manacle to a ring securely mounted into the floor. The arrangement gave him enough slack to rise off the box slightly and twist from side to side. He wasn’t too sure he liked discovering that.

His legs were spread as wide as they could go, similarly fixed to the floor.  The only movement he could make was to clench his exposed backside. He didn’t like this discovery too much either.

There was the sound of voices and he tensed again.  All he could see were feet, and this time there were two sets.

Suddenly, someone squatted down into his line of sight.  A man stared at him for a long time not speaking.  Angel stared back.  

The man rose and said to Ingram, ‘He’s very, very special. Thank you.’

Ingram appeared to preen, for his voice was warm and oily, ‘I told you so. A thousand up front and another when you’re done.’

‘How long do I have?’

‘Take as long as you want. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘Wanna watch?’

Ingram didn’t reply, only flung himself onto the bed, which was in direct line of sight, Angel noticed, of the only place he could look from his upside down position.

The second man, who had looked nondescript, not like any torturer Angel had ever seen before—and he did have some right to judge—walked out of sight behind him.

Once more Angel tensed for the whip or the knife or hot irons but noticed that Ingram grinned and licked his lips at this small, fearful movement, so forced himself to relax.

He did more than tense when the man behind him drove deep into his anus.

Angel arched as far as his restraints would allow and screamed. It wasn’t the pain, which was excruciating; it wasn’t the instant smell of blood, which embarrassed him.  It was something else, but he wasn’t able to accept that something and shut it away.  It began to fester even as the human rode him, panting and grunting and mumbling inanities: like that? want my cock? nice tight arse….

The pain subsided after a while. His whole backside became a dull ache, pounded by the man’s hips as he ground in, slapped and punched by him as he pulled out.  He could still smell blood, but it was dried now, whatever had torn in the first thrust, healed.  He just wanted it to stop.  It became repetitive: in and squirming around that hurt, out and the slapping and the inanities, as if he was expected to reply: yes, I do like being raped; yes, I do want your greasy, stinking cock in my body; yes, I did have a tight arse, and I was saving it… but that thought was locked away with the other that had now stopped festering—it had begun to ferment instead.

At last it was over. With some loud gasping and more specific inanities about quantities of sperm, the man shuddered into Angel, hanging on like a dog trying a quickie in the backyard and expecting to be kicked at any minute.  He fell away, and Angel felt fluid draining from him.  He followed its trail down his leg. It seemed unnaturally hot, but he allowed that this might only have been his imagination. After all, he could hear the greedy murmurings of the crowd, too.  

By dawn, Spike was anxious. He couldn’t show it, as that implied too much that he was unwilling to share.  Wesley declared that, having worked all night, he was going home.  Spike trailed him to the garage, smoking furiously.  Wesley yawned. 

‘So, you wanna go for a drink or something?’

Wesley looked startled. ‘God, no! I’m going home to relax in a nice hot bath, read the paper, and get a few hours well-deserved shut-eye!’

‘Oh. Well, what if this case Angel is on is important and he needs you?’

‘He knows where I am. He can always call.’

Spike seized the cue eagerly. ‘And isn’t it kinda off that he hasn’t? I mean, not that I’m bothered or nothing. Nice without the big poofter for once.’

‘I would have expected him to call, yes. Perhaps he’s undercover.’

This was a little too close to some more depressing thoughts that Spike had entertained all night waiting for Angel to arrive. He had pictured Angel leaving his bed and making his way straight to… another. He knew now that Angel was insatiable. Perhaps Angel had only ever intended it to be a one-night stand. Perhaps he’d taken his well-exercised erection to someone else to enjoy.  Undercover was exactly the thing he didn’t want to hear.

Wesley climbed into his car and tried to shut the door.  

Spike could think of no excuse to keep him so let it go. ‘When will you be back?’

‘I’m going to return to daytime hours now things are back to normal. Tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’

‘What?’

Spike lit a cigarette, pouting. ‘What if Angel’s not back by then?’

Wesley looked surprised. ‘Why worry about hypothetical events? Don’t we have enough real ones to worry about?’

Feeling suitably chastised, feeling more like a stupid bint than he ever had in his life before, Spike nodded and stepped back from the car.

He sought out some of his poker buddies, and plied with beer, coarse jokes and snacks, he swiftly regained some nads.

Angel’s descent into madness wasn’t immediate, but it was thorough.  It began with the eighth man to take him. There wasn’t anything particularly significant about this one that made him stand out from the others—until he’d finished. This one renegotiated the price. This one said he didn’t get what he’d paid for. This one said the fuck wasn’t good enough.

The repressed thoughts burst through Angel’s barriers and began to seep their poison into his mind. Coupled with lack of blood, this poison made him vulnerable. Vulnerability made him defenceless. 

By the time the count had reached twenty, he’d pretty much stopped counting. He pretty much stopped doing anything, and the price continued to drop.

Ingram had been present for every fuck, but had left between times, sometimes talking rapidly on his phone, sometimes to himself. It seemed madness was not far from his mind either.

Angel had no sense of time passing.  He seemed to heal between each man, for with each one he bled. Other than that, he could not tell whether he’d been there for a day, a week or an eternity. The last option scared him, and being scared scared him some more. 

At thirty, Ingram had to pay the man back. As he said, if he’d wanted a snuff fuck, he’d have killed the trick himself. Fucking the long-time dead, so he said, wasn’t his gig.

Ingram vented his fury on Angel’s body for a while, kicking at his legs ineffectually.  Then he came around to Angel’s head and squatted down. ‘You’re not playing the game, Vampire.’

Angel was in his own world, and interesting things were happening on the platform, so he did not reply.

Ingram nodded to himself and disappeared. 

As Angel didn’t notice he’d gone; he didn’t see him return. 

He felt it though.

The pain kicked him out of his memories, and he crashed into the present, rearing up as much as he could with a startled release of breath.

Ingram giggled. ‘That got your attention.’  He came around to Angel’s head and swung the baseball bat loosely in his hand.  ‘That was just the handle, Angel. Wanna hit a home run?’

Angel moaned faintly and strained against the chains, but he could feel his body’s weakness. He had no blood, no strength of his own, no life. He had only what he stole from others—their life force—and he sank into lassitude against his restraints.

Ingram didn’t even bother to work it in slowly. He did grease it, but only because he wanted to watch the slide, only because it substituted for what he wanted to do, but couldn’t in his inadequate, impotent prison.

Angel only knew the first moments of the horror, for he passed out just as the thickest part of the bat met the final resistance of his sphincter muscle. Without blood, he knew it would not heal. The thought was almost comforting, and he dipped into insensibility with the knowledge that anything else pushed inside him now would find almost no resistance at all.

Chapter 12

Spike was feeling almost cheerful when he wandered into the offices twenty-four hours later. He was over the almost stultifying panic he’d experienced at finding Angel missing, and was resigned to the fact that his sire, his lover, didn’t always lead an ordinary life. Missing, for Angel, didn’t necessarily mean…. 

He refused to go any further with those kinds of thoughts. He was over his panic. No need to bring it back to the surface again.

He was so sanguine that he almost killed Wesley, and would have done if the man hadn’t have begun crying.

It had started as he’d emerged from the basement to the lower floors—a sense of extreme unease at the looks people were giving him. Twenty-four hours ago they’d been looks of wonder and admiration; now people looked as if they were wishing they weren’t looking at him—as if they wanted to be looking anywhere else but at him. 

He tried to ignore them and rode up in the elevator. 

Harmony looked up from her desk as he emerged, stared wildly at him then ran off toward the copier. Spike debated following her, but he reasoned he’d get a more coherent explanation from Wesley.

He bit the side of one nail as he walked down the hallway, walking increasingly slowly until he actually came to a stop before he crossed the threshold. He realised what he was doing and took the now bloodied finger out of his mouth. The taste of blood revived, calmed and appalled him in equal measure, and the confusion of this—this inability to be what he was supposed to be—annoyed him enough to call that killing spirit back. He was a demon. He didn’t panic about another inconsequential demon’s whereabouts. 

He marched into Wesley’s office, confident and calm and ready to start the day. 

Wesley was standing with his back to the room, staring out at his view. This was odd enough; Wesley never appreciated anything that wasn’t two feet in front of his nose and giving him an intellectual challenge.

Spike approached warily, and anyone watching might have misread the scene: vampire slowly approaching unaware human.

He got close enough for his breath to brush Wesley’s hair and said, ‘Hi.’

Wesley cringed.

Spike felt a stab of something in his gut and said furiously, ‘What? What the fuck is wrong with everyone today?’

Wesley cleared his throat and tried to regroup. He hedged around Spike and sat at his desk, pulling his comforters toward him.  ‘It’s rather bad…. Word on the street…. God. Has no one had the balls to tell you? The word on the street—very reliable word—is that… is that…. I’m afraid Angel is dead.’

Spike licked his lips, drilling into the man’s skull with his gaze. He needed to extract the other version of this confession.  ‘Angel’s sent a rather cryptic message about demons, end of the world and such like. He expects to be back for tea and medals.’

However hard he drilled, this message was not there.  That’s when he saw himself killing Wesley. Don’t kill the messenger? Why the fuck not? Who else do you take your fucking wrath out on but the sad fuck of the messenger?

He didn’t remember whether he actually took a step toward the hunched figure. He thought he might have done. But the shoulders started shaking, and a strange heart-wrenching sob emerged from this pillar of restraint and stiff Englishness.  Spike took his step forward, but he said calmly, ‘I don’t believe it.  I’d know, Wesley. I’d just know.’

Wesley stood up, his movements clumsy and harsh. He snatched up a piece of paper from the desk. ‘Do you want to read it for yourself? He was surrounded. They took him down, Spike! Angelus. They thought he was Angelus, and they taunted him until….’

‘I don’t care what that dumb piece of shit says! It’s lies!’

‘Twenty four hours ago you were….’

‘No! I was NOT. And this isn’t true now!’

‘Well, I suggest we just wait then, shall we? Because, you know what, Spike? I’m with you on this. Let’s not believe Angel is gone. Let’s pretend that it’s not true and that our lives will go on without him!’  He thrust the paper at Spike, crushing it against the strong chest.  He leant a little longer than necessary then straightened and began to walk stiffly toward the door. 

Spike caught him up before he made it to the hallway and snatched him around.  He pushed his face close. ‘Even death couldn’t keep him from me.’

Wesley’s eyes filled and became limpid, but he said icily, ‘Romantic human crap, Spike?’

Spike narrowed his eyes. ‘If it is, I caught it off you. You infected me. In fact, you’re to blame for everything! And I’m going to blame you for everything from now on! Everything! So, if you wanna avoid getting me in a bad mood—and I strongly suggest you do want to avoid getting me in a bad mood—you sort this! You FIND HIM!’

He shoved past and strode out to the hallway.

He refused to hear the soft, ‘I can’t even find myself now, Spike. I’m entirely lost without him.’

Now the nervous glances made him want to revert. His whole body shook with the need to release his demon face, but he didn’t relent. He kept his body under control. It was important; Angel needed him.

He crashed into the lab and stood with his hands on his hips, staring at Illyria. She was staring at a beam of sunlight, her eyes seeming to see beyond the illumination Spike could detect.

‘What do you want, half-breed?’

‘You’ve heard?’

‘That the other who demeans me with his presence is gone? Yes.’

‘Okay. Let’s start as we mean to go on; Angel is not gone. Angel is temporarily not here, and I’m—we’re—gonna find him.’

‘You expect me to….’

Spike stepped right into her face and mimed zipping his mouth.  Her eyes widened fractionally, but when she began to speak again he widened his even more and sucked his lips tighter closed. She faltered then made a small noise as if starting again. He jerked his head to one side, the threat evident.

She was silent.

‘Okay. You’re going to help me find him.’

‘You speak as one who cannot face reality. Is this a disease of the unreal?’

‘I may not know many things, but one thing I do know: bossy bloody women. One word out of you except Oh! Look! There’s Angel! and I’ll see what a nice shade of yellow you can go.’

Illyria frowned. ‘Yellow?’

Spike hesitated. ‘Well, yeah, cus I’ll make you sick—which is green, and cus you’re blue… and then… you’ll be…. Forget it!’

She smiled, genuinely amused. ‘I will help you. You intrigue me.’

Spike smiled, pleased.

‘I am intrigued how any creature with such impaired intellect can function as well as you apparently do.’

Spike narrowed his eyes, lit a cigarette and blew smoke at her. ‘Right. Angel. Let’s go.’

Ingram got bored of abusing Angel with objects. He’d let his imagination run riot. He’d played out scenes he’d witnessed in bathhouses and S&M dungeons. After the first insertion of the baseball bat, which had produced a satisfactory result, nothing had broken through the catatonic state the vampire had fallen into.

After two days, when his creativity took a dive, Ingram took out his mindless frustration on the body: kicking and beating it, making it bleed, ruining its smooth perfection.

That had lasted a day on and off. Then he’d gotten creative again. He began to study the bleeding form, ideas occurring to him, curiosity returning. He was a scientist. He ran his hands over Angel as his hero had once run his hands over his victims: affectionate, wondering.  What made him tick? What animated the corpse? Where lay the soul? 

Gradually, his torture of the silent, still form became systematic. Would flesh removed from body and bone dust when staked? Could fingers grow from bloodied stumps?  At what temperature did flesh ignite? Could bones be replaced in their absence?

Engrossed in his work, feeling the German scientist beside him as he probed and explored, he escaped his own body for a while and felt a sense of happiness he had not felt for a very long time.

With the happiness came return of libido. It was fortunate he had Angel, really. He made full use of Angel’s body that way, too.

Spike had no plan, but he wanted to walk the route from his apartment to the offices. Angel’s car had been found parked behind the bar, so he wanted to recreate his journey.  

They stood on his doorstep, and Spike pulled a map out of his pocket. Illyria took it from him, the graphical representation of the city seeming to fascinate her even more than his brain.  She studied it intently as they walked.  They drew a few curious stares, but Spike ignored them.  Every single molecule of his being was tuned into Angel. He conjured his voice in his mind, the feel of his hair as it lay wet from the shower, the taste of his skin when licked, the weight of his balls as they lay on his palm, the feel of him inside.  When he blinked, Angel’s rare smile was before him. When he took breath, Angel was his air.  As he walked, Angel’s power animated his body. 

It was all for nothing.  He could not catch one tendril of Angel’s essence. 

He stopped to stare in the window of a shop.  Illyria lifted her head from the map. ‘What do you see?’

Spike turned his head to look back across the street. ‘Are we being followed?’

‘No.’

He stared back through the glass then shrugged and moved on.  

Just before he rounded a corner, Illyria said, ‘There are twelve ways he could have gone.’

Spike stopped. ‘Huh?’

‘Twelve. I have calculated all the permutations from this flat city. There are twelve alternate routes that would achieve the same object.’

Spike snatched the map from her hand. ‘Let me see.’

He turned it this way and that for a while. ‘Bugger.’

He looked up, staring at the corner, as if debating far more than the two steps it would take to go round it.  For the first time, he caught Angel’s essence, but he knew it was an illusion—knew he was deluded. 

Very softly, he said, ‘Help me.’

Illyria tipped her head to one side, studying him with the same intensity he looked at the route.  ‘Why should I concern myself with the death of a mongrel demon who imprisoned me and stole my power?’

Spike turned his eyes to her. Blue locked on blue. ‘Because somewhere inside you, Fred still loves Angel, and Fred would want to help him.’

Illyria jerked her head back.  Spike frowned. ‘What?’

‘That is what the unpleasant one said when he sought you.’

Spike swallowed. ‘Oh.’

They stood in uneasy proximity for a moment until Spike murmured, ‘What did you tell him—Angel, when he needed your help?’

She faltered slightly.  Her gaze drifted to his hair, down, along his body.  ‘I come to want this passion you seem to share. I am envious.’

Spike’s face contorted, and he looked sharply to one side.  

She continued to watch him. ‘I was ungenerous.’

Spike finally dipped his face into his hands, lighting a cigarette, but he knew she wasn’t fooled by the gesture.

She glanced back the way they had come. ‘This is not the way to find him. We are only two.  To win you have to dominate. Come.’

He stayed behind her as they walked back to Wolfram and Hart, and she let him stay there, respecting his dignity.

Wesley refused to come to a meeting, so Spec Ops was dispatched to bring him.

Gunn came willingly. Lorne was late, but he made an appearance, if a slightly unsteady one.  

When they were assembled, Spike strode into the conference room, flanked by Illyria and took Angel’s place at the head of the table.  Illyria stood at his shoulder, and her slim presence spoke more menace than they’d seen in a meeting for a  long time.

Spike looked around and frowned. ‘Where’s Harmony?’

Wesley’s mutinous look slipped to one of puzzlement, but before he could speak, Spike rose again and strode out.  He came back with Harmony captured and escorted her to a chair.

She sat, seemingly a little dazed, but Spike said pointedly, ‘You fucking knew him best after me. Where else would you be?’

She half-smiled, seemed to remember that she was grieving and pouted once more.

Spike leant back and folded his arms.  ‘You’re all a fucking shower.’

As Wesley (also being English) seemed to be the only one who got that this didn’t actually involve any reference to water, Spike cursed under his breath and regrouped. ‘I’m taking over. I’m the new CEO of Wolfram and Hart.’  He looked at each one in turn and added deceptively genially, ‘Anyone got a problem with that?’

Wesley rubbed a hand over his considerable stubble, a waft of stale whisky and sweat emanating from him. ‘What’s the point, Spike?’

Spike leant forward. ‘The point is that Angel hated this fucking law firm. He hated working here, and he hated having to compromise what he was day after day. Well, now he needs this place—the power and the resources this bloody organisation can call upon. So, I’m going for a little dramatic fucking irony. Wolfram and Hart will use every—and I mean every—resource available, and it will find its CEO. And when he’s found, I’ll step down. Is there a single person around this table who isn’t one hundred percent behind me on this?’ He appeared to have finished, but then added casually, ‘Oh, by the way, I recommend that you reply in the negative there. I would be very upset if anyone thought that yes was the right answer. Very upset.’

Gunn swallowed and shook his head. Lorne gave a wobbly smile. Wesley turned his red-rimmed dark eyes on him.  After an eon, he made a small negative gesture as well.

Spike spread his hands out on the table, no sign of relief, no sign that he’d expected anything different. ‘Gunn. Go through every single case Angel has handled since he took this fucking job. Make a list of every enemy he’s made. I need to know locations, strengths and weaknesses.’  Gunn nodded and rose, already motivated and raring to do something practical.  Spike watched him leave then turned his eyes to Lorne. ‘Gossip.’ Lorne’s eyebrow’s rose fractionally, and Spike almost smiled. ‘You hit every single bar in L.A., and you listen to the gossip. I want to know who’s lied about Angel’s death.  I want to know who’s holding him and where he is. You can’t keep anything from fucking demons. You listen, and you hear well.’  Lorne nodded.

Harmony coughed discretely. ‘I’ll do bars, too, Spikey! I’m good at bars!’ 

Spike smiled indulgently on her. ‘You do employees.’

‘I do not! Who told you that! It was only you, oh, and the guy from the….’

‘Harm….’

‘Whoops.’

‘I need for you to talk to the people here. You know them. Who’s nervous? Who scurries to their car at night?’ He paused, seemed to reconsider and added, ‘Okay, who does that more than usual.’

She rose and made a mock salute. ‘Okay, Boss!’  Spinning on her elegant kitten heels, she left.

Spike turned to Wesley and paused. 

Wesley made a small self-deprecating gesture. ‘I’ll hit the books.’

‘No, actually, you won’t.  You are the strongest of us all, Wes, only you don’t know it. You’ve never had Angel tell you, and that’s a mistake I’ll have him rectify when he gets back. You’re in charge of Special Ops. You take the team out, and you break bodies, you cause pain—you do any damn thing you have to, but you find who’s holding Angel.’

Wesley pursed his lips then glanced at Illyria.  She stared back with her icy eyes. ‘I wish to break and cause pain. I will accompany you.’

Spike rose. ‘Right. We regroup here in twelve hours.  Get to it.’  He strode out, leaving the three remaining in uncomfortable silence.

Very deliberately, Wesley straightened his blotter.  Lorne fiddled with a button that was coming loose.  A soft English voice broke the silence. ‘He needs to let go.’

There was no reply for a while until Illyria, fixing him with her gaze, said uncharacteristically sadly, ‘He already has. This is his way of coping.’

Spike chaired the next meeting. Twelve hours and he hadn’t eaten or slept, but he wasn’t aware of these things.

There was nothing, not from the employees, not from the streets or bars or broken demons. No one knew anything except that the great Angelus had finally been taken.

The next meeting he attended, but he seemed to have nothing much to say and just left after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.

Out of respect for Spike, they all turned up twelve hours later for the forth meeting, but Spike didn’t.  The chair he’d filled for a brief time stayed empty, and eventually they parted to their respective offices, wondering whether there was any point in this or anything else.

Spike couldn’t stay, but he couldn’t leave either. Something bound him to the edifice that was Wolfram and Hart, and something repelled him.  He hung between these two extremes, incorporeal—far more so than when he had been mere essence.

For the first time in his life, he had nowhere to go that would take him closer to Angel. For that’s what it sometimes seemed that he did: followed his sire, seeking him out.  Once, they’d even collided in a submarine under the vast ocean fighting on different sides of a conflict that should not have concerned them. Food fighting other food—that’s all it should have been.

It was all gone now: the fighting, the shouting, the hating, and the complete bewilderment that led them to explore all of these and never what they really wanted. Except for this last time.

Spike wished they’d not unravelled the mystery. He wished they’d stopped before this, stopped at the fighting and the shouting and the hating and the bewilderment, wished they’d not reached the loving, not found this at the core of what they were.

Unravelled, it was hard to stay upright, walk and talk like a man, which he was, essentially, under the masks that he wore. He was just a man who was finding it hard to go on.

Eventually, as hours turned to days, Spike realised what everyone else seemed to have known from the beginning. He still didn’t really believe it—not in the parts of him that had been filled with Angel and were now empty—but he accepted it.  Once he’d done that, there was no reason for him to remain at Wolfram and Hart.  

He just made the decision and acted on it. He rose from the couch in Angel’s office, said nothing to anyone, and rode down in the elevator heading for the garage.

Someone must have summoned the elevator on another floor, for it stopped on three. Cursing, agitated, and not willing to have this sudden departure delayed, he decided to take the stairs. When the doors opened, he strode out and tumbled inelegantly over a maintenance cart.

He was in the mood for killing, and, deep joy, here was someone to kill. He picked himself up off the floor but paused, studying the janitor.  

After a few moments, he nodded ruefully and bent to light a cigarette. He reckoned he’d have a wait a while longer before he became a real demon. Right now, he stopped and talked to people, listened, saw into their hearts. It’s what he did—couldn’t change that just because he had no heart left.  

 He waved at the scattered equipment and said softly, ‘Kinda late to be mopping, ain’t it?’

The young man seemed to melt with gratitude. He nodded furiously then glanced around fearfully. Spike followed his eyes.

‘What?’

The boy licked his thin lips and stepped a little closer to whisper fearfully, ‘Haunted.’

Spike jerked his head back. It was almost enjoyable: discovering he had a tiny bit of emotion left, even if it was only incredulity.  ‘Haunted? As in ghosts?’
 
The boy shook his head. ‘Mind zombies. Jack said they roam the hallways at night waiting to suck out your brain.’

Spike was half-tempted to ask him, in that case, why he was worried, but felt his humour would fall on stony ground. ‘Who’s this Jack?’

The boy’s eyes widened as if not knowing Jack was beyond his comprehension. ‘The super.’

‘Ah.’  Spike narrowed his eyes. ‘And he makes you do the nightshift and then tells you nice little bedtime stories about brain-sucking zombies.’

The boy nodded dismally. 

Spike bent and picked up one of the mops he’d knocked over and took his time putting it back into the cart. Conversationally, he said, ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

The boy shook his head.

Spike smiled inwardly, faintly amused by this somehow. Sometime in the future, when a semblance of life had returned, he wondered if he’d laugh at the level of self-absorption he’d managed to achieve over Angel’s death.

‘I’m Spike—the bloke who eats brain-sucking zombies for breakfast? I’m the one zombies tell their kids scary stories about. I’m the one THEY fear.’ He kept his fingers metaphorically crossed and straightened the mop once more.

He didn’t get the response he was hoping for. Sweat broke out on the boy’s face and he wailed, ‘But they got Bennie!’

Spike tried to look interested. ‘Bennie?’

‘Yeah. Bennie and me were good friends. Did the hallway outside Seven’s room together. Him on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and me on the rest.’

Spike really wished he’d just kicked the cart and left in a storm of black leather. ‘Seven?’

Incredulity again. Apparently Seven was as famous as Jack. ‘Seven of Nine?’ He waved his hands as if outlining a curvy shape and glanced toward the lab.

Spike followed his look. It was something to do, and he was passing moments in the eternity that was now his to endure.  Comprehension came, and he nodded.  ‘Illyria.’

‘Yeah. Bennie was doing the hallway, and the zombies got him.’

Spike frowned.  ‘Killed him?’

The boy seemed to be enjoying his captive audience now and lowered his voice theatrically. ‘Not at first.  They sucked out his brain!’

‘Uh huh. So, mop man became, what? Zombie-like?’ There were worst things than a conversation with Harmony. He was almost intrigued.

‘He wasn’t Bennie. He was all….’ The boy suddenly toed the ground. ‘He got mean. I didn’t like him any more.’

‘So, he gets a bit cranky, and you think… hell! He’s mopping the floors in fucking Wolfram and Hart for a living, and you think he was got by flesh-eating zombies!’

The boy looked wounded. ‘Brain-sucking. He killed his Mom.’ He suddenly began to cry. ‘Bennie lived with his Mom cus he had problems, see? Needed help with things, like knowing when it was time to get up, and what to wear. But he did this job real good. Was so proud when things looked nice—said his Mom would be proud of him. I went round, on the Thursday—after he was so mean cus the zombies got him—cus I wanted to say sorry that I made him mad. That if he wanted me to do… those things… you know… dirty things with him, then I guess that was all right. But I knocked and knocked, and then when I looked in the window out back, she was there! She was there! In the chair and there was so much blood, and he was… with the knife….’

‘Whoa.’ Spike took his arm.  

‘An’ I couldn’t tell anyone! I was too scared, cus he came back in the next day like nothing happened.’

‘So, this brain-sucking zombie mother-killer is still here?’

The boy shook his head with a huge sigh. ‘They ate him two weeks ago.’

Spike took a deep drag on his cigarette. The nicotine didn’t help the impression that he was in a bad episode of the Twilight Zone. Next time he came back, he’d be someone who didn’t stop and talk to people. Much easier.

The boy was talking more to himself now than Spike, and he played with the handle of the cart. ‘He was doing his Wednesday night—still wanted to hang around the lab, see, even though he was a zombie.’ He looked conspiratorial. ‘He was stealing things. Hid them in his cart. Then we couldn’t find ‘im.  He just walked out of the rest room, and we never saw him again.’

Spike looked down at the floor. A version of that thought had been going around in his mind for two weeks, too: Angel just walked out, and I’ll never….

Spike felt his stomach drop. Like he’d been sucked up in an elevator going too fast. He couldn’t get his breath. He tried not to startle the boy, but he’d already backed off at something he saw in Spike’s expression.

‘What night did he get brain sucked by the zombies?’

‘On my Birthday.’

Spike visibly saw himself tear the boy’s skull open and suck his brain out. Anything to have the information he had in there.

‘When is your Birthday?’

‘Four September.’

‘September the fourth?’  He still couldn’t catch his breath, and as he didn’t need to breathe, his body was in as much confusion as his mind.  ‘When did he disappear—get eaten?’

‘Two weeks last Wednesday.’

Spike began to run.

The elevator was too slow so he pounded up the stairs.

He flew through the lobby and crashed into Wesley’s office.  

‘Ingram!  It’s Ingram. Ingram has Angel!’

A look of intense anger crossed Wesley face before he looked up from his books. ‘You need to stop this. I need for you to stop this.’

Spike came over, wanted to force him to see it, physically hold him up and pound the knowledge into him.  Instead, he crouched down alongside him and said softly, quickly, ‘The night you knocked Ingram out of me, the night you got me back, Wesley, there was a maintenance man outside the lab called Bennie. He was simple—weak brain, ya know? Lived with his old mum. Needed her.  That night he became odd.  Hurt some people—one a pretty young boy, and one his mum. Killed her.  Then he hung around the lab. Studying things—this simple man who had trouble deciding what to wear in the morning. He took things, too. Then one night, he just up and disappeared. No warning, no trace. Disappeared the same night Angel did. No warning. No trace.’

Wesley licked his lips. His hand fluttered out as if seeking something from Spike, then it suddenly became steady. He spun around and grabbed the phone, punching a number.  ‘I want everyone in. NOW.’

He slammed it down.  

Spike rose.  ‘Where are they, Wesley? Where are…?’ He turned away and went to the window, keeping his back to the room.  

Giving him a moment, Wesley made some more calls, but then he went over to the smaller figure.  He put a hand on his back and said pointedly, ‘Now you grieve?’

Spike took the comment in the ironic English way it was intended and nodded a couple of times. ‘I’m okay.’

‘All right then.  You have to think, Spike. You shared a damn body with the monster. Can you remember anything that would help us find them?’

‘The house he was rent…?’

‘I’ve already sent a team there.’

Spike ran a hand over his face wearily. ‘He was new to L.A. Only been here a week before he came to Angel cus he needed protection. His business….’

He jerked his head back.  ‘Fuck.’

‘What?’

‘The movies…. The damn fuck movies! He made them here in L.A. That’s why he came here.’

The fake room was filled with madness, Angel’s and Ingram’s, blending, one’s insanity causing madness, that madness spiralling the insanity in the other.  

Then Ingram hit a place of no return. He’d exhausted his ingenuity and his body on Angel, and there was nothing left. 

There was nothing more of the bleeding broken mass in front of him that he wanted—except the final solution. And that was so appropriate it made him cry.

He released the body from the restraints and pushed the mass until it fell to the ground.  He couldn’t reach the heart otherwise.

For many hours he walked around and around the body, studying it.  He knelt down and whispered his magics and his power, knowing that Angel could not hear. He picked up the stake and trailed it over the still form, digging it into some of the missing parts, pushing it under skin to watch it wriggle through the demon flesh.

Angel’s inertness angered him.  He stood and began to kick again, shouting.  Then he knew.  He knew the vampire was tricking him, faking this death that was more than death.  He knelt down again and whispered, ‘They’re not coming, Angel.’  He giggled. ‘I made sure they’d think you were dead. See? I always told you information was the commodity I valued the most. So, I’ll take that from you, too: hope. Is that what you thought? That they’d come bursting in and rescue you? Angel, Angel, don’t you get it? No one cares! You didn’t care about Spike, and he doesn’t care about you.’

‘Well, I guess that’s where you’re wrong, Ingram.’

Ingram tried to turn and rise at the same time but tripped back over Angel’s body.  

Spike came into the light of the room and swallowed, breathing shallowly.  

Ingram got to his feet.  

Spike blocked everything from his mind except what he had to do.  He’d think about all the rest later. 

He came up so close to Ingram that he could smell the man’s breath.  

And in that moment, when all was insanity, Ingram said, ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

Spike looked into his eyes, reached out and twisted his neck so violently that the head came off in his hands. 

He dropped it without a single regret and turned to what he’d come for.  

Chapter 13

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

The thought, like a heartbeat, pounded in Spike’s head as he wrapped Angel in a blanket and waited for the Spec Ops team to arrive. He hadn’t anticipated finding Angel like this—so damaged that he could not carry him.  Blood: Angel needed blood and vast quantities of it, and he would heal. Blood, and Angel would be perfect again. Blood, and Angel would come back to him.  For Spike didn’t need to look at the ravaged features to know that Angel wasn’t with him now. Angel wasn’t with anyone. He was a long way away, lost in the insanity that had overtaken him.

Before the team arrived, Spike removed the objects from the room that were coated with Angel’s blood.  He removed pieces of strange material that he didn’t examine. He dragged the dead human out of sight, too. He’d come back later and burn the place down, burn the city down, burn the world. But for now, no one would know but him.  He wrapped the blanket more securely around Angel, allowing not one inch of his body to be seen and waited.

He lived an eternity waiting for the sound of voices. 

Wesley wanted Angel taken to the hospital wing, but Spike refused. He couldn’t remember turning and snarling at the man, but suddenly he was in his demon face, and he was snarling, and everyone was staring at him.  

He blinked, changed back and said reasonably, ‘He just needs to feed. He’ll heal.’

Reluctantly, Wesley gave in. He knew that some battles he would not win. He didn’t need to know what Ingram had done to Angel; he saw it in the way Spike gripped the blanket to the still form; he saw it in the way he hid even the feet from prying eyes; he saw it in Angel’s face—a study in madness.

Finally, the horror of the journey back to Wolfram and Hart was over. Spike could not believe that he felt safe within its walls and realised he’d reassessed his definition of home. 

Angel lay in his own bed; Spike sat alongside him, and for that moment, there was nothing more that he wanted.

Except for the blood. 

Angel needed to feed.

He went out into the living room and found Wesley.  He pulled him to standing. ‘There’s no time for that now.’

‘If I’d listened to you, if I’d believed you, then….’

‘Shut up! It’s done. It’s over. He’s back. He needs to feed, Wes. Human blood.’

Wesley nodded grimly and pushed Spike out of his way as he strode purposefully to the elevator. He could not make amends for his lack of faith, but he could do this.

Spike went back to the bedroom, trying not to expect a rueful grin from the bed, a wry comment about hell. It was just as well he had no expectations, for he got nothing from Angel. He lay there, eyes open, blinking occasionally, but no other sign of the powerful life force that animated him.

Spike took a bloodbag out of the fridge and tore it open with his teeth.  He poured it carefully into a mug and heated it just right.  Then he sat alongside Angel, blessed the blood in his own small demonic prayer, and began to feed it to his sire.

It poured down the right of Angel’s face; it ran down his chin; it stained the pillow and the sheets, but not a drop went into Angel’s mouth.  

Spike straddled him and tried to prize the strong jaw open, but it was fixed, refusing to move. But Angel’s eyes tracked his efforts, the dull emptiness now replaced with something else.  Spike dipped his fingers into the mug and teased them over Angel’s lips. ‘Come on, Pet. Just a drop. Get your appetite back up, hey? Remember that time I….’ Angel’s eyes closed, not through exhaustion, and not because the pain took him away, but in a deliberate act of shutting Spike out.  If he’d told him to piss off, he couldn’t have made it any clearer.

Spike stared at him and then had a moment of startling insight. He slid to one side and embraced him, gently draping one arm over the resistant shoulder.  Very softly, staring at the familiar tattoo, he murmured, ‘I tried to find you, Luv. I’m sorry. Did you think I wouldn’t come for you? I’m so sorry, Pet. I tried to find you, but….’ Angel didn’t seem to care any more for this confession than he had for the anecdote, so it dried up and withered on Spike’s tongue, leaving a bitter taste.

Later, Spike felt his emotions turning and twisting unnaturally in his gut. They weren’t really anger and hatred, but that’s how they emerged. ‘He told you something about me, didn’t he?’ He paced and smoked and accused the silent figure.  ‘That’s what this is, isn’t it? A let’s-piss-Spike-off game. I did it to you, and now you’re going to do it to me. What did he tell you?  Tell me!’

Screaming at Angel did no more good than apologising or pleading.

Still later, after a prolonged bout of misery, which he’d taken into the next room, hiding his wracked sobs from Angel, Spike crawled into the bed.  He was naked and pressed his body tightly to the warm mass in front of him, curling around it. His body still gave off an occasional telltale shudder, but as there was no one to listen, the tale of his recent tears went unheeded.

After a while, he began to stroke Angel’s flank, softly, sensually, whispering, as if this would make his words as irresistible as the hand, as if he spoke the private, erotic things two naked men in bed might. ‘You have to feed, Angel. Please. For me. I told you that I—.’ He faltered then tipped Angel onto his back and gently straddled the broad chest.  ‘I told you that I love you. Angel?’ Spike’s body responded of its own accord to the friction between them. His cock rose slightly from Angel’s chest. He leant down and placed his lips to Angel’s. ‘Please, Luv, feed.’

He told himself he saw a flicker of affirmation in Angel’s eyes, so climbed off, humming happily and went to the kitchen. He thought he’d reached for a blood bag, so when he returned to the bed and discovered that he had a kitchen knife in his hand, he hesitated, puzzled. 

Straddled across Angel’s chest, his thighs gripping the inanimate mass, he stared into Angel’s eyes. ‘You have to feed.’  He began to hum once more, a cheerful tune, and with a precise cut, sliced his cockhead across from one side to the other, neatly dissecting the small hole.

He sucked in the pain and tried to make it Angel’s, for if it were Angel’s, it was now his and Angel’s no longer.

He inched up the solid chest, now red-slick from the blood raining down upon it and placed the spurting tissue to Angel’s lips. Three fluids—so similar in structure he’d once been told that it was hard to tell them apart in a lab—blood, pre-cum and tears were all he had to give, but they were rejected. Angel turned his head away from the gushing cock and a red, sticky trail glazed his cheek.

Spike felt a great blackness sweeping up to engulf him. He didn’t care whether this was lack of blood or something else. It removed him from where he was, and that was okay by him.

He began to topple, but a pair of strong hands caught at his shoulders and eased him down to the bed.  

He lay bleeding heavily into the sheets, watching, puzzled. A hand…. A wrist…. The knife, and then a long slow cut—vertical, along the direction of the artery, a pro, not some theatrical cry for help.

Blood splashed him as the human stretched to Angel. It was warm and sticky with a kick from distilled rye and grief.

It animated Spike enough to sit and watch greedily as the spurting flesh descended to Angel’s mouth.

Wesley rubbed his wrist to the closed lips. He murmured in astonishment and went around to the other side of the bed to get a better angle. He knelt up and tried to force Angel to take him in.  Eventually, with a cry, he staggered back and stared at his bleeding wrist as if wondering what on earth he was supposed to do with all this inconvenient blood.

He went into the living room, stumbling slightly over some discarded clothes.  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a T-shirt was retrieved from the floor. Spike took Wesley’s wrist reverently and balled the cloth to the wound.

He had a sheet tied around his waist; neither of them commented on the red stain that marred its paleness. They stood close, Spike pressing the cloth to the human’s wrist, staring mesmerised at the creeping fluid.

Wesley resisted for a moment, then leant his cheek to the soft down on Spike’s head. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Spike only heard it because they were standing in this intimate circle of blood.  ‘In my dreams he always drinks. He’s so cold and grey, and I feed him. I save him. I thought I could for real.’ His voice rose in pitch. ‘I didn’t look hard enough for him. Did I betray him?’

Spike’s face contorted as if he didn’t need this additional burden—the human’s guilt—but he said simply, ‘You love him.’

He lifted his face to see how this was received. At the same moment, Wesley looked down to see what he meant, and before either of them thought it through too minutely, they were kissing.  It flashed into Wesley’s mind then that he was drinking salt water, but dying of thirst as he was, that was okay.  Spike wasn’t so imaginative; he just told himself he was doing this because he couldn’t kiss Angel, and he desperately needed to kiss someone.

Coming to the same conclusion in their separate ways, they finally eased apart. Mutual embarrassment struck them both, but suddenly, Wesley’s brow clouded, and as if he were still dreaming that dream that he could not know had once been his reality, he slowly lifted his wrist to Spike’s lips.

Spike jerked his head away. He didn’t know why exactly—too intimate? too tempting?—but Wesley ran his hand up the stubbly scalp from neck to crown, and the sensation was so overwhelmingly sensual that Spike fastened on and sucked. He didn’t know why exactly, maybe because it was intimate and tempting.  He sucked the fluid into his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue. He was making small purring sounds of pleasure that for some reason made Wesley press close.

He slid his hand down but then stilled, the fearful sight that had greeted him as he’d entered the bedroom—the blood spurting over Angel’s face from Spike’s ravaged cock—still horrified him.

Spike though pulled the sheet from his body and urged his hips to Wesley’s.

Wesley found his hand grasping something sticky but hard—and healed.  He groaned, the blood leaving his body faster as his heart began to pump with sexual tension.

Suddenly, Spike lifted his mouth from the deep wound.  He stared into the man’s eyes, and Wesley realised that the vampire had sensed the limits of this offering: known when to withdraw before any real harm could occur to his unexpected provider.  Spike had stopped because to go further would hurt him.

It was the most sensual gift Wesley felt he’d ever been given—far more sensual than the long tugs he was giving Spike’s dick.

Spike seemed to find these ministrations erotic enough though, for he suddenly grunted, lurched forward and spurted between them, his sperm mixed with a residue of blood and making a pretty trail down his already blood-flecked skin.

Gradually, they both sank to their knees, foreheads touching.  Wesley’s heart continued to pound, but every so often, it fluttered weakly as if it were caught between the essential duality of his nature: great hero, skulking coward. Spike looked up and gave him a smile. Wesley smiled back gratefully. He was neither one nor the other—hero or coward—but just a man who was in love and facing that insight for the very first time.  As he stared into the startlingly blue eyes, he had a flicker of momentary doubt just who he was in love with, but he decided to push this thought to the back of his mind to think about later. They had more pressing problems.

He tried to inject his voice with the right amount of gravity and said, ‘He needs to feed.’

Spike sat back on his heels and dragged the sheet over his lap. He replied flatly, ‘I know that.’

Wesley pursed his lips. ‘Intravenously?’

Spike shook his head. ‘Tried that with Dru when she were so poorly after Prague. Doesn’t work with vampires—‘less they’re willing.’

‘We need to shake him out of his fugue.’

Spike’s eyes sparked angrily, but he didn’t direct his wrath at the human. ‘It’s kinda why I did a Freddy with my dick, yeah! Why you did this!’ He held up Wesley’s wrist, but his hold was gentle, belying his words. He made a soft tsk sound. ‘You bloody pillock. And this the broken one, too.’  He probed softly around the cut, now beginning to clot, then tore off a long strip from the sheet.

Silently, he bound around the strong, dark flesh, noticing, but not commenting on the fact that the strip of bandage was already stained with his blood.  

Wesley, however, said softly, ‘Our blood mingles. Will I be in your thrall?’

Spike quirked up his lip. ‘Driven to do my bidding?’

‘Hmm. Overcome by your dark presence—obeisance to your magnificence.’

Spike chuckled. ‘And you’ve actually met me then, Pet?’

Wesley rolled the soft laugh around in his mind, enjoying it. He was grateful to hear it once more and grateful to have brought it forth. ‘I think you are magnificent, Spike. Don’t knock yourself. You brought him back. When we’d all given up, you brought him….’ To his profound embarrassment, Wesley saw that Spike was crying.  He’d never had another man cry on him before, and although he’d just fed Spike his blood, kissed him, and brought him off in his fist, this somehow seemed more intimate.

Not knowing what he did, he just cupped the back of Spike’s neck and pulled him to his shoulder, patting him ineffectually.  He knew why he was crying—Angel wasn’t really back at all. His outward form was; what had lain within still seemed quite lost.

Suddenly, Spike yanked his head away from the comforting embrace and said raggedly, ‘We have to bring him back.’

Wesley sighed. ‘I know; we’ve agreed that, but….’

‘Not Angel.’

Wesley frowned, stared into Spike’s dilated, limpid eyes, and felt a chill of dread track down his spine.  ‘No.’

Spike looked mutinous, but the expression on a face streaked with tears had the opposite effect to the one he’d intended. Instead of looking threatening, he looked endearing, like a child trying hard to be brave.  This worked on Wesley just as effectively as Spike had intended the original expression to, for instead of rejecting the idea a second time, he reasoned, ‘It’s the last thing Angel would want.’

‘Angel would want to be whole again. Angel wouldn’t want to be lying there like that.’

‘But still….’

‘No, Wes. This is the only way.’

‘It’s too dangerous. It’s another dream, Spike. I dream of doing this, and it goes so badly wrong…. You don’t know what he’s capable….’ He trailed off, clearly embarrassed, and Spike nodded.

‘I’m the only one left who does know! I’m talking about my murderer, remember!’

Wesley blinked. ‘All right.’

‘You agree?’

‘I agree.’

Spike let out a breath of relief and murmured more to himself than to the human, as if trying to taste the sound on his tongue, ‘Angelus.’

Suddenly, he rose and pulled Wesley to his feet, fastening the sheet securely around his waist once more.  Wesley felt an absurd sense of disappointment at something he couldn’t define, but covered this by asking, ‘How?’

Spike roused from deep contemplation of something. He turned to Wesley as if to reply, but instead captured his head and kissed him—a swift, surgical strike of tongue and lips.  

Just as quickly, he pulled off. Wesley caught his breath audibly and said inanely, ‘Oh.’

Spike smiled. ‘Hamilton was willing to do it. I suggest we ask him.’

He strode away and said casually over his shoulder, ‘Angel’s office. One hour. Tidy up, and get that wrist stitched.’

Whether he was in Spike’s thrall from the tiny sharing of blood, he wasn’t sure. Wesley did know that he now felt no disappointment at all, and more importantly, there was no aftertaste of salt from this kiss. He walked brightly to the elevator, despite the occasional grey spots in front of his eyes and his excessively throbbing wrist. He punched the down button and stepped in, tasting his lips, reliving the moment. It was hard to be focused and confused at the same time, but he realised, with a rueful grin, that he was managing it quite well.

An hour later and Spike emerged from Angel’s elevator to the office, showered, changed and determined.  That he was swamped in some of Angel’s clean clothes was not commented on by his audience. Wesley felt an absurd flush of fondness; Hamilton smirked unpleasantly.  Spike came up close to him. ‘You know how to remove Angel’s soul.’

Marcus’s eyes hardened. ‘You are mistaken.’

In an almost perfect mimicry, Spike said, ‘Do you hear something? Perhaps we’re haunted….’ Hamilton’s eyebrows rose no more than a millimetre, but it was enough for Spike to know he’d made his point.

Hamilton turned away. ‘I was willing to do it because Angel requested it. His capitulation was manna from heaven—so to speak.  Taking it from him is of no value to us. If capturing souls were that easy, the devil would have a rather idle time of it.’ He paused and frowned briefly. ‘Not that I’m comparing the Senior Partners to the devil, you understand.’

Spike glanced at Wesley. ‘Angel’s no good to you as he is. You need him to run this damn place—for reasons best known to you.’

Wesley stepped forward. ‘You need the whole deal—Angel, me, Lorne, Gunn…. Without Angel, we walk. All of us. You need to bring him back.’

‘I dislike being blackmailed.’

Spike was staring at Wesley with an approving smile, but he addressed Hamilton. ‘Offer freely then.’

To give him his due, the man actually made it sound as if the idea had come from him.  ‘You need to bring Angel back. I will provide what is necessary.’  Adjusting the perfect lie of his suit, he left.

Spike let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘I didn’t think he’d go for it. Remind me to tell Angel just how much that creep really does need him.’

Wesley nodded, but Spike could see he wasn’t really listening. 

He came closer and laid his hand on the man’s arm. He was surprised how strong a spark jumped between them.  Wesley looked down to where their skin touched. ‘I’m not sure how much of what went on upstairs was you effectively manoeuvring me into something I wouldn’t normally have agreed to—no! Don’t say anything until I’ve said this.  I think we should do it. I’ve not changed my mind, only….’ He looked up into the anxious eyes. ‘ I have one condition. And I’m not doing it until you agree.’

It was frighteningly easy to do—this detaching of a soul, this splitting someone from the thing that defined them.  They returned Angel to his bedroom after Wesley’s condition had been fulfilled, to prepare, expecting him to regain consciousness as they worked around him, but other than placing the vessel close to the bed and unfolding a scroll, there was nothing else to be done.  So, they waited until the figure stirred from its deep sleep and lay awake and inert as they had, disturbingly, come to expect as the norm. None of them wanted to point out that there was little difference between the two states.

The new wound on Angel’s head bled profusely, the lack of healing this indicated only convincing them that what they did was right.

Spike stood to one side, reading the incantation, his Latin rusty but serviceable. Wesley stood to the other side, pointing a crossbow at Angel’s heart. Lorne and Gunn hovered nervously in the background, summoned as witnesses, but unsure of their roles.

With only a cry, widened eyes and a jolt of shock, Angel’s soul streamed from him and into the small glass receiving jar.

Spike picked it up and with a steady look, handed it to Lorne. He flinched but then met Spike’s gaze equally steadily as if the initial shock of being entrusted with this particular role only strengthened his determination to do the job well.  He laid a hand over Spike’s. ‘With my life.’

Spike quirked up his lips. ‘Maybe with something more precious?’

Lorne touched his cheek then together with Gunn, headed to the elevator. He glanced back at the drama unfolding in Angel’s bedroom then down at the receptacle in his hands. ‘Why do I have the feeling someone’s walking on my grave?’

Gunn shrugged. ‘Damned if I know, but if you’re tellin’ me it feels like we’ve done this badass business before, I’m with you.’

Spike returned to his vigil by the bed. Wesley had not moved—not one muscle, not a blink, his aim still true, Angel’s heart still in his sights.

The figure stirred, and one hand emerged from the covers. The fingers stretched.  There was a groan, then a ‘Fucking hell!’ and brown eyes fastened on Spike. For the longest time there was only silent communion between them. Eventually, Angelus said softly, ‘Well, get me some damn blood then.’

He lifted the sheets, inspecting his body then looked ruefully at Wesley. ‘I’m thinking you won’t be needing that, human.  This ol’ body of mine’s not moving from….’ Before Wesley could twitch the hair’s breath trigger, Angelus was behind him, arm around his neck.

Spike, halfway to the fridge, froze. Angelus, bleeding, grinning, a feral glint in his eye, his body a parody of its former perfection, began to tighten his hold around Wesley’s neck. He chuckled. ‘I always wanna kill what he values the most—dunno why. Call me sentimental.’

With a final twitch of his eyebrow, he tightened his hold.  To give him his due, he stayed on his feet even when the pain kicked in. He staggered but held firm as it began to fry into his brain. Finally, he capitulated and let go, falling to his knees and crying out, a sound of incoherent fury.  When it was over, he staggered to his feet, holding onto the bed for support. ‘You chipped me? You fucking chipped me!’

Spike nodded.

‘Me! You’ve chipped me!’

Spike didn’t see the point of nodding again. He felt so much confusing guilt over what they’d done that he didn’t bother with any other gesture either.  Angelus eased his body carefully onto the edge of the bed.  Suddenly, he reared up and went for Wesley again. The result was predicable, and he fell once more to his knees, wounds ripping open and bleeding afresh at his efforts.

Silently, Spike handed him a bloodbag. 

Angelus sat back on his heels, reached out a hand to take it, but suddenly had Spike in a headlock. He whispered, ‘I really didn’t wanna hurt you—so soon. But what the hell? I’m feeling pissy.’ He began to twist.

This time, the cry was mixed with a huge slice of petulance as he doubled up holding his skull as if it would split apart and spill the pain.  

Still fighting guilt—and a number of other emotions his Sire’s reappearance had stirred—Spike only murmured, ‘We adapted it, Angelus. Give us some credit.’

Angelus lifted his head and rearranged his features. He glanced at the blood bag in Spike’s hand.  ‘I won’t feed then. That’s what this has all been about. The dumb lug won’t feed, so you bring me back to do it for him. Well, I won’t play your little games.’

Spike pursed his lips, said nothing, only handed him the bag again.

Angelus snatched it, ripped it open and downed it in one.  He gave Spike a wry smile. ‘Another.’

Spike smiled back but quickly turned it into a frown and went to fetch the first in a long succession of healing bags of blood.

Angelus fed steadily all day. Every so often, he poked at a wound to test its recovery.

Satisfied that both the chip and the de-souling had worked, Wesley left them to it.

Angelus watched Spike from his position on the bed, his eyes, despite his wounds, twinkling with glee. ‘You know this won’t work. I’ll escape somehow—I always do. That’s how the script goes. This pathetic bunch of misfits bring me back to help with some dire emergency… I escape… blah, blah. Still….’ He regarded Spike carefully. ‘I didn’t expect you to be involved with something like this. That’s… unexpected.’

He waited for a reply then added patiently, ‘Not gonna talk to me, Will?’

Spike handed him another blood bag, but Angelus caught his wrist. He quickly released it and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, laughing.  ‘Come, sit with me. Talk to me. I never was a good patient, remember?’

Spike sat down.

Angelus ripped open the latest bag, then murmured around a mouthful of blood, ‘So, we’ve been getting better acquainted recently.’  

Spike flicked him a glance and corrected, ‘Angel and me.’

Angelus raised an eyebrow. ‘Good. You can talk.’ He continued to eye Spike, amused. ‘Seems to me I remember you telling him that you’d always loved him… ie….’ He dragged it out to its fullest extent. ‘…me.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Tell me why he won’t feed.’

Angelus was silent for a moment then began to laugh. ‘Well done, Childe, slip it in as if it’s of no consequence—just another bit of chit chat. When it’s the only reason you brought me back! The ONE thing you need to know so you can heap that freakin’ soul back on top of me. Well, apologies to all concerned, but I’m not tellin’!’

Spike eyed him for a moment, then he rose and very deliberately slapped Angelus a resounding blow across the face.  Predictably, Angelus reared up with a roar of fury, but at the first contact fell back, clutching his head. It was debatable which hurt him more: the chip or the knowledge that his childe had gotten away with such an outrage.

Spike turned away, a confusing mass of emotions warring on his face. Despite his self-absorption, this was not lost on Angelus. He made a sound and held out his hand. Spike hesitated but turned back.

Angelus brushed the back of his hand over Spike’s arm.  ‘I don’t want to fight with you.’

Spike pouted and glanced up at him through lowered lids. ‘Maybe that’s cus you’re kinda helpless and would get stomped on?’

Angelus laughed. ‘Appearances can be deceptive. And it’s not because of that. I don’t want to fight with you, because since we’ve gotten better acquainted, maybe there’re better things we could be doing….’

Spike gave him a more direct look. ‘I’ve told you; that was Angel, not you.’

Angelus waved his hand dismissively. ‘He’s just me without the natural charm. So… what do you say…?’ He leaned forward and rubbed his hand over Spike’s fuzz. ‘Friends?’  He shook his head, perplexed. ‘What freaking possessed you to do that to your hair?’

Spike couldn’t help smiling shyly. ‘You hated it when I turned it blond, too.’

Angelus laughed and pulled him closer, planting a kiss on the stubble. ‘Did I say hello, Will?’ He stretched and laughed again. ‘It’s good to be back.’’

Spike disentangled himself physically and went to heat some more food. He wasn’t fooled for a minute—he knew exactly what Angelus was doing, and why. Not fooled but… tempted. Just because you know the devil speaks the words, doesn’t make the sentiment any less attractive.

Angelus watched Spike with a feral grin on his face. He knew he wasn’t fooling Spike for a minute, but he sensed the temptation. After all, he knew exactly what that slim body was experiencing as they touched and talked and parried for position. His was responding in exactly the same way.

The next time Spike turned, Angelus was standing naked in front of the closet, humming quietly.  He pulled out one of Angel’s suits, studying it closely. He held it up to Spike. ‘What do you think?’

Spike put the blood down and murmured, ‘They make you look fat.’

Angelus nodded with a chuckle and ripped it in two. Spike made a small noise in the back of his throat, not bemoaning the torn Armarni but absorbing the sight of honed muscle rippling across Angelus’s broad shoulders.

Angelus predictably discovered and seized on some leather pants.  He eased them over his still badly damaged legs. Spike heard a soft ‘Damn.’ There was a pause, and when Angelus turned, a hand shaded his eyes, obscuring his expression.

‘What’s wrong?’

In reply, Angelus held out his hand, broken and severed fingers still not fully healed. ‘I can’t work the damn zipper.’

‘You are joking.’

‘Do these look like a joke?’

Spike sighed and came close. Keeping Angelus’s gaze, he zipped him up. Angelus watched him through lowered lids.

Spike narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re not fooling me.’

Angelus made a small sound of amusement. ‘Got you to do it though.’

Spike fastened the button for him as well. 

‘Kiss me, Will—for old time’s sake….’

‘The only way you know how to kiss is to dominate and take, Angelus. I don’t recall your kisses were something to look forward to.’

‘I do a real good impression of Angel. You should see it…. And remember, he had no problem fucking someone else in your body.’

Having implanted this thought, he pulled away, humming again and began to rummage for a shirt.  When he was dressed, he accepted another blood bag, acknowledging that the effort to dress had nearly exhausted him.

When it was gone, he straightened his shoulders. ‘I wanna get outta here.’

Spike couldn’t think of a single reason why not, so shrugged and followed him to the elevator. As they were riding down though, he said pointedly, ‘Don’t try to escape. You’re helpless. Remember that. You need my… benevolence.’

‘That’s an odd choice of words, Childe. And you remember that they thought they had me helpless last time—steel bars and every precaution, except for remembering that there’s always a fifth columnist. Fucking losers couldn’t see it: Wesley so wound up with his guilt and betrayals; Connor thinking with his dick. But there she was—Cordelia—evil as they come.’

Spike listened to this tirade, understanding little of it, interested in less. ‘Don’t try to escape, Angelus. That’s two warnings and the only ones you’re gonna get.’

Angelus glanced over to him, his expression unreadable, then exited into Angel’s office.  He flung himself in the chair and spun it around, but when his knee contacted with the desk, he winced and began to rummage in a drawer with great concentration.

Spike came over and perched on the edge. ‘You okay?’

Angelus nodded shortly, as if it were a conversation he wasn’t willing to have, but intent on his rummaging, he did say, ‘What happened to Ingram? I was kinda out of it at the end.’

Spike sat back, clamping down on all unwanted emotion. He had not missed Angelus’s use of I, and that, combined with his soft, rational tone, threatened to undo him. He swallowed and replied brusquely, ‘He’s dead.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Good. Slowly?’  He smiled at Spike through seductively lowered lids, and despite the lock down he was trying to maintain on his emotions, Spike smiled back. Suddenly, Angelus closed his eyes and leant back, a flicker of pain crossing his face. ‘Fuck.’

Spike hesitated. ‘I’ll get some more blood. Go back to bed.’

Angelus’s expression was half-angry, half-petulant. He fiddled some more with the things on the desk then glanced up at Spike. ‘Why don’t you come join me?’

Spike didn’t remember pushing off the desk, storming out of the office, tearing down the hallway, or crashing into an empty office.  He’d only wanted to escape—whether it was Angelus’s manipulations he was escaping or his susceptibility to them, he didn’t care to examine.

When he discovered the office he’d burst into was the one he and Angel had had their earlier confrontation in, he lost it for a while—literally out of himself and out of control: smashing, tearing, and destroying.  It was only when he felt a warm hand on his arm that he stopped. He turned—pieces of something fluttering to the ground around him—and found a whisky bottle thrust into his hand. 

‘I find this helps considerably.’

Wesley urged it on him, and Spike took it, swallowing desperately.  

Wesley nodded. ‘He’s feeding; he’s healing Angel’s body; he’ll tell us what’s wrong, and then we’ll bring Angel back. I’m holding onto that, and I suggest you do, too.’

‘He’s not going to tell us! He knows that’s the only thing keeping him here!’

Wesley put out his hand for the bottle, and their fingers touched, an immediate spark passing between them. Wesley took a small breath and said softly, ‘I’m not sure—what happened… before.’

Spike took hold of his wrist and appeared to be examining the stitches.  ‘We were both trying to find Angel in some odd places, I reckon.’

Wesley hesitated, watching the strangely compelling sight of Spike’s fingers on his flesh. ‘Not in that final kiss we weren’t. That one was just us.’

Spike pouted, twitched an eyebrow and shrugged all in one fluid motion.  He changed the grasp on Wesley’s wrist. ‘Wanna see if he’s here now?’ He looked straight at Wesley’s lips and took them with the same hard, decisive strike he’d used before.

Wesley changed all that. 

He opened his mouth and flicked his tongue to the urgency, turning it into languid need.  Spike’s hands came up behind the dark, head and his fingers plunged into the longish locks, tugging their mouths harder together.

Wesley danced his fingertips over the shortness of Spike’s hair, rasping it lightly with his nails, sending frissons of pleasure through Spike’s body.  Gradually, Wesley took his mouth away, their kiss ending sloppily, nosily, wet and hot.  He bent his forehead to Spike’s, and his voice was uncharacteristically ragged, ‘What is this?’

Spike shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I only want Angel. I’ve only ever wanted Angel. Now I want this, too.’

‘I’m not sure you can have that contradiction.’

Spike jerked his head back and paced to the window. 

Wesley went and stood behind him. ‘I’m not sure I want you to have it.’

‘What about you?’ Spike turned angrily. ‘I know how you feel about Angel. I’m not fucking dumb! You’ve always felt it!’

‘Now I’m feeling this.’

‘You’re supposed to be the clever one! You’re supposed to sort things and make them right!’

Wesley laughed. ‘Oh, God help us all then.’

They were silent for a while, both lost in their own thoughts, until Spike ventured, ‘What I don’t get is why all this started when I got Angel back.’

‘You think this is just—what? Grief? Anger?’

‘Maybe.’

Wesley stared thoughtfully at the door. ‘And when Angel comes back, it will just… go.’

‘Could do.’

‘Is that what you want?’

Spike turned to him. ‘At this very moment?’ He took one of Wesley’s fingers and turned the hand over. ‘No. At this moment, that’s the very opposite of what I want.’

‘I wonder if things aren’t complicated enough without….’ Wesley ran his finger over Spike’s palm, trickling it up over his wrist.  Suddenly, without warning, he seized Spike’s arm. ‘Come with me.’

Spike didn’t resist, curious about the intense look on the human’s face. Wesley led him silently to the elevators and then stood equally dumb as they descended. Spike lit a cigarette for company and smoked it, watching Wesley through narrowed eyes, deep in his own thoughts. 

They exited on the floor for the lab. Wesley went someway toward it but then stopped and leant on the wall, indicating with a small twitch of his head that Spike should continue alone. Spike did.

Then he reeled back and took a sharp intake of breath, the air, after the smoke, making him cough. ‘Fred?’

It was Fred to all intents and purposes: short skirt, deceptively fragile limbs, long hair. Fred giggling with an assistant…. Fred calling out and demanding another reading, another instrument….

Spike tried to run his fingers through his hair, seemingly annoyed now that he had lost the ability to make this gesture.  ‘What the hell is she doing?’

‘Illyria? She’s studying Ingram’s research, and she said she needed to be Fred to do it.’

‘Can’t you stop her?’

‘Apparently not.’

Wesley pushed off the wall and went back to the elevator, followed by a sober, silent Spike.  Spike watched him as they rode up with a similar concentration to that which he’d employed on the way down. Now, though, he acted on his thoughts and abruptly, murmuring, ‘Christ,’ he pulled Wesley into his arms. They kissed slowly, deliberately, challenging their fates, pushing back their own individual darkness by intimately exploring the other’s mouth.  Then they explored elsewhere, Wesley’s hand returning to Spike’s crotch, aware, knowing; Spike’s moving to Wesley’s, unsure but eager.

Things stirred, lengthening and hardening to touch, until they pulled their mouths apart reluctantly.

Spike nodded. ‘Just grief.’

Wesley chuckled. ‘Anger—totally.’

‘When Angel’s back….’

‘Of course. When Fred’s back….’

That joke fell flat, and its audible splat on falling seemed to take away Wesley’s brief moment of humour.  Spike brushed his hand over stubble, and they walked back to the empty office as if they’d not seen the disturbing illusion in the lab.

Wesley stared around at the devastation. ‘We’ll say a client saw his bill.’

Spike nodded glumly. 

‘Are you going to help me?’

Spike raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m a superior creature. I don’t do clearing up.’

‘Oh… really….’ In an uncharacteristic attempt to bring back the moment of fun they’d shared in the elevator, Wesley shoved a piece of torn foam cushion into Spike’s face.  It caught on his cigarette and immediately burst into flames.  Cursing, laughing, they stamped it out together, not realising, until it was too late, that they were standing so close that Spike could hear Wesley’s startled heart pounding.

With a groan of inevitability, they forgot the smouldering mess on the floor and caught their hands, entwining fingers, pulling mouths together, brushing lips and clashing their tongues.

This time, Spike ended the kiss.  He jerked away, his eyes fixed on the door. 

Wesley didn’t need to turn; he heard the slow, ironic hand clapping.  He kept his eyes fixed on Spike.

‘Well, well. My two favourite people getting better acquainted as well. Is there something in the air of this damn place?’

Spike began to run his fingers through his hair but let his hand fall to his side when that familiar gesture, once more, proved to be redundant.  Angelus pushed off the doorframe and came over to them, his arms outstretched in a parody of friendliness. ‘Group hug.’

‘I thought you were going back to bed.’

Angelus looked offended. ‘Well, I was. Then I came to find my little vampire fuck-bunny.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘And here he was, playing away from home.’

Wesley didn’t seemed fazed, which Spike gave him credit for; he was pretty sure the human was paddling frantically beneath the surface. ‘This has nothing to do with you. Or Angel, I suppose.’

Angelus was watching his face with serious consideration. He nodded then began to chuckle. ‘You… what? You don’t want me to tell him?’

Wesley nodded. ‘There’s no reason for him to know.’

Angelus turned to Spike with gleeful incredulity. ‘Who the fuck does he think I am?’

Spike gave him a look, and Angelus looked momentarily angry. ‘What? You don’t want me to spell it out to your new little friend?’  He pressed his face close to Wesley, whom, he noticed, took a step back. ‘I AM Angel. Angel is me on a bad day. Angel is me when I wake up and feel sorry for someone! It does happen, you know! I can’t NOT fucking tell me this because I already know it! I just haven’t got the fucking soul to make me give a damn—yet.’

For the first time, Wesley seemed flustered. He turned quickly to Spike then back to Angelus. ‘Look, this isn’t what….’ Spike laid a hand on his arm and shook his head. 

‘He’s only doing this so you’ll be tempted not to put the soul back. He’s putting plan B into effect even while he’s playing plan A. It’s what he does.’

Angelus turned slowly to Spike. ‘Well, it’s nice to know you can count on your children for support when you need it.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Don’t mention it.’ He lit a cigarette and blew some smoke in Angelus’s face. 

Angelus suddenly laughed and put his arms around both their shoulders, giving them the hug he’d joked about. Then he spun on his heel, gave Spike a significant look and a small beckon with his head, and left.

Wesley let out a breath. ‘He seems okay about it.’

Spike ground out his cigarette. ‘We’d have been better off if he’d tried to kill us. That was him really pissed.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go see what he wants?’

‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’

‘No. Sorry. I don’t know, Wes. That’s the truthful answer.’ He came closer and trailed his fingertip over Wesley’s shirtfront. ‘Perhaps it would simplify things if we just did it. Cathartic fuck, ya know?’ 

Wesley laughed and caught the hand, snagging the fingers. ‘I see who you learnt to argue from now. You’ve both kissed the devil’s blarney stone.’

‘That’s a vicious rumour that we’ve been denying for years. We’re just friends.’

Wesley laughed and the moment passed. They straightened and let hands fall, fingers part.  

Together, they turned to the door and wandered back into the relative normality of Wolfram and Hart.

‘Wes?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Who’s Connor?’

‘Connor?’

‘Hmm. Gelus mentioned him. Said you’d brought him back once before, put him in a cage. Said you and Connor misjudged him.’

Wesley frowned deeply and not just because he’d heard and resented the casual use of the nickname. ‘He’s lying again, I suppose. I’ve never taken Angel’s soul—he lost it once and seemed to lose it another time. But no cages and no one called Connor.’

They’d reached Wesley’s office, and Spike put a hand on his arm. ‘He’s not lying.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Are you implying that I am?’

‘No. I’m saying it happened, but that you don’t remember it. I was thinking that maybe you should try to remember, because… he also said he escaped.’ 

Wesley frowned. ‘But presumably—in this fantasy of his—we got him back, too. I mean… put the soul back.’

Spike tipped his head to one side. ‘Presumably. He didn’t—obviously—mention that part.’ Wesley opened his mouth to comment, but Spike suddenly added, ‘Where does the difference between them really lie?’

Wesley looked at him for a moment then said surprisingly angrily, ‘Angelus may be playing with my head, but I’m very, very sure where the difference between them lies. It’s bloody obvious. And I’m very unhappy that you seem to suddenly have a problem with seeing, or remembering it. Angelus is a monster.’

‘With charm.’

‘Look, Spike.’ Wesley took his arm firmly, and they both resolutely ignored the stirrings this caused, Wesley because he was genuinely pissed off, and Spike because he was planning.  ‘You are not as you once were, either. You are not the Spike who knew Angelus. You are souled. This isn’t a reunion between Sire and Childe! Angelus should be nothing more than a monster to you, too!’

Spike nodded, but it was so obviously a gesture of dismissal, an I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-this-with-you-any-more gesture, that Wesley paled slightly. ‘In the morning, Spike. We bring him back tomorrow morning.’

Spike eased past him and headed to the door. Wesley added in a low tone, ‘Don’t mistake my priorities, Vampire. I may have for a moment, but I won’t do so again.’

Spike didn’t even register this last. He was deep in his own thoughts, thoughts that took him back to Angelus.

Angelus was feeding again, his back to the room, a number of empty blood bags scattered on the desk.

Spike went up to him. 

‘Where have you been?’

‘Talking to Wesley.’

‘And let me guess who the topic of that conversation was. We have to return the soul. I owe it to Angel!’ This was said in such uncanny imitation of Wesley’s voice, but with an amusingly cruel addition of pomposity, that Spike smiled, despite his better intentions.

‘You shouldn’t mess with Wesley’s head.’

‘Sheesh, take away all my fun.’

‘He’s a dangerous enemy to make.’

‘Not something you need to worry about, I’m thinking.’ Suddenly, he put his arm over Spike’s shoulder. ‘I’m jealous.’

‘No you’re not.’ They both noticed that he did not shake the arm off. 

‘Let’s go out. I’m kinda feeling… perky.’ Whether this was a deliberate echo of something he had said before the dramatic shift in his relationship with Angel, or an unlucky coincidence, Spike couldn’t determine. He was too distracted by the fingers Angelus waggled in front of him. They were healed.  ‘So, what do you want to do? Bar? Club? Theatre? Bed?’

‘The last—and you, alone.’

Angelus made a small dismissive noise. ‘I’m gonna atrophy if I stay in his damn place. I wanna go out and have some fun.’  He didn’t need to add while I can; they both knew it hovered beneath the surface of his words.

Spike suddenly broke away from the loose embrace and said deceptively casually, ‘Okay. Bar then. Quick drink.’ He kept his expression hidden from Angelus and added, ‘My place first though. I maybe need to wear some of my own clothes.’

Angelus laughed. ‘I don’t know. I kinda like seeing you in mine.’ He slapped Spike on the backside and sauntered out into the lobby.

Spike smiled, but it wasn’t in response to anything Angelus did or said.

Chapter 14

The tone of the evening was set fairly early on.  Initially sullen and reproachful, perhaps feeling his imprisonment too much, Angelus skulked along, glaring angrily into bars that he would normally not have hesitated to enter.  Spike heard the baleful silence and knew only too well its provenance; he’d felt exactly the same when he’d been chipped.

Turning a corner, however, Angelus suddenly doubled over, clutching his head.  Spike looked over, bemused for a moment. Then he glanced down.

He tried to stifle it.

He snorted and turned away. 

He lit a cigarette.

Eventually, Angelus straightened. ‘What!’

Spike pointed helplessly to the ground, choking with the effort not to laugh.

Angelus glared at him, then at the place he was pointing.  He looked more closely. ‘An ant.’

Spike lost it.  His knees weakened, and he leant on the wall, giggling inanely.

Angelus actually stomped his foot in fury, which only made Spike laugh more. Eventually, Angelus pouted with a rueful, self-deprecating nod.  The corners of his lips quirked up, and finally he laughed, shaking his head.  ‘I will make you suffer for this one day. One day, I won’t be chipped.’

Spike wiped his eyes but couldn’t quite manage to stay serious long enough to stand.  Angelus came close and suddenly darted out his hands as if going to punch him, but at the last moment, they landed on the wall either side of his head.  Spike was imprisoned, but as it had once been with Angel, this imprisonment was in name only. They both knew this, and it sobered Spike. He stared into the familiar, brown eyes.

Angelus pouted again, running his gaze over Spike’s features. ‘Maybe I wasted a hundred years, Will. What do you think?’  He tipped his head and pressed his mouth to Spike’s ear. ‘I’d have ripped this off with my teeth once.’ He pressed his tongue deep into the cavity, sucking with long, sensuous pulls on the soft lobe.  He heard a soft ‘Oh, fuck’ and smiled, switching to the other ear.  As he tongued the intricate ridges, he murmured, ‘I need to feed again.’

Spike shifted his head out of reach slightly and eased out of Angelus’s imprisonment, trying not to make it look too easy.  ‘We’ll find a demon bar that serves blood.’

Angelus held onto his arm, stroking with his thumb, his face lowered. ‘I was thinking human.’

Spike shrugged. ‘Some bars sell it.’

‘Nooo…. I was thinking… human.’

Spike snatched his arm away. ‘And this is the Angelus who was just floored by an ant.’

Angelus lifted his eyes. ‘But you wouldn’t be.  You’re exactly as you ever were. Childe.’

Spike felt a frisson of pleasure course down his spine at the way Angelus rolled that term between them. It resonated with obedience and calming memories of a time when he knew his place in the world—at Angelus’s side.

He shook his head, as much to clear the disturbing memories as to deny the suggestion. ‘I’m chipped as effectively as you, Angelus. It would cause you physical pain. It would cause me….’

‘What?’  Angelus held up his hand in a friendly gesture. ‘I’m curious. Amuse me. What would it cause you?’ He took Spike’s arm, and they continued to walk.

‘I’d feel guilty.’

‘Huh. I know what that is. Angel feels it like something he ate in his belly, eating him from the inside.’

‘Well, if he feels it, you must feel it, too.’

‘I do—as something bad in my belly.’ He shrugged. ‘I get that it’s more to him than that, but that’s all I feel. And he doesn’t discriminate. He feels it all the time.’

‘That’s kinda what you sign up for, I guess.’

Angelus was silent for a moment then said thoughtfully, ‘Imagine an aircraft full of people, Will.’

Spike glanced over but Angelus continued quickly, ‘And there’s a crazy guy on board. He stands up and tells everyone that he’s taking over the plane, and he’s gonna fly them all into a mountain.’

‘Is this gonna turn into one of your cannibal stories?’

‘Shut up and listen.  Imagine the fear in those helpless people. Can you? Can you hear the stifled groans from the impotent men, the startled cries from the women, silence from mothers, as they hold their babies tight to their chests.’

‘Okay, has Angel been reading Readers’ Digest again?’

Angelus smiled faintly but repeated, ‘Shut up.’ He flashed a glance back to Spike and continued, ‘Now, imagine that the plane has reached the mountains.’

‘How’s he gonna make the pilot do anything if he’s standing in front of the passengers like a pillock?’

‘The mountains are vast, covered in snow, no sign of life. Everyone on board knows they’re gonna die horribly if he carries out his threat. Then, suddenly, a man jumps up from the seats and shouts, ‘Air Marshal! Everyone down! And he shoots the guy—bang, bang—dead to rights in his chest. Blood everywhere… dripping down the cabin doors, running down his legs, pooling….’

‘I get the blood imagery, Gelus; I get it.’

‘Okay, so a life’s been taken. Someone’s been shot dead. No trial. Bang, bang—judge, jury, executioner.  Is that marshal a murderer?’

‘Don’t be dumb. This is dumb, Angelus. Of course not. But you’re….’

‘Okay, so we all agree, medals for the brave hero of our story. But, let’s go back five minutes, before all that really great blood imagery.  Our little pissant terrorist is standing there all cocky and pleased. Babies still being clutched to chests. Air turbulence.’ He wobbled Spike for effect, and despite himself, Spike laughed.  ‘So, no marshal. Instead, there’s… me.’

‘You.’ Spike nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, you goin’ somewhere nice, Pet?’

Angelus growled softly, but it was affectionate enough.  ‘Yeah, there I am, trying to snatch some shuteye, minding my own business, digesting one of the babies I ate earlier, and this fucking loser wakes me up! Starts pointing a gun at me! But worse… threatens to strand me up some fuckingly cold mountain with a pile of goddamn snow. So, I get up and then… we’re back to the blood imagery… still running down his legs… still pooling…. Only now, I’m there, lapping it up….’

Spike pouted, sensing he wasn’t going to like where this was going.  Angelus nodded wisely, seeing the pout. ‘Exactly. Am I evil for killing him? Does it matter my motives were different from the marshal’s? Should I be given medals and a parade? Should I be condemned as a monster?’

‘You’ve never fed on skyjacking terrorists, Angelus. You’d get no kick out of it, and you’d probably get air sick.’

‘And you’re evading the question.’

‘Yeah, well. I don’t have all the bloody answers, okay?’

‘So, my point being…. Let’s find some evil sucker and become heroes for a night. What do you say? You slice, and I’ll suck. And, fuck, am I hard!’

‘You’re insane.’

‘No. I’m the only sane one left in this world of human insanity. They place every one of their lives in front of ours, Spike. Every one of them more precious than us. They’d deny us one fucking life; but they’ve decimated this entire planet; sent species into oblivion; murdered and preyed on themselves for millions of years!’

Spike felt a longing for Wesley—and not for the reasons he’d been wanting him recently. He knew Angelus was wrong—he had a particular doubt about the millions of years—but he couldn’t articulate what he felt were the flaws in his argument.

He ended the debate by saying sullenly, ‘I’m not killing anyone.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Okay, follow me.’  He strode off purposefully, not waiting to see if Spike followed him, only pausing once in agony as he squashed another bug, then disappearing around a corner.

Spike caught him up. ‘Let’s just go for that bloody drink!’

‘Wait.’  Angelus finally hailed a cab and slid in, waving imperiously for Spike to join him.  He gave an address and settled back, humming.

Spike tipped his head back and shut his eyes.  

Still humming, Angelus jumped out when they got to their destination and left Spike to pay.  He jogged up some steps and knocked lightly on a glass door. A security guard peered through, appeared to recognise him, so let them in.  ‘Mr Angel, Sir.’

Angelus grinned. ‘How many times have I told you to call me Angel?’ He waited until the man nodded gratefully then added coldly, ‘But maybe I like the sir better, now.’  He walked away, chuckling slightly and glanced at Spike. ‘What? Don’t be so fucking po-faced.’

Whistling now, he rode up in the elevator.  They exited on the third floor. Angelus walked down to one of the apartments and knocked on the door.

A women answered it, and with eyes widening, she came out, glancing nervously back to the interior. ‘What do you want? I paid you! I told you I’d made a mistake! There’s nothing wrong!’

Angelus nodded seriously. ‘I know, Mrs Vincent, but I need to just have you sign another waiver.’

‘Another what? I can’t, I mean, my husband is here!’

‘Who’s that, Honey?’

Her eyes became frantic. ‘Just go!’

‘Hon? Who’s there?’  A man appeared, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.  She smiled at him. ‘No one, Sweetheart.’

Angelus tipped his head to one side and said glibly, ‘We’re from the school.’

Spike’s eyebrows rose at this, and he couldn’t help but picture the incongruity: the leather… the jewellery… the hair.

‘The school? What the hell is this? Amanda! Get out here!’

A girl of about eight or nine fluttered into view, clutching a large colouring book.  The man snatched it off her.  ‘What the hell are two of your teachers doing here at this Goddamn time? What have you been saying?’

Angelus suddenly exclaimed, ‘You’re not Johnny! Will! She’s not Johnny. Hey, sorry folks. Our mistake!’  He grinned at them and hustled Spike down the hallway, taking back up his tuneless refrain.  

Spike waited until they were in the elevator then exploded. ‘What the…?’

‘He’s been poking her since she was five.  Mom called us in because she thought they had a poltergeist—blood on the kid’s sheets in the morning…. Angel knew right away. Smelt the girl on him.’

Spike blinked. ‘And what did he do?’

‘Nothing. As you can see, he did a big fat zero. Mom changed her mind. Told him she didn’t want him on the case anymore, and his fucking lawyer advisors said he had to lay off. Told me to lay off.’

‘Don’t! Don’t try to give me the impression that you care!’

Angelus looked hurt. ‘Of course I don’t. I’d fuck her myself before I killed her. Always loved them small and sweet, you know that. But what I’m trying to show you is that Angel’s way—your way—doesn’t work either.  At least my way—if you help me kill him tonight—he’d be dead, I’d be fed, and the world would be better off. Amanda would be better off, that’s for sure.  Wonder what he’s doing now, Will? Wanna go back and see? Bet she’s terrified…. Bet Mom’s got the TV on real loud. That’s what they do, you know! They turn it up, so they don’t have to know!’

‘Shut up! Shut up! You can’t make these decisions. It’s for….’

Angelus looked incredulous.  ‘Go on! Finish that damn sentence! Who’s it for to decide these things? Surely you don’t believe there’s some great force for good in the universe, personally watching over that kid tonight!’

‘No.’ Spike toed the ground. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good. Okay, so who will look after her?’

‘Not you! That’s what I’m trying to say! You’re all screwed up inside, Angelus. You’d do it for the wrong reasons….’

‘Bingo! You told me that it doesn’t matter as long as right gets done.’

Spike shoved him hard and exited the elevator before him. ‘I told Angel that! And it was kinda private, yeah!’

Angelus laughed. ‘Well in that case, little one, I suggest you don’t have conversations with him when he’s ten inches up your arse, because you just know I’m gonna be listening in!’

Spike turned. ‘Ten?’

Angelus faltered for the first time that night and shrugged.

Spike followed him out, gleefully. ‘Ten?’

Angelus batted him away then suddenly flung an arm over his shoulder. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

Spike leant against him for a moment then said wearily, ‘Drink now?’

Angelus laughed, his head tipped back to the sky.  ‘Nah. One more Lesson According to Angelus.’

Spike groaned and stopped dead. ‘No. No more. You’ve made your point, and it’s not working. I’m not going to….’

Angelus cupped his face in his hand, stroking his thumb over one prominent cheekbone. ‘You’ll like this one—cross my heart and hope to die.’

Spike let his head fall onto his chest. ‘One more, then we go get you some blood—from a bottle.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Scout’s honour.’ He tipped his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Taken those before, too.’  Back to humming, he hailed another cab, and they rode in silence except for his increasingly irritating musical undercurrent to the trip.

They pulled up outside a rundown warehouse in the docks. Spike knew where they were and pursed his lips, thinking.  He turned to look at Angelus. ‘No.’

Angelus climbed out and said, ‘Pay the man.’  

Unable to sit there without looking foolish, and reasoning that climbing out of the cab didn’t compromise his assertion that he wasn’t going in, Spike did as requested.

When the cab drew out of sight, he turned to walk back the way they’d come.

Angelus began to work his way into the building, tearing down the boards that had been nailed over the door.

Spike stopped and tipped his head back to the night. ‘Please don’t do this.’

‘Why not? Afraid?’

‘You know I’m not afraid of anything.’

‘Except losing me.’

Spike jerked his head around quickly. ‘Angel.’

Angelus shrugged as if he wasn’t too concerned that Spike kept making this distinction.  Eventually, he had the door exposed, and he kicked it down.  They wandered in together.  The smell of the body was overpowering, and Spike wished he’d made good on his promise to come back and burn the place down.

Angelus found the light switch, and the small false room where his body had been slowly destroyed was flooded by light.  He ignored it and walked behind the false walls. Spike knew what he’d find and went over, too, staring down at the now bloated body, which was crawling with flies.

‘They don’t look so fucking holy when they’re dead, do they?’

Spike pouted.

‘So, how did this one’s murder fit into your little smug view of morality, Spike? Jeez, did you keep his head as a trophy?’

‘No. It’s over there.’

Angelus smiled. ‘That was kinda a rhetorical question, but thanks for the info.’  He went over into the shadows and picked Ingram’s head up by the hair, and as he emerged back into the light, Spike had the bizarre notion that he did look almost holy, a biblical allegory.

Angelus held the face up to his, wrinkling his nose. ‘Why do I never get tortured by pretty boys in leather, huh?’

He swung the head around as if it were a grotesque wind chime he was testing for its melody. ‘So, what d’ya’reckon, Will? You put Angel before this human pretty easily, didn’t you? Angel… demon.  Ingram… human. Tsk, tsk. Methinks there’s more ambiguity here than’s allowed in your philosophy.’

He dropped the head suddenly. ‘Shit. I need a drink.’

Spike nodded glumly. 

Angelus put his arm around him again. ‘Thanks, by the way. For putting me first.’

‘Angel.’

Angelus’s only response to the decreasing vehemence with which this was said was to lean over and kiss the top of Spike’s head.

They walked away from the abandoned building in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. Angelus kept his arm over Spike’s shoulder and appeared unconscious of the fact that his thumb stroked Spike’s ear to the rhythm of their steps.

‘Faggots.’

They stopped.  They looked at each other and then over to a stack of boxes at the entrance to a warehouse.  Six youths were lounging around a small area, which had been decorated with gang insignia. 

Angelus tightened his hold on Spike and queried, amused, ‘Faggots?’

The one who had spoken pushed off his box and came closer. ‘Yeah. Fucking cocksuckers. This ain’t your place, man. We don’t want you round here.’

Spike murmured for preternatural ears only, ‘Chip?’

Angelus lifted his arm and said in a normal voice, ‘There’s only six!’

Spike began to back off, his hands raised in an unmistakable gesture of apology to the group.  Angelus roared in fury and piled in.

Spike swore colourfully and stepped over him as he lay sprawled in agony and took over the fight.

He was kinda annoyed with himself and wasn’t too careful where he hit or how hard. They all had knives, and he was cut once or twice, but once he’d cut them back (with knives he’d taken from them as easily as proverbial candy from babies), they began to scatter.

He was left panting and keyed up, the only one standing.  He turned to offer Angelus his hand and found him lying on the gang leader. For one bizarre moment, he thought they were shagging: Angelus’s body rising and falling on the supine figure, soft grunts and moans coming from them both.

Then he realised what was happening and pulled Angelus off a deep wound in the boy’s neck. Angelus grinned and licked his lips, a feral tinge of red on his fangs as he smiled. ‘Heroin! Jeez, what a rush!’

Spike crouched down to the unconscious figure. Angelus rose to his feet and came over, squatting down alongside him. ‘Why shouldn’t I feed from him? Where’s the harm, Spike? Tell me that? Where’s the harm? I need to feed. I have a right to my existence.’ He put a finger to a dribble of blood at the corner of his lips and then trailed it over Spike’s. Spike tried to dodge away, but Angelus snaked out his hand and caught hold of him.  Suddenly, he leaned in and kissed him. It was quick, efficient and cold. He pulled back, waited until Spike opened his mouth to protest and then returned to the warm, moist hole, easing his tongue in as he ground their lips together.  Very deliberately, he licked the last trace of the boy’s blood around the inside of Spike’s mouth.  Holding the back of Spike’s head still, he eased his mouth off, bent to the wound and suckled for a while, then lifted his face and mouthed the blood second-hand to the waiting mouth, and none of this was now done quickly, efficiently or coldly.

Spike pressed into his touch, opening his mouth wider, his tongue now actively seeking the tantalising fluid.  Angelus moaned, and Spike found his hand suddenly pressed to the front of the tight, leather pants. The hard length of Angelus’s blood-filled erection was obvious.  Spike fell back, and Angelus lay over him, still kissing, writhing now, grinding them together.  

Suddenly, there was a shout, the sound of pounding feet, and they looked up to see about fifteen youths running toward them down the dock.  

As one, they rose to their feet and ran off into the dark.  

They didn’t know if they were laughing, panting, or howling with delight at the night. They only knew blood as it slicked around their mouths and pumped their sex with power.

They finally stopped on a bridge, which spanned a road.  Angelus jumped up onto the parapet and swung around a support.  

He grinned gleefully down at Spike then stilled. ‘What?’

Spike was staring in dismay along the river. Angelus followed his gaze. 

Spike lit a cigarette and turned his back to the approaching dawn.  Angelus jumped down alongside him and took the offered cigarette.  In a theatrical voice he intoned, ‘This is the day that I die.’

Spike said sharply, ‘Don’t joke about it.’

Angelus looked at him closely. ‘What are you thinking?’

Spike looked down at his boot. ‘I don’t know.’

Angelus scratched his head. ‘Let’s go find that bar that serves blood, hey? I’m kinda beat.’

Spike nodded and led the way. When he noticed that Angelus lagged behind, he cursed him roundly and hailed the first cab he could.  Angelus sat slumped in one corner of the cab, picking distractedly at a scab on one of his fingers.  

He slouched into the bar, slid into a booth, and when the blood arrived, in large beer-style pitchers, he began to drink, making full use of the fact that he didn’t need to stop for breath.

Spike slid in alongside him, watching him drink. 

As he took a second glass, Angelus’s other hand slid over Spike’s thigh and just rested there as he drank.  Spike made no move at all to shift it.

Finally, Angelus was revived.  He grinned his more characteristic grin, rubbed his belly and belched.  He glanced at his companion and moved his hand to Spike’s lap. At the very same moment, a tiny shaft of sunlight hit their table.  They stared at it, watching it track the minutes across the stained surface. It became very quiet in the bar, somewhere between the nighttime patrons leaving or falling unconscious, and the morning ones summoning the energy to leave their beds to commence drinking once more.  Angelus began to stroke his thumb over Spike’s hard swelling.  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Will.’

‘I’m thinking about the sunlight.’

‘A bit early for existentialism, isn’t it?’

Spike smiled. ‘Angel’s been reading again.’

Angelus chuckled, ‘Well, you know it’s not me! It’s kinda neat though. He reads, and I learn. So, what does the sunlight tell you, childe of mine?’

Spike pouted. ‘That it’s time for us to go back.’

‘Ever the soul of tact, Will. You mean time for me to be tamed again, whining like a mewling pug.’

Spike didn’t reply.  He began to trace patterns between the beer spills on the table.

Angelus slid closer and pushed his hand between Spike’s legs, caressing his balls through the leather.  ‘Will?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Was it easy to remove?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then maybe, just once in a while, ya know…? We could take little holidays together…. If you let me out sometimes… high days and holidays?’

Spike turned to stare into his eyes and shifted slightly in the seat, opening his legs and sliding forward.  He blinked to the pleasure, and Angelus looked down, watching as his hand fondled and stroked the growing bulge.

Suddenly, Spike jumped up. ‘Let’s go.’

Angelus turned his head, knowing he was helpless to resist. He murmured in a ragged voice, ‘I shall sway with madness at this confinement.’

Spike cupped him around the back of the neck. ‘We need to run. Now. Out of the city. He’ll come for us, and we need to be a long, long way away before he does.’

Chapter 15

Wesley realised they’d gone by lunchtime. A car was missing; Angel’s clothes lay scattered around the apartment as if subject to an urgent packing, and the place stank of betrayal.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was most angry about. The suspicion that he’d been played was so painful that this existed outside the anger—bright, sharp and stinging.

By the evening, he’d run out of excuses for them and knew he had to act. He strode into his office and sat purposefully at the desk. He picked up the phone and punched speed-dial for Spec Ops. Once, in another lifetime, he’d had libraries and galleries on speed-dial. Now he had intense young men in black, calling him Sir.

As he was waiting for someone to pick up, the mail cart arrived.  A number of envelopes were put into his tray, and he nodded, distracted. One package was slightly bulkier than the others, so he picked it up, vaguely curious.  It was an internal delivery, and his name was written in bold red ink (he assumed it was ink) in Spike’s very distinctive handwriting.

He carefully replaced the phone and tore the package open.

A small silver device, the size of a cell phone, slid silently into the palm of his hand.  

Angelus lay on his belly on one of a pair of double beds that filled the non-descript motel room. He was reading something that lay spread out on the floor. Turning a page, he said idly, ‘Brazil. Always wanted to go there.’

Spike was pacing, and he glanced at the road map Angelus was studying.  ‘I’ve been to Brazil—didn’t like it, and that’s a map of… somewhere called… Madley County, Arkansas.’ 

Angelus turned the page again. ‘You’ve gotta use your imagination. What about Italy? We both liked it there.’

‘You didn’t take to the waiters much, I seem to recall.’

Angelus’s face clouded. ‘Oh, yeah.’ Suddenly, in a suitable voice, he joked, ‘Spike and Angel’s most excellent adventure.’

Spike looked at him curiously. ‘I didn’t know Angel watched films—and not that one particularly.…’

Angelus rolled over onto his back and folded his arms under his head. ‘Angel does a lot of things he doesn’t tell you.’

Spike flung himself down alongside the stretched figure.  ‘Like what…?’

Angelus turned onto his side, idly plucking Spike’s buttons. He laughed. ‘Ten. He does it ten times a day—seeing as you asked.’

Spike’s eyes widened then he huffed. ‘Liar. He’d have to be doing it under the desk to fit all those in….’

Angelus only raised an eyebrow. The fingers on Spike’s buttons were now not so idle. One by one, he slipped the small discs through their eyelets.  Spike watched, pursing his lips. 

With a grin, seeing he wasn’t being denied, Angelus leant over and teased Spike with his lips. Brushing them with his, he murmured, ‘So, you’ve discovered I can kiss like him…. Wanna see what else I can do just as well?’

Spike removed his hand and mirrored his position, propped on his side.  ‘You can never be him, Angelus. You just don’t get it.’

Angelus looked briefly annoyed. ‘Why? Because I won’t be thinking your name like a fucking thumping headache in my skull as I pound into you… Spike, Spike, freaking Spike? Because I won’t lie there afterwards thinking I’ll die if you ever stop wanting me…?’ He saw Spike’s expression and added quickly but unconvincingly, ‘Not that Angel ever did either of those….’

He reached out and slipped Spike’s shirt off one shoulder.  ‘I really want your body, Will. You’ve given me a taste for it. I want to press into you, watch your….’ 

Spike silenced him by abruptly climbing off the bed.  ‘You speak of need—I get that, I do! But we found want, Gelus. WANT!’

Angelus waved his hand dismissively. ‘Semantics.’

‘Not when you’re being fucked, it’s not. I’m going for some food. We have to hole up here till dark.’

‘Why the fuck did we go to all that effort to steal a Goddamn sun-proof car if we have to hole up here like… well… vampires…?’

Spike sighed. ‘We walked in and asked Lennie for the keys. And we aren’t using it, cus that’s exactly what Wes will expect us to do—he’ll assume we’re travelling by day and night, and he’ll work out exactly where we could be. This way, he’ll be looking hundreds of miles away, while we’re right here in the….’ He glanced at the information on top of the TV. ‘Sandy Dunes Motel. Now I’m peckish, an’ I’m going for something to eat.’   He kept his expression steady and slipped out of the door into the shadows of the building.

When he returned, arms full of supplies, he stopped at the sight of a maintenance cart outside the room.  It brought memory flooding back. It steadied his resolve, and he skirted it, pushing open the door with his toe.

There was a squeak from the bed and a petit blonde giggled. ‘Whoops.’  She appraised him as she lay on her back, legs akimbo, then added slyly, ‘Mmm, threesome.’

Angelus pulled his tongue out and murmured sarcastically into her thigh, ‘Spikey doesn’t believe in sex without lurve….’

She shrugged, and he returned to her wet folds.

Spike put his purchases on the table and said softly, ‘Time for you to leave now.’

Angelus laughed, the sound muffled, so he pulled away to say, amused, ‘Jane, here, hasn’t….’

‘Hey! It’s Jade!’

‘Whatever. Jade hasn’t had her main course yet….’

Despite his intention not to look, Spike did.  Angelus stroked a very familiar cock.  Now though, it was dark red, leaking, and swollen to impossible proportions by the almost constant state of arousal he’d been in since coming back. Seeing the hidden effects of the chip like this—the physical repression—plunged Spike back into bad, Sunnydale memories.

Angelus mounted the girl. 

Guilt about the chip, as well as a number of other emotions, made Spike turn away, so he missed the action. First he heard a wince of discomfort. Then he heard a cry. Then he heard a thump. A female voice cried out, ‘Hey!’ and he turned to find Angelus on the floor, holding his head.

Still resolute, still desperate, Angelus climbed back on again and tried to say reasonably, ‘You’ve gotta let me do it so it doesn’t hurt!’

‘Me!’

He tried again, but as soon as his cockhead entered her, he couldn’t hold back, and he thumped in as he always had with the dead or the soon to be dead.  She screeched with as much fury as pain, and once more, he tumbled off the bed, this time hitting his head on the nightstand as he went down.

The girl scrambled off the bed, too, retrieving her panties from the floor. She glared at Spike as if somehow his presence had ruined her fun, tugged down her skirt and left, mustering as much dignity as she could, given how he’d found her.

When Angelus’s pain subsided, he raised his eyes to Spike. Spike tossed him a bag of chips.  Angelus rose, shredding it, scattering chips across the room, venting his fury on these tiny slices of dead potato because he couldn’t vent it elsewhere.  He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was naked from the waist down and that as he stormed and ranted, droplets of crystal clear pre-cum flicked off his cock, making small damp patches around the room.

Finally, with a shudder and suppressed howl, he flung himself face down on the other bed and didn’t move for some considerable time.

Spike gingerly inspected the bed he’d been left, stretched out, folded his arms behind his head, then went through once more the reasons why he was doing this. They’d seemed good when he’d been talking to Wesley. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

‘Spike…?’

Spike roused from his thoughts and glanced at the clock. Angelus had been silent for over an hour.

‘Mmm?’

Angelus didn’t sit up; he just slithered from one bed to the other, still on his belly, but now with his head propped up, studying Spike.  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Thought you might have been.’

‘Hmm. About this need / want thing….’

Spike snorted. ‘This is gonna be good.’

Angelus trailed a finger up and down Spike’s thigh.  ‘See, I was there, remember? When you and Angel first did the dirty.  Seems to me there was more need than want—that first time, against the wall.’

Spike turned his head and kept Angelus’s gaze. ‘You could be right.’

Angelus moved his hand to Spike’s lap and pressed gently with the heel on the bulge, sliding his fingers between the legs. ‘So, Angel didn’t learn to want until he’d had a chance to get the need out of the way.’  He continued to rock his hand, kneading swelling hardness.  He leant closer and took Spike’s earlobe in his mouth and pulled wetly on it, flicking his tongue into the ridges and swirls.  ‘You were chipped, too. I’m kinda seeing things differently… more… human, I guess.’ He began to unbutton Spike’s jeans. ‘It’s like a mechanical soul, Spike. I feel I can want you—love you!’ He eased his hand inside with a hiss of delight. ‘Yeah, want you….’ He kissed Spike languorously, proving that he could do slow and sensuous.  His hand, meanwhile, scrabbled furiously to get better access.  Finally he pulled away. ‘Fucking hell!’ He knelt up, his erection almost purple, and tried to tug Spike’s jeans off his hips.  Spike sat up and then slipped off the bed.

Angelus yelled with frustration and dove for him, catching his arm.  ‘Why the fuck are you doing this? What’s the point of any of this—this fucking great escape—if you don’t wanna fuck! I mean love me.’

Spike sat down again, and Angelus put back on his best silky voice. ‘There ya go….’ He began to free Spike from his clothes once more, but Spike put a hand on his arm. 

‘How much do you want me, Angelus?’

To give him his due, Angelus’s reply was heartfelt and honest. ‘At this moment, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.’

Spike nodded, glanced up to the ceiling as if steadying himself and then murmured, ‘Enough to want your soul back first?’

Angelus sat back on his heels, his erection the exclamation mark of his unspoken thoughts.

Spike glanced over his shoulder. ‘If you ask for your soul, you can have me whenever, wherever, however you want. For eternity.’  He fiddled with a small thread on the sheet, hearing how utterly pathetic this sounded. It had been so much better in his head. ‘Where does the real difference between them lie?’ It had seemed to him then, as he’d asked Wesley that plaintive question, that even if they brought Angel back, he still might not feed. That, even restored to them, he might still be tormented by whatever demons held him in their sway, immobile and not feeding on the bed.  It had seemed to Spike that Angel needed to take on his demons and banish them, choose his soul and accept the penalty of that decision—as he had done: a conscious choice to be a better man.

It did not escape his notice that Angelus had not replied.  He pouted, without turning to look at his expression and added, ‘You asked me how I cope with my soul. This is how: wanting something enough that the pain and guilt are nothing beside it. I want Angel more than I want to be a demon.’

He waited a moment then said softly, ‘You just have to come back with me willingly. It would be so easy.’

Angelus suddenly flung off the bed and went to the window. He eased the blind aside. ‘You fucking cunt. You traitorous little faggot.’  He turned and deliberately punched Spike in the face. Knowing it was his one shot, he made it a good one—all his power, all his demonic fury went into it.  Spike was lifted off the bed and propelled hard into the wall. He slumped down, stunned, blood cascading down his face. Angelus was on his knees, but he was silent, as if trying to will the pain away quicker so he could rise before Spike did.  He almost made it. Just as Spike’s fist came down to pound him into submission, he raised an arm to parry the blow and thumped his other fist into Spike’s genitals.  It was pretty clear then that Spike was in more pain than he was, and they both grunted and rolled on the ground.  Angelus dragged himself to his feet first, and Spike, only able to see out of one eye, saw that blood was running from his sire’s ears.  Dumbly, before he was kicked in the head, he saw that Angelus was ejaculating automatically, great sprays of his sperm raining down from the stiffness that jerked with urgent spasms, releasing its heavy load.  He curled into a ball and waited out the pain from the kick but, this time, rose before Angel.  

He backhanded the crouching figure, but he couldn’t inflict as much pain as the chip; once Angelus had determined to fight that, he seemed invulnerable to anything Spike could throw at him.  He rose and shoved Spike back onto the bed, crawling onto him, blood now running from his eye sockets, spasms of pain marring his features.

Spike pushed back, and Angelus fell, kicking out, catching Spike on the shins, but barefooted, it did little damage.  Angelus bellowed and rose, and they squared off across their tiny, bloody battlefield. 

‘We’re going now, Angelus. Don’t make me drag you outta here without your pants.’

Angelus growled and punched Spike once more, just as hard as he had before, and they both went down, their heads almost touching as they crouched in agony. So close, Spike only had to whisper, ‘Why? Why won’t you do it?’

Angelus croaked a laugh around his pain. ‘Want you? You fucking fairy, Spike!  I don’t want you; I just wanted you to take this fucking chip out—fuck you into agreeing! I don’t want you! Angel doesn’t frigging want you! No one wants you; they never have! Shall I tell you why he won’t feed? Shall I tell you what’s really going on his head? It’s YOU! He can’t face the thought of you and that Goddamn body of yours! He can’t stand the thought of wanting you because of what it says about him! He’s still there in that fucking crowd clinging to Da, and I can still smell the burning as they poured pitch into his fucking arsehole, and do you know what? I’m the other one as well, and I’m watching, and I’m doing nothing because I’m afraid! I’m a sodomite, and I’m dying, and I’m watching him die. They’re cowards. Why don’t they save themselves? And I’m still six! I’ll always be six, and I can’t get off this fucking path I’ve been given. That’s why he won’t feed! He’s punishing himself for his desires! For his desire for YOU! He wants to be the one in the hell dimension, not the pissant lawyer, not the nigger! He’s not feeding, because he wanted it! I wanted to be fucked and tortured. I want to die! That’s why! So, how are you gonna solve that, you pathetic little faggot? How you gonna solve that?’ He went for Spike again, but this time other hands held him off.  He fought them, too, but they were many; he was only one, and he was bleeding so badly from his eyes that he couldn’t see.  

Spike heard the fading cries of fury and tried to rise to his feet.  A dark form crouched in front of him.  ‘There are precisely six Sandy Dunes motels in this bloody city, Spike. Could you have been more vague?’

Angelus’s chip fired off continually the entire trip back to Wolfram and Hart, because he refused to admit its power over him. He fought the Spec Ops team that restrained him even as they beat him into submission.  By the time they drove into the underground garage, Angel’s eyes were juddering, his tongue had been bitten in half, and his body was wracked with shudders of pain.

Wesley took one look at him and ordered, ‘The lab.’ He turned to Spike, who had not said a word during the drive back. ‘We’ve got to get the chip out now.’

Spike nodded dumbly, and Wesley knew he’d neither heard nor cared what he’d said.

He supervised the transport of the raving vampire to the lab and the removal of the chip under heavy sedation.  He then accompanied the unconscious form as it was taken to the holding cells and locked in. He personally accepted responsibility for the key. 

Spike had not been seen since they returned, but Wesley found him lying on the couch in his office, his feet up on one arm, smoking.

He perched on the edge of the desk and watched him for a while then offered, ‘At least we know what’s in Angel’s mind. We can help him now.’

Spike narrowed his eyes, whether because he was considering this or because the smoke was irritating him, Wesley couldn’t be sure. ‘You think?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Angelus has never told the truth about anything in his life.’

‘It sounded pretty heartfelt to me.’

‘That’s what he wanted us to think.’

‘This was the first time that Angelus had been truly restrained, Spike. He said it himself—the chip humanised him—albeit for a very short time. Everyone saw it with you.’

‘Bugger off.’

‘It’s true, and you know it. Once you had to stop living like a demon, you were forced to interact in a human world. Once you began to interact with Buffy and Giles and Willow and the others, you changed. Eventually, you were so human you made that conscious decision to want your soul. Maybe, for the first time ever, Angelus was telling you the truth.’

Spike turned his head, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the darker eyes.  After a moment, he held out his hand, and Wesley went gratefully and sat on the edge of the couch. ‘I was rather angry when I discovered you’d gone.’

‘Guessed you would be.’

‘I’m sorry your plan didn’t work.’

Spike shrugged. ‘I just wanted to….’

‘Save him from all the guilt and pain?’

Spike nodded and closed his eyes.  Wesley poked him. ‘We’ve got a soul to replace.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Go fetch it. I’ll prepare.’

Wesley went back to the cells after fetching the necessary scrolls, expecting Spike to already be there.  He hesitated when he saw the area outside the bars empty. He had the strongest feeling of déjà vu—that he’d been here before, done this before, but as he didn’t believe in omens or anything French, he stepped in boldly and laid his equipment out on the floor.

There was a stirring from inside the cell.

Wesley ignored it.

There was an amused sigh.

Wesley ignored it.

‘Wesley…. Oh, Wesley….’

‘What do you want, Angelus? I’m prepared to listen to a dying man’s last request.’

‘Did you get your kicks listening to us?’

‘Not especially. Listening to you is rather tedious.’

‘Oh, I’m hurt, Wesley. And when I’ve got such interesting tales to tell.’

‘You’re wasting your lack of breath; I’m utterly immune to anything you have to say.’

‘Shall I go to my grave—metaphorically you understand. Been there and done that! What a rush—with my little of tale of Fred untold?’

‘Shut up. I don’t want to hear that name in your mouth.’

‘How about if I add the word return? Fred’s return?’

‘This is old ground. Frankly, I’m rather disappointed you can’t come up with anything more original.’

‘Imagine Angel knowing how to bring her back, but not telling you. Telling you that Ingram was lying. What the fuck do you think they were talking about while they were fucking! He knew exactly how to do it, and he told Angel!’

‘You’re lying. Angel would have no reason not to act on that knowledge. That was what the whole thing with Spike was about.’

‘Wesley, Wesley, you’re so clever and so stupid at the same time! He didn’t tell you about Fred because he needs Illyria! He needs Illyria more than he needs Fred. That’s why he let Illyria out. That’s why he didn’t stop her in that damn hole in the world when he had the chance. Illyria is the key to the apocalypse.’

‘Well, you’re getting better. I’ll give you that. You’ve left the realms of totally deluded and entered the grounds of just seriously deranged. Unlike you, Angel does not lie to me.’

Angelus began to laugh, deep genuine amusement.  After a while he hiccupped to silence and then, after a few moments, murmured, ‘Do you dream about a baby sometimes, Wesley?’

Wesley’s head jerked up from the scroll he was reading, a gesture not unnoticed by Angelus.  He continued in the same low tone, though with no evidence in his voice that he’d seen this affirmation. ‘Do you dream about pain? Does the name Jasmine come into your nightmares?’

Wesley stood up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why is Angel running this firm, Wesley? What sense does it make? You’re fighting demons in the Hyperion then—kerpung!—you’re all here.’

‘That’s something that….’

‘He did a deal with the Senior Partners, and this was his side of the bargain.’

‘That’s not….’

‘Yes, for once, that is the truth. You just don’t remember.’  Wesley went closer, drawn by the similarity between this and Spike’s words.  

‘Why don’t I remember, if this happened?’

‘Angel had timelines altered, minds wiped.’

‘Why? What could have been so awful that he didn’t want me to remember it?’

Angelus smiled softly. ‘Shame on you. Why do you assume it was awful?’

‘Tell me.’

Angelus looked down at his feet and played with the bars for a moment. ‘He had a baby with Darla.’ He looked up into Wesley’s eyes. ‘Can you picture the monster that union would produce?’

‘I’ve heard of one or two…. My God.’

‘He grew too quickly, his body pumping with demon blood, his outward form human, but inside… a maw….’

‘But I still don’t see why Angel covered this memory….’

‘Because you killed him.’

‘What?’

‘Connor, the monster child. You killed him to save Angel’s life.  Connor caught us together one night, although he was never allowed into our room. He….’

‘Wait. What do you mean—caught us together…? Together how?’

‘Wesley, Wesley, think…. What else haunts your dreams?’

‘Oh.’

‘He was insanely jealous of my feelings for you, and in a rage, he came at us.  I tried to protect you; he tried to stake me—fucker knew my weak spots.’

Wesley ran his fingers through his hair, coming closer.  ‘Why…? I mean…? Why did you take the memories of us away? Why…?’

‘Wesley….’ Angelus hung his head and very slowly and sadly held his hand out through the bars. ‘Angel punishes himself for Connor by denying what he feels for you.’

Wesley reached out and brushed his fingers to Angelus’s.

Angelus crowed his delight, had Wesley in a headlock and the keys in his hand before Wesley’s fingertips gave up the memory of that small touch.

Angelus stepped free of the cell and went straight to the scrolls.  He ripped them into shreds and then turned back to Wesley. ‘Well, isn’t this just predicable? Sheesh. I need a new fucking scriptwriter.’

‘How about a good death scene then, Angelus?’

Angelus whirled around facing Spike and Illyria, but retook Wesley into a headlock. ‘I die, he dies.’

Wesley croaked, ‘You have to do it….’ He was choked off to unconsciousness.  Angelus faced Spike but kept a wary eye on Illyria.  ‘What’ll it be? You’ve got no scrolls now….’

Suddenly, Illyria held out her hands, tipped her head back, her eyes rolling in her head and began to chant.  Angelus eyes widened. ‘They were a bluff!  This fool was a bluff!’ He pushed Wesley into Spike’s arms and went for Illyria to prevent her saying the words.  She punched him into the wall, and as if remembering Angel’s recent, ineffectual, bout with her, Angelus suddenly turned and began to run.

Spike dropped Wesley and went after him, but Angel knew the building better than he did, and after an hour, he lost him in the maze of tunnels that criss-crossed the lower levels of the firm.

When he got back to the cells they were empty so he ran to Wesley’s office. 

Bruised, oddly quiet, and lying with his head in Illyria’s lap, Wesley watched Spike’s progress across the floor.

Spike stood in front of the couch and then suddenly bent and slapped him. He was punched across the desk for his troubles from a blur of blue, but he rose and came at Wesley again.

Illyria stood between them. ‘Your idiocy amazes me! Are we your enemy now?’

Spike squared off with her. ‘How did you know the resouling ritual?’

‘I did not. I was reciting all the curse words I knew in my own language.’

‘Oh.’

‘To defeat an enemy as powerful as he, you have to exploit his weakness. Angelus’s only weakness was fear of his soul. I knew he would run rather than risk me completing the ritual. It would have been better had you thought of that yourself instead of freezing with fear for Wesley’s safety.’

Spike looked mutinously at the human. ‘There was no freezing, and there was no fear, got it?’

Wesley nodded.

Spike stabbed his finger at him. ‘You listened to his lies, didn’t you?’

Wesley nodded again.

Spike shook his head then plonked down next to him glumly. Wesley put a hand on his thigh. ‘Sorry.’

‘I hope they were good lies.’

Wesley looked away.

Spike watched his eyes then said softly, ‘You idiot. Didn’t you hear him doing that to me?’

‘Yes, but it’s never the same when someone else’s heart is being dissected.’

Illyria folded her arms. 

The men glanced up at her, abashed.  She nodded, having gained their attention.  ‘I wish Angel to be returned. I am tired of your inanities. When he is in command, things will return to normal.’

Spike glanced at Wesley and murmured, ‘Bossy females,’ then covered with a cough. ‘In case you’ve missed the plot, Luv, we have Angel loose and his soul….’ He produced a small, glowing vessel from his pocket. ‘In here. I’m open to suggestions how we bring them back together.’

Wesley put his hand out for the jar, holding it reverently. ‘Can we not just catch him and do the ritual? The loss of the scrolls was immaterial; I have facsimiles, of course.’

‘And we’ve got a pretty good record of catching and restraining Angelus, haven’t we?’ Spike raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Well, we could…. I mean, you could…. Taken by surprise…. Hmm.’

Illyria tapped her foot, and once more they looked up obediently. ‘What is the first principle of attrition?’

‘Have a bloody big weapon?’

She ignored him and directed her reply to Wesley. ‘Surprise. You need to trick Angelus into accepting his soul by thinking he is accepting something quite different.’

‘But there’s nothing Angelus wants from us.’

She turned her gaze on Spike who looked theatrically around. ‘What? He doesn’t want me! He made that pretty clear….’

She shook her head. ‘You contradict yourself, Vampire. Is he not the father of lies? You are his childe. You are the last of his line. Like attracts like. He will want you at his side.’

There was silence in the office for a while, each digesting this in their own way. At last, Wesley looked up at Illyria. ‘Do you have a plan?’

She hesitated for the first time that evening, looked directly into his eyes and replied, ‘Fred does.’

Chapter 16

Wesley sat up abruptly at Illyria’s words and looked shyly off to one side for a moment.  All he said was, ‘We need to work something out quickly.’

She nodded. ‘I require your assistance.’

Spike looked between them, sensing something more intimate in their words.  Whether Wesley felt this or not, he rose eagerly, and after only a moment’s hesitation, put his hand on her arm. ‘Lead on.’

Spike leant back on the couch. It was all still there—in his head—going around and around. The words had been spat out with hatred and fear, anger and bitterness.  All contradiction, all fragmented. He didn’t know how much had been the truth or how much Angelus, even in that moment of torment, had lied. Most of all though, Spike heard the oscillation in Angelus’s psyche: him, me, I. His sire didn’t seem to know whether he was Angel or Angelus.

Spike was damn sure he didn’t know any more.

He was summoned to the lab early the following morning. 

By lunchtime, he’d accepted the plan.

Wesley focused on the minutiae, and Spike sensed that this was a defence mechanism and let him be. He wanted to know how Spike would find him. Spike told him that it would be easy. He wanted to know where Spike would trap him. Spike replied that there was only one place. He obsessed about the words Spike would say. Spike told him he’d just open his mouth and let them come.

Finally, clutching a small glass jar as if it were his own soul inside, Spike nodded at them both and left.

He’d told Wesley the truth; there was only place he wanted this to play out.

The door was still loose on its hinges, and he no difficulty getting into the warehouse.  The smell had lessened, purification almost past.

He put the lights on and studied the small studio. There didn’t seem many places to hide the jar, even though it was relatively small.  The light wasn’t particularly good, and he frowned, glancing up to see why. One bulb had blown, leaving two other lights illuminating the space. He grinned, dragged the bed over, replaced the dead bulb with the vessel and replaced the cover. He even added dust to cover signs that it had been tampered with.

He stepped down, carefully replaced the bed in exactly the same position, dusted over the tracks on the floor, and then practiced coming into the room and glancing around. It would not be found.

He retraced his steps, dusting over his prints and stepped out into the night air.

Now to invite Angelus to his resouling….

Again, he hadn’t lied to Wesley. Finding Angel was easy. He followed the trail of his victims. It was as if Angelus wanted to be found—by his childe anyway. His distinctive scent was on his kills. Some of them had been tortured before they died, and again, Spike recognised Angelus’s artwork.  

It was a hot night, an Indian summer that made the city street swelter and the bodies smell although they were only a few hours dead.  He tracked through sewers, storm drains and abandoned buildings. Some of the victims had not even been drained. They’d just been killed.

The trail stopped at the docks, only a few blocks from the warehouse. Spike wasn’t surprised by this; he was only surprised he’d not remembered and come here first.

The gang members had regretted calling Angelus a faggot by the time they’d died—curious he’d taken offence, given the way he tortured them, but still sorry. Very sorry.

Spike stood and surveyed the bodies. He couldn’t pretend that he was shocked or disgusted or even particularly moved. He found it harder to pretend that he was not aroused, for he was. He was a demon, and he still enjoyed the heady sense of power over victims, still ached to hear screams and know that pain was being eaten whole.  

Angelus just appeared at his side, looking down at his handiwork as if they were studying a quilt laid out in the sun, a patchwork of colours based on the theme of pain.

‘Hello, Will.’

‘Angelus.’

‘You know I’m going to have to hurt you now, don’t you?’

Spike shrugged. ‘To be honest? I don’t really care all that much.’

Angelus turned to him. ‘Spoil my fun, why don’t you….’

Spike quirked up his lip. ‘Make it good, and I’ll scream for you if you’re real lucky.’

Angelus laughed. 

‘Want a drink first?’

Angelus laughed again, but it was a much darker sound. ‘As if I’d ever trust you again.’

‘You didn’t trust me the first time. You were only waiting until you could use me to get the chip taken out.’

‘And you betrayed me.’

Spike only shrugged once more.

‘What do you want, Spike? Is this some pathetic attempt to put my soul back in? Are you here to capture me? Cus, ya know, there’s no chip now; I’m well fed, and I’m just raring to go.  I’d relish it if you tried.’

Spike walked away from the scene of death and hopped up on a window ledge, bracing himself with one leg in the opening and lighting a cigarette.  As he blew a tendril of smoke, he said, ‘I’m not sure I want to bring Angel back to all this. He’ll still be dying inside. Maybe he won’t feed.’

‘Yeah, like I’m believing that.’ Angelus came over, pushed his leg out of the way and joined him on the sill, taking the cigarette from him.

Spike lit another.  ‘He can’t live with you inside.’

Angelus took a long drag. ‘I’d kinda like to kill him off for good, too.’

Spike shook his head. ‘One day, somehow, Wesley will get him back. He loves Angel. He won’t give up. Even now, he and Illyria are plotting ways to stuff your soul back in.’

‘I wish them luck.’

Spike rubbed his hand over his stubble idly. ‘If they ask me, I’ll help them.’

Angelus stubbed his cigarette out on Spike’s head, laughing.  Spike caught at his wrist. ‘I don’t want him back; I don’t want him gone. I’m as insane as you.’

Angelus tipped his head back staring at the echoing space above them. ‘You don’t know what insanity is. They did.’ He glanced over to the bodies. ‘At the end.’  He smiled softly and turned to Spike. ‘And now you’re gonna find out, too.’

Spike jumped down and backed away. He threw his cigarette into the dark, a small red glow in the all-enveloping night.  With a low laugh, he said, ‘If you can catch me.’  Then he was gone.

Angelus actually hesitated in surprise for a moment, then he howled with delight and leapt off the ledge.  When he made it to the entrance, there was no sign of Spike.  The dock was large, broad, not cluttered and left nowhere to hide, but Spike was gone.  

Suddenly, Angelus’s preternatural hearing caught the faint lap of water as if a ripple were stroking the pier struts. He ran to the edge of the dock and peered over. There was a distinct ring of ripples on the otherwise calm, inky water.

He lay down and put his ear to the decking.  With a grin, he scooted over to a particular spot, steeled himself, then punched through the wood, groping around. With a hiss of pleasure, he caught hold of a collar.  He began to haul Spike up through the smashed deck, but Spike fastened onto his wrist with his fangs, and Angelus was forced to drop him.  Without hesitating, Angelus ripped through the hole and tipped into the murky water.  He thrashed and found Spike.  He wrestled him, and they both surfaced.  Spike neatly lifted, grabbed the edges of the hole and levered himself out, the sound of his pounding feet distinct in the night air.

Angelus growled and tried to do the same, but he was too bulky when wet to slip through as easily as Spike. His coat caught on the raw edge, and by the time he’d wrenched free, Spike was gone once more.

His wet trail shone like a snail’s in the moonlight, and Angelus hummed as he sauntered along, following it. He miscalculated how hot the night though was, though, for the damp patches began to dry rapidly. Cursing, he began to run.
 
He skidded out into a quiet street.  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his prey.  In a moment, he tipped his head up and scanned the rooftops.  He grinned and found the ladder. The handholds were still wet.  Scaling the rungs as if flying, Angelus landed gracefully on the roof in a crouch, waiting.  

Incredulously, he heard the click of a lighter and then a soft curse, ‘Bugger, soggy!’

He rounded the corner of a stairwell and found Spike in a crouch, trying to get a cigarette to light.

‘Do you think this is a joke?’

Spike shook his head. ‘Nope, only you’re so old and fat I’m giving you a fair chance.’

Angelus grinned widely and sprung. Spike leant back; the door behind him opened (as he’d known it would), and Angelus crashed onto empty roof space. Spike recovered from his tumble down the stairs and kicked open a door in the abandoned apartment block.  He went to the window, judged the distance to the ground and landed lightly, his coat billowing out behind, drying in the warm night air.  He took to his heels; pretty sure that Angelus would be close behind.  He was. There was a louder thump, and Spike actually felt the air pass him as Angelus’s body displaced it on landing. 

He tore down the road, heading for the warehouse and made it a few feet in front of Angelus.  He crashed in and skidded to a halt in front of the bed.  

‘I won.’

Angelus came more slowly to a halt. He glanced around then came closer. ‘This wasn’t a game.’

‘Sure it was, Sire. You were testing me, and I was testing you.’

‘You were testing me?’ Spike noticed that Angelus did not deny the first part of his claim.  He nodded. ‘If I’m gonna go back to the old ways, I want it to be right—not grubbing around like some third-rate demon.’ He stood straighter. ‘So, sure, I was testing for exactly the same things you were, Angelus: could you be a companion for eternity?’

Angelus came menacingly close.  ‘Maybe you failed.’

‘Maybe you did.’

Angelus grabbed his head between both hands and began to squeeze.  Spike let him, closing his eyes.  Angelus laughed suddenly and dropped him.  ‘Sheesh. Why this place?’

Spike laughed. ‘Dramatic irony. And I know you love a stage.’

Angelus spread his arms and bowed to an imaginary audience.  Spike picked up a baseball bat and swung it against his palm idly.  Angelus eyed it balefully then cursed, his eyes straying to the source of the sweet, ripe smell.  

He sank to the bed and leant gingerly against the false wall.  ‘So, Angelus and William the Bloody, reunited.’

Spike swung the bat as if taking a pitch. ‘We should leave this city.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Sure. Europe, I’m thinking. Maybe the East—all those conflicts, no one would notice two hungry vampires.’

‘Not Prague.’ He swung again.

Angelus shrugged. He eyed Spike for a while. ‘What now?’

Spike turned to him for a moment, their eyes locked. Some silent communication passed between them that seared guilt into Spike’s soul, and then he smashed out the dead light.

Nothing fell out. The casing was empty.

Angelus bit his lip he was trying so hard not to laugh. 

He reached under the bed and pulled out the small jar. ‘Oh! Look! Who put that there?’

He chuckled and tossed it from hand to hand, staring at Spike the whole time, challenging him to run. 

At a slight twitch from Spike, he was at his side, the bat relieved from his grasp.  He thrust his face into Spike’s. ‘Did you really think I was that slow? Did you?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Oh, I’m hurt. And here I am, thinking I have my loving, obedient childe back with me for eternity. Isn’t that what you said, Spike?’

Spike decided there was nothing he wanted to say, so he kept quiet.

Angelus swung the bat and broke Spike’s left arm. ‘I asked you a question.’

Spike sank to his knees, cradling his arm.  

Angelus smiled.  ‘You never really got baseball, did you Spike? Too fucking English, clinging to your oh-so-superior cricket, thinking you can come to my country and starve us all like dogs while you said in your soft, nancy-boy voices: oh, good shot, Wexford, sticky wickets, what? Well, ya know what? I like this game.’  As if demonstrating his words, he tossed the jar into the air and swung the bat so hard against it that it smashed into thousands of tiny fragments of coloured glass that rained down on them, tiny glistening beads on their black leather.  There was faint puff of light like a damp firework, and it was over.

Angelus pouted and said petulantly, ‘Is that all I’m fucking worth? A freaking damp squid.’ Then he shrugged. ‘He only managed a hundred years. Loser.’

Angelus looked down at Spike fondly. ‘You should thank me. I’ve taken away your dilemma: bring him back, not bring him back. No bringing him back now—ever. What? You weren’t trying to trick me? Oh, Spike…. Don’t cry—I knew you would…. I’m not upset!’  He patted Spike’s shaking shoulders like an adoring parent, then swung the bat onto the shaved head, for all the world as if he were making a home run.

Spike woke to a world of pain.  He knew without testing his theory that one side of his skull was caved in.  He was lying in a warm sticky mess, which he assumed was his blood and possibly a few brain cells. He was well fed though; he’d recovered from worse injuries.  

He didn’t have time to think about any of his pain, external or internal, before he felt a body shift next to him. An arm snaked over his waist, and Angelus whispered, ‘Wakey, wakey.’

Spike opened his eyes and discovered two things simultaneously: he was in his apartment, and he was naked.  

He rolled onto his back, wincing at the pain.

Angelus peered anxiously down at him. ‘Does it hurt?’

Spike decided not to play this game, remembered the broken arm he’d gotten for not playing it the last time, considered for a moment, then decided he didn’t care what Angelus did, so kept silent.

As if reading his thoughts, Angelus looked wounded. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, little one! I want to give you pleasure.’

A chill ran down Spike’s spine at these words.

Once more, reading his thoughts, Angelus chuckled quietly and rolled onto his back. ‘Yeah, it’s a fearsome thing, love is. “I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion. I have shudder'd at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr'd for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.” Aye, pretty words, are they not?’

Blind on the side where Angelus lay, Spike nevertheless knew that he was naked, too.

‘But the trouble is, how do you rape a whore?’ Angelus sighed as if his question were something really troubling him. ‘I want to hurt and humiliate you, but I think you’ll just enjoy it!’ He levered over Spike and asked politely, ‘Will you enjoy it?’

Spike turned his head away and closed his eyes.

‘Pitch. What the hell is pitch? I mean, where the fuck do you get pitch in L.A. at three in the morning?’ He pouted, thinking. ‘Maybe boiling water….’ He poked the still form on the shattered end of his radius, which was sticking out from the skin.  ‘Have you got a kettle, Spike?’

When there was no answer, not even a grunt of pain, he said tetchily, ‘You’re no fun, Will. Oh…. What? Have I cut out your heart? Did you feel Angel die? Are you grieving? Childe, let me give comfort.’ He licked up Spike’s chest from navel to nipple, pausing over the tiny bud, raising his eyes to Spike’s blank face. ‘You like this.’ He bit savagely, drawing blood, which made him hiss with pleasure.

Spike moaned and arched slightly. Angelus paused again, seemed to lose his concentration on what he was doing then focused, muttering to himself. 

It didn’t seem to matter what torments he inflicted on Spike, Spike didn’t respond. After that weakness, moaning and lifting to the pain, he shut himself away in a place where he could think quietly about Angel. He was remembering the last time he’d been on this mattress, and the memories were so much more real and potent than anything Angelus could do, that the other vampire hardly intruded on his consciousness at all.

Angelus’s reaction to the torture was predicable.  Gradually, the things he did became more overtly sexual.  He was aroused and rubbed his cock against the slim body as he tormented it.  He worked on Spike to arouse him, telling him that he had fiendish things planned for his erection, but singularly failing to deliver on these threats when Spike was hard.

After a while, it would have been difficult for an onlooker to tell that this was torture, and not love, except for the blood and the extreme pallor and stillness of one of the supposed lovers.

After some more time, Angelus cursed and turned Spike over.  Once more, he tried to pretend that he wanted to practice his artistry on this blank canvass, but the pretence was forgotten when he parted the hard cheeks.  His cursing was soft now and heavily laden with need. He took his erection and pushed it in.

Immediately, the pretence came back; as long as he told himself that this was rape, then he was happy.

He enjoyed himself for a while, rubbing his hardness against Spike’s incredibly soft inner walls. He enjoyed the feel of his cockhead, buried deep, and the tightness of Spike’s muscles around his shaft.  Then he pulled out and enjoyed the visual of pushing back in.

Finally, he pulled out and frowned. 

Very casually, he turned Spike back over.  A pair of blue eyes fixed on him, but Angelus could not hold their gaze. He played a finger into one of Spike’s wounds, then suddenly bent his head and licked Spike’s undamaged nipple.  He shrugged his shoulders lightly and asked nonchalantly, ‘Did you like that?’

Spike only continued to stare at him silently. Angelus sighed. ‘What then? Tell me something you like.’ He closed his eyes like a child about to plunge a hand into something disgusting and took hold of Spike’s cock in a gentle fist.  He snapped open his eyes, huffed, and began to stroke with long, even pulls, taking care to cup his palm over the cockhead and twist to create friction.

Spike arched, and Angelus grinned.  Spike turned his head away and closed his eyes.  Angelus put his hand to Spike’s face and turned him back. He didn’t attempt to open the eyelids, just brushed his fingertips over them. 

The next thing Spike knew, his cock was being pleasured expertly, and a tongue was being eased between his lips, flicking, sensuous and exploratory.  He clamped his mouth shut as best he could and would not allow entry.

When he opened his eyes, Angelus was braced over him, his size magnified by the distortion of Spike’s sight. To his one good eye, he appeared to blot out the world: sleek, hard and glistening.

Very slowly, Angelus took hold of one of Spike’s thighs and lifted it.  He didn’t need to guide his cock; it was horizontal and aligned, and tipping his hips forward, he sank in deep.  Very slowly he pulled right out, teased around the hole with his glistening cockhead, then when all was slick, thin tendrils of pre-cum hanging between them, he eased back in and began a strong, persuasive assault on Spike’s prostate.  Angelus held himself rigid, watching Spike’s expression. When it didn’t alter, he seemed to soften and lowered himself onto Spike’s belly, now jerking in small, sharp motions into him, playing with a nipple.  Still he kept his eyes fixed on Spike’s unresponsive face.  He nuzzled into Spike’s neck, licking over the old scar that joined them more profoundly than any sex act could.  He took the loose skin over Spike’s collarbone and bit it so gently there was hardly an impression when he pulled away.  Finally, his whole body started to shudder, and he whispered urgently, ‘Come with me!’

He cried a long drawn out sound of intense pleasure as he ejaculated, pushing himself in as far as he could go as if trying to send his sperm high enough to change Spike’s lifeless expression.  He milked it out with long thrusts then, very slowly, pulled free, watching as thick spills of his fluid dribbled out.  He rubbed his tip gently in the spills, fondling Spike’s still urgent, unrelieved erection

Finally, with a sigh, he lay down alongside Spike and, folding his hands under his head, sank into uncharacteristic silence.

Every sound in the apartment was magnified in this eerie silence: a rustle from the sheets as one of them shifted slightly, a drip from the showerhead, the occasional creaking of pipes cooling. 

After what seemed like an age, Angelus brought his arms down.  

He contorted his face as if thinking deeply. 

Then, very slowly and deliberately, he turned his back to Spike and lay on his belly, one leg bent up, as if he were a lover and sharing a bed after sex was to be desired.

Spike waited until the powerful figure next to him seemed to melt into the bed, becoming languid and fluid.  

He eased himself onto his side.

Conversationally, Angelus said, ‘You should have come.’

Spike laughed. ‘You dumb fuck.’  He seized Angelus’s arms and thrust his rigid cock as high as he could into the relaxed body.  With deliberate, controlled release, he filled Angelus with his DNA.

 
Chapter 17

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Spike’s thick release, carrying its precious load, was absorbed into Angelus, sucked in to fill where he was empty: his God-shaped hole. His soul returned to his body and flooded him as autumn rain relieves the summer pastures.

Overwhelmed with the remorse and the pain this inevitably brought, he fled.

Spike, too hurt to give chase, did not even attempt to rise from the bed.  

He’d done what they’d asked. He’d given Angel back all the pain that the world could offer one such as he.

He lay curled foetal-like on the mattress, wondering how soon Angel would take on the additional burden of the evil he had done that night, wondering when the guilt, which Angelus had said lay in his belly, would fester and, like a huge, suppurating ulcer, burst, poisoning the body. How much guilt could one person be expected to bear? He’d wanted to save Angel from that, have him as he was: surviving the life. 

He drifted into unconsciousness from his wounds, but it was as pleasant as falling asleep, and he didn’t fight it.  He wanted to be somewhere else for a while; anywhere other than this reality, which seemed continually to disappoint.

He felt mushy in his head, drunk—without the good part of that. He couldn’t think as fast or concentrate. He waited. It would return. You don’t take a hit to the head like he had and come out unscathed. He didn’t understand his magical body, but he accepted it, taking it for granted when it was whole, waiting patiently for it to heal when it wasn’t.  Bones reformed; brain cells would return. 

He dozed the day away on the blood-soaked mattress and only realised it was thus when what he had taken for Angel’s fingers returning to him—feather light on his skin—were in fact flies. He was covered with them (well, there were two; he didn’t like flies), so he rose with a grunt of disgust and limped into the bathroom.

Was there anything scalding hot water from a power-shower couldn’t heal? He laughed ruefully and reckoned there were a few. Bones had almost healed; head was nearly back to normal, but his heart was flayed: raw and bleeding out into the cavities of his body that had once been filled by Angel.  That, the hot water couldn’t touch. That needed a touch of an entirely different kind.

As he dressed, he made some calls. New mattress, new life. He’d bought this mattress for one life; now he feared he would have to accept another. 

He bought a stack of blood from his usual supplier then went to his local store. He felt in need of some iconic worship. 

When he got home, the men were waiting for him. He let them in, watched them removed the old mattress, and didn’t bother to argue when they told him there would be no trade-in, considering…. 

It was only as they were bringing in the new one that it came to him, perhaps brought on by the final flooding back of all his sharp intelligence: he would never sleep on that mattress. He would never sleep in this apartment again. 

The exchange—old for new, bloodstained for pristine—was like their lives. He felt as if Angel had wanted him to help him make a similar transition in his life—help him take his first tentative steps down a new path.

Now though, he saw this for what it was. 

Now, he knew what Angel needed.

When the men were gone, he sat down and composed the first letter he’d written in over a hundred years. His handwriting was rusty, and his fist cramped around the pen. The feeling that Angel would not stay away much longer drove him on. He needed to write this, and then he needed to leave.

Angel should have stayed on the path he was on. 

And, ironically, this insight had come from the father of lies himself: Angelus. He’d said it, in his twisted way. Angel couldn’t be what Spike wanted him to be. Angel couldn’t be his lover. Angel couldn’t love another man. As Angelus had asked: How you gonna solve that?

Well… this way.

He left the note on the table, took a few clothes in a holdall and left.

It was really incredibly easy.

Angel lay with his gut heaving, spasms of pain coursing through him. He could hear voices but knew who they were. They’d been silenced for a while, for the few months since he’d released Spike from the amulet. He guessed he’d been too busy being annoyed with Spike to hear them. Now they were back: his victims. If they’d blamed him, he’d have coped. They didn’t. They forgave him. They were in a higher place, and they pitied him. They had the answers he sought, but they would not give them to him. He writhed in an agony of the soul that he had not felt since returning from hell.

It wasn’t the same though. 

It was short and sharp and over in twenty four hours, like the flu, and like that malady—which he’d never experienced—it left him feeling low, shaky and out of sorts.

Not so low and shaky that he couldn’t make his way back to Spike.

He felt as if nothing could ever keep him from Spike now.

He had something to tell him.

It was kinda revelatory.

It changed everything.

When he reached the door, he knocked, although he felt his eagerness was so palpable it should blow the door down like some mythical wolf.

He knew Spike wouldn’t blame him. Spike was a demon; he was souled. Who would understand if Spike didn’t? They’d tortured each other before. Spike would understand.

When the knock was not answered, he tested the door, found it unlocked and went in.

He saw the letter straight away. Its whiteness was in contrast to the dull fixtures and fittings in the apartment.  

He picked it up and looked around.

Nothing seemed altered, nothing moved, nothing missing… until his eyes scanned the bedroom.

As soon as he saw the mattress, he knew. He felt a sinking sensation in his belly, tender from the recent churning, and swallowed excess, bitter saliva that was pooling in his mouth.

He opened the envelope, read the brief note then deliberately, with intense concentration, shredded it and let the tiny pieces of paper fall like confetti to his feet.

He didn’t have time for Spike’s farewells; he had something important to tell him.

Finding Spike became an obsession. A useful one, for it took Angel’s mind away from hearing voices, away from the need to return to the scene of his crimes and brood upon them, as he surely would have done without this distraction.

He returned to Wolfram and Hart, but had little time for Wesley’s relief, concern, or interest. He checked the car pool and discovered nothing was missing.  It meant Spike would travel by night. Then he wondered if that was what he was supposed to think, and that Spike would actually find some way to travel around the clock and evade him.  Then he wondered if this was some kind of double bluff….

He became frantic, feeling as if time were defeating him: every minute taking Spike away from him. He felt as if they were attached by some loving cord that was being stretched too thin, past breaking point, but still it clung on, trying to keep them together.

Feeling the pain from this, slumped in his office, he hardly roused when he sensed someone entering.

He finally looked up to find himself under observation.  He shifted in his seat and murmured, ‘Illyria.’

‘Angel.’

He waited, trying to make her speak by the simple device of leaving a void that needed filling. She did not seem to fit the normal human pattern, so in the end, he tried to say pleasantly, ‘Something I can do for you?’

‘No. But I believe there is something I can do for you.’

Angel tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Can you find Spike for me?’

‘Yes.’

Angel stood up and came round the desk. 

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Do you remember your ensouling?’

Angel blushed a deep shade of red, which he felt sure would be a beacon of embarrassment on even his preternaturally pale face.  ‘Some of it,’ he lied.

She nodded as if hearing the truth behind the lie. ‘I will not waste my time explaining the science that I adapted to enable you to be carried in Spike’s ejaculate….’

Angel shrank, and not just his body.

‘… you do not have the mental capacity to comprehend it.  However, you disappoint me.’

Angel swallowed, felt he wanted to twist one foot around the other leg and said, trying not to sound humbled, ‘I do?’

‘You each carry the essence of the other now.  So far, I have found only one thing in this world of yours that has impressed me.  I discovered it in one of Wesley’s books: “Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.” I had not thought its relevance to you until now.’

With that, she turned and left.

Angel watched her go. Her words were heavy with truth.  They swum around his head, making him feel drowsy.  He rode up in the elevator, lay on his bed, and let his mind float.  

Later, he didn’t know if he actually detached from his body or not. If felt as if he did. The sensation of rising and moving through the world was so intense that he actually smelt the heat rising from the sidewalks, heard faint car horns, felt the hot air on his face.  

He went to the warehouse where they had tricked and fooled and destroyed each other.  Spike was not there.

He went to the scenes of his most recent kills, wondering if Spike would return and fight his inner demons with their ghosts.  Spike was not there.

He realised he wasn’t silent enough, realised he was still letting the world in, so he went deeper into his own demon where, ultimately, there was the silence of despair.

In that deep silence, he found him.

He was asleep, and Angel hung over him for a while, caressing him with his thoughts.  Then he withdrew, opened his eyes and grinned so widely that a split in his lip opened up and bled. He put a finger to it. A love bite? A victim? He couldn’t remember. It was immaterial; he had something to tell Spike, and that was all that counted now.

Angel stood looking down at Spike for real. 

He didn’t know why his childe had chosen to return to this old house, why he lay in the room where he had become insubstantial.  He wondered if that was how Spike was feeling now: insubstantial. 

He looked healed but exhausted, dark rings under his eyes, even as he slept. He was almost unconscious rather than asleep. Angel could not believe he had not stirred upon his entry and filed away the thought that he would chastise him for this later—much later, when they were sated and happy.

He sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He saw no reason to wake Spike; he could watch his sleeping face for an eternity.  He had not noticed how long Spike’s eyelashes were before. Like a girl’s, they fanned his cheek. There was nothing feminine in the facial structure though: razor-sharp cheekbones, scarred—it was the face of a fighter… a fighter in repose. Angel ached to draw him and filed this away, too. After the lecture on personal safety, he’d make Spike pose for him.  Life seemed full of good things suddenly. 

He wondered if everyone felt like this when they fell in love for the first time.

That did it.  Thinking about how much he loved Spike made him take one shoulder and shake it gently. ‘Hey! Spike….’

Spike’s eyes snapped open, and Angel could see by the expression on his face that although he had lain still and silent, his dreams had not been easy.  Spike wore the expression of a man who had been fighting inner demons and losing.  He sat up, clearly confused. ‘Angel?’

‘Hmm.’ Angel nodded and laughed. ‘Long time no see.’

Spike backed up to the headboard, but it wasn’t the action of a cornered creature—more a gesture of control and power.  He took back control of the moment, having woken disorientated and sad. ‘How did you find me?’  He lit a cigarette and blew a long trail of smoke into the gloomy air.

Angel shook his head. ‘Time for that later. I need to talk with you….’

‘You got my letter?’

Angel shrugged. ‘I’m not letting you leave, Spike.’

‘But you read it?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not….’

‘So, you know how I feel.’  He swung his legs off the bed and began to pace.

Angel watched him from the bed, and despite all the import he’d planned to bring to his announcement, he just said simply, ‘Angelus knew that you were going to resoul him. He turned his back to you and let you do it.’

Spike froze and turned his head to stare at Angel.  After an age, though, he said simply, ‘You want to believe that to stop me leaving.’

Angel shook his head. ‘I was coming to tell you when I found your letter.’

‘Angelus feared nothing but his soul. He tried to kill me to stop us taking him in.’

Angel looked at him oddly then said, amused, ‘I was kinda there, Spike; you don’t need to tell me what happened.’

Spike frowned. ‘Yeah, well I was there, too.’

Angel felt the first stab of uncertainty. This wasn’t how the script was supposed to go. He was supposed to tell Spike this great revelation—and it was the most significant thing that had happened to him since he’d made his initial decision to take what Darla offered—and Spike was supposed to see the Goddamned significance and fall into his arms, saying something like, ‘Oh, Angel, you agreed to have your soul so you could have me? I love you.’  He wasn’t overly particular about the actual words—he’d allow Spike some latitude to say them in his own character—but the sentiment was mandatory. Spike didn’t even seem to get the import. He tried to tell him.  ‘I chose my soul, Spike! I chose to be Angel. I mean, Angelus chose to be me….’ He cursed inwardly. Angelus had confused everyone on this enough for one lifetime; he didn’t want to give the impression he was equally confused over his identity.

Still Spike paced and smoked. Angel felt a stirring of annoyance and stood up, catching his arm. ‘Stop that and look at me.’

‘Sorry. I’m a bit blind still in my left eye, can you move over…?’

Angel took a step back. ‘This is about the torture.’

Spike waved his hand dismissively. ‘No. It’s not. That was dumb.’

Angel cursed again—that would have been an easy one to solve.  Suddenly, he felt a wash of understanding.  ‘This is why you came here! Jeez, I’m slow tonight. You’re playing piss-Angel-off, aren’t you?’

Spike’s hand hesitated halfway to his mouth, but he didn’t dignify this with a response.  Suddenly, he said, ‘I really have to be going, Angel. Look, this isn’t the end of everything. I’m still your childe; you’re still my sire. Nothing will change that. We’ll put all the rest down to Ingram and his fucking spells and science, and get on with our eternities.  I’m going to Italy. I wanna see Buffy.’

Angel gave Spike credit for slipping Buffy in.  By reminding him of her, Spike was subtly making his point about him: that he loved women, not men and, ergo, couldn’t love his male childe.

He nodded, ceding him this small victory.  Then he countered swiftly. ‘You’re doing this for me—to save me. You think that I’m harmed somehow by what we have.’

‘I don’t think anything, Angel—I know. I’m the one who sat on you and tried to feed you my fucking bleeding cock! I didn’t see you so eager to go tripping down the merry path to gayville then!’

Angel was about to retort that they were vampires and therefore could not be gay, but felt this would fundamentally weaken his position.  He pouted. ‘So, you’re the only one who can freak out when it suits him….’

Spike gave him a bitter look and turned away.  After another drag on his cigarette, he said in a low voice, ‘You can’t even give this a name, can you?’

‘A pain in the butt?’

Spike smiled, despite his misery.  ‘Look, I’m going to go, whatever you say. If there’s something real in any of this, then it’ll still be here in a few years. I’ll come back maybe, see if you’re any happier….’

Angel narrowed his eyes and hissed, ‘I’m fucking happy now….’ 

Spike took a step back, raised his eyebrows, but felt he didn’t need to point out the contradiction.  

Angel backtracked, holding his hands out, trying to placate him, but Spike suddenly threw the cigarette down and came very close, pushing his face into Angel’s. ‘I don’t like being called a faggot. I don’t like being tortured in every place, in every way that I’d shown you I wanted to be loved. I don’t like my lover turning into a monster then turning back and expecting me to just to give him access to my body again!’

‘This IS about the torture!’

‘No! No! It’s not! It’s about you! I don’t know who you are, Angel! If that had been Angelus, I’d shake it off and forget it. If the man making love to me was Angel, I’d welcome him back, but, oh, there was so much of you in him, even when he was torturing me—it was your knowledge of me, your hands that found the places I’d let you love me.  And now? Who are you, Angel? You don’t even know yourself. How the fucking hell am I supposed to know?’

‘Who are you, Spike?’ Angel’s voice was chillingly low. ‘You are just like me. We carry our demons like other people carry smiles. You were aroused when you found those bodies. You wanted to roll in their blood and fuck with them, too.’

Spike nodded. ‘Maybe I did.  But I’ve never lied to you about any of it. I don’t carry my soul, Angel; I embrace it.’

Angel felt a surge of triumph. Victory was so close he could taste it. ‘And now I do, too.  I chose it, Spike. I knew what you were going to do, and I let you.  I let you put your damn cock in my arse! What more do you fucking want me to do to prove…?’ He dried up. He didn’t need to see the expression on Spike’s face to know he’d blown it. He could hear his own words: confusion of identity, abhorrence for this form of lovemaking.  He stepped back. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh, fuck. You’re leaving me.’  As if the horrors of the past two weeks suddenly caught up with him, Angel began to cry. They were the tears he should have shed in this room the first time. They were the tears that should have fallen when Ingram’s clients systematically raped him. They were the tears he should have released at the torture, at losing his soul, at having all this new horror churning in his gut.  They weren’t. None of that could have brought them forth, but the thought of losing Spike, now, did.

He felt the bed depress next to him and an uncertain arm slide over his shoulder.  He felt an ineffectual patting, then he was pulled into strong arms and held.

Spike had once wanted ranting and hair tearing. He’d wanted tangible evidence that Angel loved him. Now that he had it, he wanted it away.  ‘I’ll stay for couple of weeks, Pet. Till you’re stronger. Sheesh, you’ve been through a lot, even for you. One day, I’m going to have a word with your fucking scriptwriter—give you some easy scenes, maybe a beach and a long holiday. There could be a mystery to solve, just to keep it interesting. Maybe shells being stolen. And there’d be lots of opportunity to get you half naked, cus that always seems to sell….’ He rambled on until the shudders slowed to the occasional deep hiccup.   

Angel rolled onto his back and put his arm over his eyes.  ‘You’ll stay?’

Spike felt like shit adding the qualification, but he did it anyway. ‘Couple of weeks, yeah.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

Spike frowned at the hidden expression. ‘Because I love you. I love you enough to do what’s right for you.’

‘I think I know better what’s….’

‘No, you don’t. Think back over the last hundred years, Angel. When’s the last time you did something because it was right for you? Not to save the world, not to help Buffy, not to beat back the forces of darkness; none of those. Just because it was right for you.’

Angel had no reply to this. He couldn’t think of a single one.

Spike patted his thigh. ‘Two weeks.’

Angel grabbed his hand and would not release it. He sat up, and like a summer storm over dry land, the turmoil, dramatic as it had been, was over.  He looked into Spike’s eyes. ‘Make a deal with me.’

Spike kept his gaze. ‘I’ve not had a good experience with deals recently.’

‘If I can persuade you that this is what I want—in these two damn weeks—you’ll stay.’

‘How can you turn this into a deal, Angel?’

Angel looked away. ‘Because I’m desperate.’

Spike felt a stab of something deep in his belly.  Instead of refusing Angel a second time, he said, ‘If it’s right for me to stay, we’ll both know it. We don’t need deals.’

Angel turned back, a spark in his eyes. ‘So, you don’t deny that it could be right.’

‘Huh? I think I did.’

‘No. You said we’d both know when it was right—so, it could be right, at sometime.’

‘No! I mean…. What are we talking about?’

Angel laughed and tipped his forehead to Spike’s.  ‘Two weeks. I’ve got to get to work.’

Spike watched him climb off the bed and knew, with a flash of something that was definitely very pleasurable, that Angel didn’t mean saving the world.

Spike went back to his own apartment feeling angry that he’d let Angel manoeuvre him into staying, albeit for only two weeks.  He was utterly convinced that what he was doing was ultimately right for Angel, but another two weeks of doing something that was so wrong for him did not appeal. 

His whole body had yearned toward Angel as they’d sat on the bed—and not just his body. His emotional compass was altered. It pointed irrevocably to Angel, and wherever he travelled in the world now, Angel would always be his lodestar.  

He felt depression tripping on his heels.  

Things were narrowing around him, and echoes rang in his ears.  

The knock on the door startled him out of his fugue for a moment, but it still dogged his steps.

When he opened the door, he felt a sudden wash of senses: smells, colours…. A man in a uniform passed him a huge bunch of exotic flowers and a clipboard. 

Spike began to shut the door. ‘Wrong life, Mate.’

The man consulted his board. ‘Spike?’

Spike felt an immediate desire to deny this.  The man seemed to see this in his expression and thrust the flowers at him.  When Spike still hesitated, he reached in and detached a card. ‘Know anyone called Angel?’

Spike cringed.  

The man began to look impatient.  ‘Look, do you want the damn flowers, or not?’

Spike nodded dumbly. 

Suddenly, he did.

He laughed and took them, scrawling his signature.

In nearly one hundred and thirty years, they were the first flowers he had ever been given.

In the gloom of his apartment, they seemed to make a statement far more potent than merely plucked blooms. He stuffed them in the sink and stood back to study them.  

He could not actually believe that Angel had done this. He couldn’t believe how he’d reacted when they’d arrived. He felt guilty for giving Angel such a hard time about admitting the changes that had occurred in their lives, when he clearly found it hard to admit them himself. He noticed he hadn’t said to the man, sure, he’s my lover, when asked if he knew someone called Angel. Why not?

He wasn’t too sure he wanted to answer that question.

He tipped his head to the other side and studied the flowers that way for a while. They were no less pretty, and he smiled softly. 

Rummaging for something to put them in produced nothing. He suddenly saw his apartment for what it was: hideous.  He had nothing, owned nothing, cared for nothing, except one thing, and he was now giving that away.

He desperately wanted to put the flowers in some water, as if caring for them with intense devotion could make up for his lapses in other areas of care.

Before he tried to make a makeshift container out of an old milk carton, there was another knock at the door.

He frowned. He’d had five visitors to his apartment the entire time he’d lived there, that two of them should knock within five minutes of each other seemed bizarre.

Cautiously, he opened it up. ‘You Spike?’

Spike nodded.

A parcel was thrust at him. ‘Sign here, please.’

Spike juggled the box and signed. 

He went inside.

He knew he was smiling as he tore the box open. So what? That black dog was still licking at his pain.

An exquisite crystal vase lay surrounded by packing material, snug, safe and beautiful.

Spike laughed. 

He’d never owned one of these before either.  

He carried it over to the sink and put the flowers in.  As he did, he had an odd moment of clarity, as if Angel had meant him to see more in this—this act of joining.  Although the flowers were beautiful, almost perfect, and although the vase was out of this world, together they made a harmonious whole that one alone could never have achieved.

He was tempted, out of mischief, to separate them again, but he didn’t.  He knew the flowers would only last a couple of weeks; then they’d die, and he’d have to throw them out as he left. Might as well give them two weeks, too.

  
The flowers dominated the small, dark apartment out of proportion to their size. Their scent soon permeated the air, and their colours were so vibrant that they almost stayed on the retina when stared at too long.

Spike couldn’t decide whether to give Angel credit for planning this—the way the flowers were all he could think of all evening—or whether it was a spontaneous act given far more significance by him.

He also wondered why Angel had chosen flowers, wondered what statement he was trying to make. It seemed to Spike that Angel was using the same tactic he had once used: think girl. This infuriated him, for it not only told him that Angel was missing the point; it reminded him that he wasn’t as secure and confident as he tried to come across to Angel. Only three weeks ago, he had been hovering at the bottom of some steps like a virgin sacrifice and thinking girl. Being a hypocrite disturbed him. The flowers made him feel like one.  When he was being more generous though, he thought that Angel had thought all this but had still bought the flowers. They were his double bluff against society’s expectations. He understood they were both men; he wanted them both to be men, but still he had bought the flowers.

Spike thought about these things all night, turning and trying to sleep on the new mattress. 

He was feeling low again when his inner clock told him it was morning.  The black dog was staring at him, waiting for him to falter.  He didn’t give it a chance to speak. He turned on his back, pulled the sheet over his head and decided to sleep the day away.  He had nothing better to do.

He recognised the knock.

He sat up and immediately tried to flatten his hair, frowning when it wasn’t there.  The absence of the blond locks that had taken so much work in the mornings threw him completely.  He wrapped the sheet around his waist and went to the door.  Without opening, he said more brusquely than he would have without the lack of sleep and confusion on waking, ‘What do you want?’

‘To come in?’

‘I’m kinda…. What’s the point, Angel?’

‘I’m working, Spike. I need your help.’

Spike pursed his lip and opened up, keeping the door only open an inch or two.  ‘Why me?’

‘Who else?’

Spike made a face. There was some truth in this. Who else could Angel trust?  He let him in.  

‘It’s ten o’clock, Spike….’ Angel wandered over to the flowers. 

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t sleep….’ Spike could have bitten his tongue off. Why did he have to go and admit that he had things on his mind? It was pretty obvious what.

Angel ran his fingers over the long petals of an Iris. ‘Do you like them?’

Spike mumbled a reply and waved distractedly at the bathroom, carefully shutting the door as he went through.  

Angel smiled softly and bent to smell an orchid.

When Spike was dressed, he picked up his coat and, trying not to catch Angel’s eye, asked, ‘What’s the case?’

‘I want to check someone out, and I need you.’

Spike shrugged. It was pretty immaterial; he didn’t know why he’d asked really. As long he got to kill something nasty, he’d be happy. A nice killing was just what he needed.

They walked through the sewers so like old times that neither felt the need to speak, other than making desultory comments on the level of the water, or the amount of slime on the walls.  Spike wanted to ask Angel why he’d bought the flowers, but wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the reply.

They came up in a shady alley and then dodged around and into a large building.  Spike squared himself for a fight but then stood looking around, slightly bemused.  He whispered to Angel, ‘We gonna foil a bank robbery, or something?’

Angel smiled and walked up to the enquiry desk and asked for the manager.  He sat down in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs elegantly.  Spike did the same—without the poofy thing with the legs.

A man emerged from a door to the left and came over.  Immediately, he came up to Spike, looking obsequious.  ‘Mr Spike! How pleasant. We rather expected you to return a few weeks ago.’

Angel stood up, looking pleased.  Spike got slowly to his feet, a cold chill washing down his spine.  He grabbed Angel’s arm and led him out of earshot.  ‘I don’t know that man, Angel…. Is this another freaky spell?’

Angel put a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it gently. ‘Shhh. Ingram had his accounts transferred so when he had your identity he could still access them. He came here the first morning he left me—set it all up.’

‘Oh.’

Angel led them back to the bank manager, who was looking at them oddly.  Angel, Spike noticed, still had his hand on the back of his neck and showed no sign of removing it.  The manager raised an eyebrow, and Angel smiled sweetly.  

Eventually, the man said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to view your current status? Three weeks of interest, with such sums, can be rather impressive.’

Angel nodded. ‘Yeah, we would.’

He led them to his office.  Angel sat down and put his hand on the arm of Spike’s chair.  Utterly distracted by this, and trying not the study the elegant fingernails and remember times when they’d not been so elegant (when they’d been deep inside him, when they’d been caked with his blood scraped from welts on his back, welts torn during their lovemaking in that other lifetime when things had, for a moment, seemed to simple) Spike didn’t hear a word that was spoken. 

‘…. Mr Spike?’

‘Huh? It’s just Spike.’

‘So, what would you like to do?’

Spike looked helplessly at Angel.  Angel smiled, and the hand shifted onto his thigh. ‘I think a small withdrawal today—couple of thousand—and we’ll consider our options for the remainder.’

The man tipped his head on one side quizzically. ‘I don’t believe I caught your name, Sir.’

‘I didn’t give it.’  Angel let that sink in then added, ‘My name is Angel. I’m the CEO of Wolfram and Hart.’

The man’s face brightened considerably. ‘Ah, my apologies. Mr Spike’s lawyer.’

Angel laughed. ‘His partner.’

There was just the right amount of ambiguity in this for the bank manger to understand that Spike was a partner in Wolfram and Hart.  The other possibility, which seemed to be given certain credence by the hand on the thigh, he dismissed. In his experience, homosexuals didn’t look like these two gentlemen, and certainly didn’t bank their millions with a respectable banking institution such as First City.

He rose and extended his hand to Spike. ‘See one of the cashiers, Mr Spike, and please, any time you’d like to come and discuss your options, don’t hesitate to call.’ He gave his hand to Angel. ‘Honoured to meet you, Mr Angel. I don’t believe we have any dealings with your firm, but of course, I’m always very keen to extend our profile—where it counts.’

Angel beamed. ‘I think we’d like to keep our private and working lives separate.’ 

The man nodded and showed them out.

Five minutes later, Spike had two thousand dollars in his hand, a chequebook and a shiny card, which was supposed to look like diamonds.  Five minutes after that, they were in the sewers again.  Angel flicked some dust off his coat and said pleasantly, ‘Guess I’ll see you later.’  He threw Spike a small salute and disappeared into the darkness.

Spike didn’t move for so long that rats took courage and began to run over his boots.  He started and began to walk toward his apartment. He felt more stunned than he had when he’d been used as a baseball.  Angel had put his hand on his thigh and called him his partner. Spike didn’t see any ambiguity in this at all. Did he look like a fucking lawyer?  

Angel had chosen a public man, a public place—a place of commerce and industry, a place where heterosexuality was polished at night along with the floor tiles—and he’d announced that Spike was his partner. He’d claimed him and discussed their finances, implying a relationship, implying they were live-in lovers: buying things together, waking up together, sleeping together, doing other things in bed together…. Spike knew he was getting carried away. He knew the pompous man had probably not seen any of this in that small claiming by Angel’s hand, but that was immaterial—he had. He’d seen all of it in that one tiny gesture.  

It was only as he returned to the apartment and walked into the sweet perfume that now filled it that he remembered the money. He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen how much he was worth. There’d been a huge number of zeros, and once they got past seven, you kinda knew it was enough.  He put his chequebook on the table next to the flowers and added his shiny new card.  Then he laid out the money.  He had a startling vision of coming home from work and chucking change into a bowl that they kept on the kitchen counter for that purpose—small domestic scenes given life by scent and colours and the glittering of a card.  

With a grin, he picked up the money, went to his favourite corner shop, and bought some things he normally couldn’t afford.  He didn’t notice until he got home that he’d bought enough for two.

That night he didn’t sleep either. He lay awake, unable to stop thinking about Ingram. Once more, he wondered whether Angel had intended this. Had he seen this claiming of Ingram’s identity as some sort of catharsis of the human from their lives—his life? Spike kept forgetting that he was leaving in thirteen days; there was no their life. He could not see any other reason for Angel doing this. He couldn’t want him to have the money, for it only made his flight so much easier. With money such as he had now, he could go anywhere, do anything, and travel in style. So why had he done it, if not to make some kind of statement about Ingram, about the things they had done under that man’s influence? Spike couldn’t help but see the bank as a very clear statement by Angel that from this point on, everything was new. 

The hand on his thigh certainly was.

Spike cursed inwardly. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t think about Angel’s hand on his leg while he was in bed and… vulnerable.  He couldn’t help it now.  It was the sexiest thing that had happened to him in a long time, and his thigh still burned from the feeling of that erotic touch.  Angel had actually pressed lightly with his fingers, kneading his flesh. His hand had been placed just so—just high enough for the little finger to brush his bulge but low enough to make this brushing so light that Spike’s cock had had to do the work, stretching to meet the finger.

Spike’s mind developed the scene, changing it as his hand slid down his belly.  Angel began to move his hand, sliding it up and down, all the while discussing business with the suit.  Then the man had nodded and indicated what Angel was doing. ‘Please, feel free. Anything we can do to accommodate our customers.’  Angel slid to his knees and spread Spike’s thighs. He put one hand on each and, pressing them in hard, slid them up until the thumbs came in contact with Spike’s straining cock.  Grinning, looking up at him through lowered lids, he lowered the zipper.  Very carefully, Angel arranged his cock so just the tip appeared, still covered by the foreskin.  

Then he teased the covering off, revealing the slick, hot mushroom beneath.

Spike arched and began to work himself faster, the picture of his cockhead, red and shiny and poking out from his black jeans made his balls harden and tweak with need.  

Angel obligingly gave the watching man a better view, playing with Spike idly, staking his claim to his property, making it clear that when you had eternity, there was no need to rush.

He pulled Spike further down in the chair and slid his hand underneath, and as he licked playfully around the slippery cockhead, he massaged Spike’s arse, thumbs pressed hard into his cotton-encased perineum.

Spike ran his other hand down and tried to mirror the action for real and felt a stab of self-pity that he couldn’t make this wank anything like as good as the blowjob he was getting from Angel.  He stroked his balls, but it wasn’t as good as Angel doing it. 

He had Angel suddenly stand and lower his zipper.  His large, stiff cock appeared from out of his fly.  He straddled Spike and teased it over his lips.  Spike’s tongue flicked out and tasted the slightly brackish, crystal drops oozing from the end.  They glistened on his lips, made his mouth slippery, and Angel used the slickness to push in.  Spike took all of the ten inches into his mouth.  Angel murmured his appreciation, and Spike reminded him it was his fantasy, and he could make anyone any length he wanted.  He let the cock push into his throat in a way he couldn’t do for real and swallowed compulsively, constricting his throat muscles like a fist around the hard shaft, milking it.  

He was very close now.  His balls were so hard his stomach was slick with his own pre-ejaculate, dripping out as he played with Angel in his mind.  

When he felt Angel close to coming, he stripped him, pants magically not there.  Then he could hold his backside, pull him further down his throat, and play with his soft valley.  

Suddenly, Spike pushed himself up on one hand, gasping as he crashed toward an explosive orgasm.  As he began to shoot strings of white fluid onto his chest, he lowered Angel onto his cock and, in his fantasy, shot deep into Angel’s quivering rectum.

He took a while to come down, just lying in the dark, running his fingers through his tacky sperm.  His fantasy had been revelatory.  Now he remembered why he was leaving. 

It was all very well Angel buying him presents (and flowers, at that), and it was all very well Angel taking him like a child to open his first bank account. None of that solved the problem that Angel had to be in control. Angel had to take the lead. Angel could not lie down and be fucked, with all that that implied: trust, release of the self in someone else, surrender of power, transfer of power to someone else.  Angel was still in total control and in denial. A hand on a thigh wasn’t going to keep them together for eternity.

Spike couldn’t stop the treacherous thought that it was a pretty good start though.

He groaned and turned onto his belly.  His head was spinning with it all.  He slept but had strange, troubled dreams, at one point dreaming that not all of Angel’s soul had been released on that flooding orgasm into the demonic body and that a few little quirks had remained behind, hiding in his balls.  They’d been released now though and were scrabbling around on his belly, trying to find Angel.  They asked him if he’d seen him, and Spike had replied that he never saw Angel, only Angelus, and they’d run off, screaming, and trying to climb back into his cockhead.  Their way was blocked by flowers, stems stuck into the tiny slit, and Angel was sitting alongside him in a pink, flowery shirt, arranging the other blooms, one by one, pushing them in.  The scent was so strong that he’d cried out, and an English voice alongside him on the pillow said, ‘Could you keep it down, Spike?’  Spike had replied that it was never down when Angel was around and had turned to find Wesley and Illyria making slow love alongside him. It was slow because she was still encased in leather and both of his arms were in plaster.  Wesley had laughed and said he’d been fishing.

Spike turned back to tell Angel to stop decorating him, but had found Angelus instead.  Angelus had held out a fistful of the shirt and the tiny, pearl-handled scissors that Angel had been using to trim the stems.  Very deliberately, he put his hand down and pruned his own dick, holding it up to Spike’s inspection.  Then he too went back to pruning the flowers and arranging them delicately in Spike’s prick.

Spike woke, sweating heavily and thirsty.  He stumbled from the bed, trying to resist checking to see that he wasn’t sprouting and drank straight from the tap, greedy gulps of the cold water. As he drank, he eyed the flowers balefully, beginning to wonder if they were poisoned, their scent created to drive him insane.  

He growled at them, knew he would not sleep again so fetched a book.   He didn’t read a word but lay staring thoughtfully at the flowers, trying to interpret the dream.

Another knock. 

Spike cursed and peered from one eye. He felt drugged, hung over, listless, grumpy, and still the sweet perfume flooded his senses. He wondered if he was allergic to all flowers or just the ones Angel bought him.  

He staggered once more to the tap and began to drink, calling in a husky voice, ‘Yeah,’ as he did so.

Angel came in, looking as if he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ. He glowed with vitality and went immediately to the flowers, commenting on how well they were doing.

Spike growled faintly and threw himself on the couch, arranging the sheet.  Angel frowned. ‘It’s eleven.’

‘So fucking what? Are you my bloody mother?’

Angel raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. ‘Bad night…?’

By the way he trailed off, Spike knew without a doubt that Angel could smell the dried cum on his body. He could smell shoe polish on Angel’s highly buffed nails, so it was a pretty sure bet that his sire would be able to smell the…. He glanced down and mentally flayed himself alive. He was covered in flaking as well.  

He dragged himself off the couch and stomped into the bathroom, slamming it this time.  There was something nagging at him, something pissing him off more than usual, and it only occurred to him as he turned the shower on. Angel was too fucking immaculate. There was no way you could crease that suit by frenzied undressing, no way you’d dare to muss the styled hair as you tried to climb inside that perfect mouth.  It was all very well having all this want suddenly, but where the hell had all the need gone? Once more, an image of Angel in pink, castrating himself flashed into his mind, and in a very bad tempter, he dressed and went back into the living room.

Angel was sitting in the armchair, one elegant leg crossed over the other.  That pissed Spike off so much he deliberately tore at a blood bag and let its cold, tacky contents run down his chin.  

Angel waited politely until he had finished then said, ‘Feel like doing something useful?’

What? Ripping your clothes off and fucking you hard over the couch…?

‘What?’

‘Something I need to check out. I’d kinda appreciate some back up.’

Spike shrugged. It was better than smelling those damn flowers all day.

This time, they took a car, and Angel drove swiftly and expertly up into the hills.  

They pulled up in front of a single storey house, surrounded by trees.  It was gloomy and looked neglected, but even Spike could see that it had once been beautiful, and could be again. Again, it came down to care. Someone had not been caring for this house as they should, and for some reason, this angered him.

‘What’s the case?’  

Angel craned his neck to peer out of Spike’s window, looking at the house. He spotted a figure on the porch and murmured, ‘Try to run nonchalantly.’ With that, he exited the car and strode—quickly—to the shade.

Spike swore and did the same.  Angel was shaking hands with a young woman. She didn’t look particularly evil, but Spike took no chances and kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her as he shook, too.  She blushed and produced a key. ‘Well, follow me then.’

It was an odd start to a case, and it got odder.  She walked around the empty house, reeling off facts and figures about floor space and utilities.  Spike trailed behind Angel, silent, trying to be morose but impressed, despite his better intentions, by the amazing house.  It was beautiful, all wood and soft angles, and the main room, behind the heavy shades, had a panoramic view of the hills.  The woods fell away so steeply that if you stood on the deck, you’d have felt as if you were in a treehouse, the topmost leaves brushing the railing.  There wasn’t another building in sight, and the sense of peace was palpable.

When they reached the main bedroom, which had a similar arrangement of vast French doors leading out onto the deck, the woman stopped.  Spike nodded expectantly: now they’d get to the crux of the matter. In his experience, if there was murder, haunting, demon activity, or people blowing their brains out, it always happened in bedrooms. It was the sex. It riled things up.

He leant forward, looking interested, waiting to hear the gory details, but she only turned to him and said, ‘Would you be living here alone, or do you have family? As you can see, space has been gained in the main rooms by sacrificing bedrooms.’

Before he could reply to this inanity, Angel stepped up and patted him lightly on the shoulder. ‘If we take it, we’ll only need one bedroom.’ She didn’t blush, which was just as well, as the heat from Spike’s threatened to cause a small conflagration.  She seemed flustered, but it was not embarrassment.  Smelling her excitement at this thought, Spike blushed again and mumbled something, leaving quickly. 

Angel shrugged and said conversationally, ‘He’s nervous.’

Spike wanted to turn and contradict this, but the woman replied cheerfully, ‘Living together for the first time can be a shock.’

Angel laughed. ‘Actually, we lived together a long time ago, but we both had other partners then.’

Spike cringed and went out to stand on the deck, lighting a cigarette.  

Perhaps he was still Ingram.  

Perhaps Angel was Angelus and this was some devious plan to end the world (again).

Perhaps the woman was Illyria. 

Maybe he should walk away from it all now, before it got any crazier. He was leaving in twelve days, so why not?

He heard a bird calling from one of the trees and a rustle in the undergrowth. It was very peaceful.

The other two emerged, and she extended her hand to Angel. ‘Let me know if you want to make an offer.’

He nodded. ‘We’ve got some more to see, but I’ll let you know.’

Spike watched her lock up and walk to her car but put a hand on Angel’s arm when he began to follow.

‘You need to stop doing this, Angel. I’m leaving in twelve days, and you’re just gonna have to accept that.’

Angel pulled his arm away gently. ‘I already have. If I’m going to be left, I don’t want to be alone in that soulless apartment. I’d kinda like to live here—with or without you.’

He dashed to the car and waited for Spike to join him.

He didn’t pull away immediately when Spike slid in alongside him, but sat staring at the house.  Spike squinted through his cigarette smoke at him. ‘You’re really going to buy this place?’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘If you stay, I think we should pay halves.’  He put the car into drive and swung away from the house.  

Spike suddenly shouted, ‘Stop!’  Angel obediently pulled into the side of the track and twisted in his seat, expectantly. 

Spike immediately regretted picking this time and place for the confrontation. They were trapped in the car, neither able to pace and expend just a fraction of their vast energies as they needed to when arguing.  For that reason, he kept his voice more reasonable that he might have done. ‘A few days ago, Angel, you were lying on your bed like a friggin’ zombie; now you’re like a bloody schoolboy on a day off. This doesn’t wash. It’s false and dumb, and it’s pissing me off.’

Angel pouted, studying a nail thoughtfully. When he looked up, his eyes were angry. ‘I’m making a fucking effort, Spike; that’s what I’m doing. Yeah, I freaked out when Ingram had me tied over that fucking spar for two weeks. Kept thinking, this’ll do it: this’ll get him out of my head, out of my heart, out of my body. Need this! Gonna suck it in, and all this pain will get that damn man out of my head.  Cus, ya know? I’m not finding this easy! I’ve loved women for over three hundred years, and now I love a man. So, you tell me, Spike. Because you’re so fucking clever all of a sudden, you tell me what else I can do. Do you want me to go back to lying on that bed, feeling fucking sorry for myself because I’ve suddenly discovered I’m a fucking sodomite? Do you want me to crawl into some hell dimension because I’ve discovered I’m gay?’ He slammed the car into drive once more and skidded down the track. 

Spike hunched into his seat with a look of hurt innocence, but he kept very, very quiet on the way home.

Angel dropped him off at the apartment by the simple expedient of leaning over and opening his door for him. ‘Get out.’

Chapter 18

Spike sulked the afternoon away.  It didn’t help that his apartment seemed cramped and ugly, and visions of a beautiful house in the woods kept floating into his mind.  Mostly though, Angel’s bitter speech echoed so loudly in his head that he could think of little else.  

Finally, with a strange sense of import, he went to the shop, picked a bottle of wine and then went over to Wolfram and Hart. It was the first time he’d been there since he’d taken Angel’s soul into his body. 

Angel wasn’t in the office, so he rode up in the elevator, biting a nail.  

He stepped out, and Angel turned from contemplation of the view. He was dressed only in a pair of old, faded jeans, and his hard, lean torso looked wet.

He turned back to the window and continued drinking from a crystal glass.

‘I’m sorry, Angel.’

Angel shrugged without turning around.

Spike put the wine on the bar and shed his coat. He came over to the window.  ‘How come I’m here feeling like shit, when you’re the one who’s in the pooh?’

Angel flashed him a glance then his face relaxed. After a while, he said softly, ‘That’s a really unfortunate analogy, given the circumstances.’

Spike thought about this for a moment and replied slyly, ‘Be glad you’re a vampire, Angel.’

When Angel laughed softly, Spike added, ‘Am I forgiven?’

Angel turned to him. ‘I’m not sure.’ He turned back to the view. ‘Ask me again in eleven and half days.’

Spike bit his nail, lit a cigarette then said hesitantly, ‘There’s been a time shift. This is Wolfram and Hart, after all. Time’s up now.’

Angel turned away from the window and went into his bedroom to fetch a T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and padded back to the bar. ‘No.’

This caught Spike unprepared. He stammered, ‘W—What?’

Angel took a long drink, not looking at him. ‘I don’t want half-measures, Spike: time shifts, spells, tricks, half-truths, uncertainty.’  

‘I’m not uncertain; I’m not….’

‘I am.’

‘Huh!’  Spike came closer. ‘What? You do all this: the flowers, the hands, the fucking house, and now, when I capitulate….’

Angel only turned and stared at him. Spike heard his own words. Capitulation—it wasn’t what Angel wanted at all.

Spike helped himself to Angel’s glass and finished off his drink for him.  He nodded.  ‘Shit. Okay. I kinda had it planned for us to….’ He waved at the bed, not needing to finish his sentence. He glanced ruefully at the wine.  

Angel laughed softly. ‘It won’t go to waste. Thanks for the thought.’

Spike looked at his nails, ruing the ugly bitten look for a moment. ‘I don’t want to go back to that damn place on my own any more, Angel. I’m sick of being lonely.’

Angel smiled. ‘Good. I’m sick of being here, in this place, having only this to come home to at night. I need something more than I have.’

‘What am I going to do for eleven days?’

Angel tipped his head to one side and said helpfully, ‘Jerk off?’

Spike snorted with laughter, and it broke the tension between them. He punched Angel’s arm. ‘You fucker. I’m gonna blame you if I get blue balls.’

Angel twitched up an eyebrow.  ‘Hmm, nice image to use tonight.’

Spike looked interested. ‘You think about me when you’re…?’

Angel shook his head with disbelief. ‘What the hell do you think, Spike? I’m thinking about you now! I think about you all the time!’

Spike took a step toward the bed. Angel took hold of his arm.  ‘No. I want you begging me. I want you to be crawling on your hands and knees, wanting me. No half-measures.’

Spike squared his shoulders. ‘Okay. Then I think I want to see you trying a bit harder, Angel. Flowers, millions of dollars, proposals, and a gorgeous house just aren’t enough, okay?’

Angel smiled deeply, hanging his head. ‘Okay. I’ll try harder.’

‘Eleven days.’

‘Eleven days.’

Spike went back to his apartment alone and refreshed the water in the flowers. He craved their scent now and planned to fill the new house with flowers, already picturing their bright splashes of colour and heady scent filling their new, shared space.

Angel lay on his bed, smiling.  It was so rare for him to feel happy that he just lay there and enjoyed it, picturing how it would be, lying in the large bed he planned to buy for the bedroom.  

The eleven days played games with them. Sometimes they sped by so fast that they were startled when they realised there were only seven left. Then they dragged so slowly that when they should have been over, there were still five to go.

Spike came into the offices every day. Angel usually went over to Spike’s apartment every night, and they went out—bars, to a movie once, to restaurants.  Once, they went back to the dance club, but the tension was so palpable between them that they’d had to leave and part for the night.  When they met the next day, they knew they’d both jerked off urgently to thoughts of the other the night before, and so the tension returned.  

Before they knew it, it was the last day.  

Spike arrived early as usual, and rode up, as usual, to watch Angel dress for the office.

Angel wasn’t even showered but was standing by the window in sweatpants, still rumpled from sleep.

Spike’s heart did a rapid descent, and he felt vomit rise in his throat. He could sense the tension radiating from the lean body. ‘What?’  His voice was croaky with panic.

Angel only took a small breath and said, ‘Wesley.’

Spike had been expecting this conversation since he’d returned Angel’s soul. He was surprised it had taken his sire so long.

‘Wesley loves you, Angel.’

Angel nodded. ‘I know that. It wasn’t me he was kissing though.’

‘No.’

‘How far did it go? Did you fuck him?’

‘No.’

‘But further than a kiss?’

Spike hesitated and knew this made him sound guiltier than he felt. Finally, he said truthfully, ‘It was the night we couldn’t get you to feed.’

Angel flushed slightly. ‘Oh.’

‘There was so much blood—mine and his. He… let me feed from him.’

Angel turned his head slowly. ‘He saved my life once by feeding me.’

Spike’s eyes widened. ‘He dreams about that.’

It was Angel’s turn to look guilty. ‘Yeah. Well. So, what do you and Wesley see happening…?’

Spike scratched his ear for a moment and replied truthfully once more, ‘I’ve not thought about him since you came back to me, Angel. I’m not sure I’ve even spoken to him….’

Angel suddenly took Spike’s chin and tipped his face to the early morning light. He studied it for a long time then nodded, satisfied by what he saw. ‘I’m a jealous man, Spike. It would do you well to remember that.’

Spike nodded. ‘I don’t have to. I’m not confused anymore.’

Angel suddenly grinned shyly, and the expression rather belied the masterful tone he’d been going for before.  ‘Good.’

Spike put his hand on Angel’s naked chest, brushing his thumb over the nipple.  ‘Get dressed, Wanker. Go play boss with people who don’t know you better.’

Angel nodded obediently and went to dress.

Spike felt so guilty after this conversation that as soon as Angel was stuck in a meeting, he made his way down to the lab.  

Wesley was leaning over a book. That was so familiar that the unfamiliarity—Illyria leaning over it with him, his hand on the small of her back—seemed even more shocking.

He coughed, and they turned as one.

Wesley smiled and rose. ‘Welcome back, Stranger.’

This didn’t help Spike’s guilt, and he lit a cigarette to cover.

‘I don’t know what you’ve done to Angel, but the change has been rather dramatic.’

‘Change?’

Illyria answered for Wesley. ‘He sang. It was most unpleasant.’

Spike looked between them and narrowed his eyes. ‘Am I sensing there’s been some… singing… going on between you two as well…?’

Wesley blushed and turned away. Illyria frowned. ‘Why would we sing? Explain.’

Spike laughed and went to stand alongside Wesley, purporting to look at the book with him.  He took a puff on his cigarette.

Wesley turned his head and caught his eye. They smiled shyly at each other, nodded with complete understanding, and went back to loving their respective demons.

It proved to be the hardest day.

Spike tried all the things he could think of to make it go faster—indulging in a game of poker for a few hours in the afternoon—but nothing worked to take his mind off Angel. His eyes roamed over the cars as they sat in the small office, and suddenly, he threw down his cards and left, snatching a set of keys off the hook.

It took him hours to find the place, as the first time he’d been there he’d not been concentrating on the route, but had been watching Angel’s profile, watching the muscles in his thighs move as he’d driven, watching his ring, watching any damn thing that would fill his senses with Angel.

Eventually, he pulled up outside the old house, just as the sun was setting.

Within a couple of minutes, he’d broken in without causing any real damage and began to wander through the empty spaces by himself. 

It already felt like home. It only needed them to occupy it.

Feeling a sense of peace that he’d not felt for so long that he couldn’t actually work out whether he’d ever felt it, or only imagined it, he went out onto the deck.  The night was still and hot, the air filled with heady oxygen thrown up from the forest beneath him. 

The trees stirred faintly, leaves rustling, preparing to change and drop soon.  The house creaked around him, wood breathing and settling.  Standing on the deck of their new house, he had a sense of rightness that startled him. The definition of life seemed blurred in this place. The trees seemed no more alive than the house, yet they had been sacrificed to build it.  They were in harmony—the trees and their wood within the house—one a testament to the strength and durability of the other but making something of it, providing something new and beautiful out of their sacrifice.

He was pleased they would be living here, in this house, amongst these trees, with their unique definition of life. He dared anyone to say, given the intensity with which they loved, that they were not alive, too.

He tipped his head back and reeled at the power of the universe above him. Had Angel wanted this house because it was beyond the range of city lights? Had he wanted to see the stars as he had once seen them?  Both of them had been born and died and lived again under these same stars. They were constant where all else changed.  Now they would live here and share in this constancy.

He carefully hid signs of his entry and bade the house farewell for a few days.  If the trees dipped their heads at his passing, it seemed fitting. If they didn’t, and he was just on a nicotine and happiness high, then that was okay, too.  

By the time he got back to the city, it was three am. He went straight to Wolfram and Hart, up in the private elevator, and into Angel’s apartment. 

He shed his clothes, and as if he belonged there, as if this were something he’d been doing for a lifetime and would do now for eternity, he slid in alongside the sleeping figure.

Angel’s body went tense. 

Then it went fluid, soft and welcoming.

One arm snaked back to entwine around Spike’s waist, but he made no other sign that he knew Spike was there.

Spike smiled into Angel’s back. Angel understood: they would start this coming day as they would start every day of their eternities—waking together.

Angel curled into Spike, his back pressed firmly against Spike’s hard belly.  

It grew warm.

The inevitable began to happen: a twitch turning into swelling, becoming throbbing. Spike eased their positions so his erection could lie comfortably between them, but as he did so, Angel lifted his thigh and spread his limbs into the warmth of the bed.

After that, it happened naturally and quickly. Spike lifted up on one elbow and guided himself in.  Angel twisted his head around and locked eyes with him.

Spike pushed in on his own pre-ejaculate, the hole so tight he screwed his eyes shut with an intensity of pleasure.

He pushed Angel face down and leant over him, sliding in.  

He pushed into the demon that had taken his life, and it was banished. He pushed into the domineering sire that had kept him prisoner to his insane passions for over twenty years, and he dissolved into memory. He pushed into the dark, brooding soul, which had destroyed Angel’s spontaneous love of life, and he weakened its hold. He pushed into the CEO of Wolfram and Hart and all his vaunting power, and reduced him to this: a man who surrendered his body to another man.

Spike took the surrender, demanded reparations, and was given them: Angel begging him, murmuring his name, obeying every command.

Finally, Spike could hold it in no longer, but this time, it wasn’t Angel’s soul that he released in his thick ejaculate; it was something just as important, though: love. He implanted his love for Angel high up in the invulnerable body where it would stay.  He flooded Angel with his love, and as with the soul, love was sucked in by the arid body, rippling in crazy rivulets along his dry paths with a bubbling sound like laughter. 

The End

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