II

Spike lay on Angel’s back and tried to count the pockmarks. It proved impossible, though--they were old and had faded one into the other, forming a silvery smear of scar. He turned his head and laid his cheek down on Angel’s shoulder blade instead, looking at the tattoo on his other shoulder.

Angel was asleep. Spike had been asleep for a time, next to him, but pent-up energy had conspired against his need for rest. Angel slept like a log, though. Spike couldn’t blame him. The last couple of days had been crazy--fighting demons through sewers, hacking them to bits, smashing the bits so they wouldn’t regenerate, and then filling out all the paperwork to explain why one of Wolfram and Hart’s most valued clients had been hacked to bits and smashed so he wouldn’t regenerate.

Spike didn’t know what to think about this kind of thing most of the time. It seemed to him Angel had sold out, but sometimes it didn’t. He knew there was more to the story than he’d so far been able to suss out, though.

Much like what was going on here, in Angel’s bedroom. None of Angel’s cronies had a clue.

Spike liked it that way. Liked having a big secret. Liked the urges he got sometimes to stand in the middle of the lobby and yell, “Bite me, fuckheads, I’m shagging the bloody boss!” But around here, probably no one would have been that impressed.

He closed his eyes, settling down on Angel’s broad back. There was plenty of room for him there, sprawled over the wide, solid shoulders. Angel shifted a little and made a strange noise, then stilled again.

Pretty much dead to the world, then, Spike thought, and grinned, wondering exactly how much he could get away with.

He slid his hands down Angel’s back, to his waist, cupped his buttocks. Angel was big and solid, firm everywhere, big handfuls of muscle anywhere you grabbed. Spike moved flat hands around his hips to his flanks, shifted back up, counting ribs as he nudged Angel’s thighs apart with his knees and settled between them.

He was hard just thinking about it. Hard and a little shaky. He still hadn’t gotten over the fear. He looked at Angel and saw Angelus, and expected to be beaten, bloodied, hurt. Six weeks in Angel’s bed and he still flinched every time Angel cupped his balls, remembering the time Angelus had damn near twisted them off.

Angel had noticed, and it killed Spike every time he whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” or kissed his forehead, gentling him. Made him feel stupid and small, and that wasn’t even what Angel was trying to do.

He needed this. Needed to take control even if it did mean taking advantage. He knew this, deep down, but didn’t want to admit it. He also knew Angel wouldn’t mind.

His hips tilted forward between Angel’s thighs, his cock nudging against him. Angel shifted a little, let out a long breath. Still not awake.

He rubbed his face down Angel's back, drawing in the smell. He smelled different with-soul--it was one of the first things Spike had noticed the first time they'd run into each other back in Sunnydale. It had to do with the food, Spike was fairly certain. He wondered if his own odor had changed as much. Wondered if it had changed pre-soul, with the chip. How many years of pig's blood did it take to change the acrid, meaty odor of a full-fledged, man-killing vampire into this sweeter, denser smell?

He licked Angel's skin. He tasted different, even, and the flavor of his skin made Spike shudder, pure desire arrowing through him.

At the touch of Spike's tongue, Angel shifted, made a small sound. Awake? Spike wasn't sure. He would be in a minute, though.

Spike glanced toward the bedside table. Sure enough, the lube still lay there next to the lamp, half-empty, the tube carefully squeezed from the end.

He picked it up and opened it, squeezed some out onto his hand, defiantly squashing the tube in the middle. He tossed the tube haphazardly back toward the nightstand. It missed and hit the floor.

Spike took a deep breath. Every instinct told him this was wrong. More than wrong--that it would get him killed. Angelus would never have allowed this, and in those days Spike would never have dared. It was hard for him to lose a century of Angelus in six weeks of Angel.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. The lube felt disproportionately heavy in his hand. Icy.

Angel lay lax and silent beneath him. Spike leaned back. Carefully--reverently, if he admitted it to himself--he opened Angel's thighs with his clean hand. Caressed him, opened him up. The lube was still cold, but so was he and so was Angel. It would be skin temperature to him.

Angel moved, and Spike was certain he was awake now, or at least on the way. Gently, Spike spread the lube over him, then slid a finger in, then two. Angel flinched. Ah, he was awake now. Spike kept going. Careful, because Angel was tight, clenched against his gentle invasion. Then, suddenly, he relaxed, all at once. Spike's fingers slid in deep and fast, and Angel shuddered under him.

Spike hesitated, just a moment. Angel shifted, just a little, thighs parting, hips tilting up. Smiling, Spike pressed in, working Angel, opening him. He remained silent, then suddenly let out a deep moan. And then said, quietly, "Stop."

Spike stopped. A tremor of fear shot through him, and he withdrew quickly. Angel moaned again, deep and throaty. Slowly, he rolled over.

Much to his chagrin, Spike realized his hands were shaking. Angel looked up at him, his expression bleary. Spike waited. For an order, for punishment. . .

Angel reached up and pulled him down. Instinctively, Spike tensed.

"Easy," Angel murmured. "Easy."

"Bloody sodding stop it," Spike said, and then flinched. Angel would hit him for that, break his nose, his jaw…

Angel’s hand cupped his face. “Stop what?”

“Stop trying to gentle me. I feel like a fucking dog.”

“You still flinch when I touch you.” He lowered his hand between them, cupped Spike’s balls. Spike flinched, involuntarily. “See?”

“Still like the pain, you know,” he said defiantly. “Still a bloody vampire. Hasn’t changed.”

“But isn’t this better?” Angel drew him down against his chest, still caressing him, his thumb sliding gently between his testicles. He kissed him, gentle, and his body shifted, thighs opening farther, until Spike lay between them, his cock prodding against Angel’s groin. “Finish it,” Angel whispered.

Spike closed his eyes, heat sliding through him, liquid, insistent. Then he bent and kissed Angel hard, hungrily, and reached a hand down between them.

Angel was already slick with lube, and Spike only hesitated a moment before positioning himself and pushing in. Angel’s head went back and he made a dark, growling noise in his throat. His knees bent back and his hips moved, drawing Spike in deeper.

He had never done this before. Not to Angel. Angel was deep and tight and drew him in, until Spike was lost in the depth of him, the pressure clenching his cock. He braced his hands on the bed and thrust hard.

Angel’s body tautened under him, his back arching as he met Spike’s deep, firm strokes. He spread his arms across the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes blank with lust, breath shuddering out of him, low and long.

Angel pulled him in and Spike shifted with the movement, sinking down between Angel's open thighs, sinking deeper inside him. He smelled of earth and blood and Sire-right, smelled of power and domination and strong, beautiful male vampire. And lay lax and pliant under him as Spike gained his courage and thrust, hard and harder, slick and deep, so gloriously deep.

Angel ground his teeth together and moaned. His hands moved to Spike's waist, just resting there, making no attempt to alter his rhythm or control him, just holding him.

Spike braced his hands on the bed, lifting himself over Angel. He looked down and met dark, depthless eyes. Warmth there, openness.

Angel shifted his legs again, drawing his knees up, and on the next thrust Spike went in deep and hard, right to the root, and then held still. He looked down into Angel's open, vulnerable eyes, and Angel smiled.

Spike grinned. Because, in that moment, he got it.

"What do you want, Angel," he said. "Tell me what you want."

Angel smiled, a feral smirk that should have put Spike on edge, but didn't.

"Fuck me, boy. Hard."

Angelus but not, and Spike almost laughed with the realization that he had, here underneath him, the best of both those worlds.

And he fucked Angel. Hard. Until Angel's back arched and he bucked under Spike, pulling him in, so deep, so good, and Spike, not waiting for permission, reached between them to grasp Angel's cock, thick and impossibly hard. He curled his hand around the heavy shaft and worked it. Thrusting at the same time, eyes locked to Angel's, and he knew he had a smug, ridiculous look on his face, and he didn't care.

Angel was right there with him, and his expression wasn't exactly dignified--his mouth was lax, his eyes half-mast. Spike looked down, at his cock sliding in and out of Angel's body, as Angel kept shifting, opening himself more and more, bringing Spike in deeper and deeper.

Spike drew again at Angel's cock, working the foreskin along his shaft, and Angel stiffened suddenly. Spike slid his thumb over the glans and Angel was gone. Come pulsed out, over Angel's belly, Spike's hand.

Spike laughed. And to his surprise, Angel laughed, too. Still coming, Angel
laughed.

"God, Spike. Finish it up. Fuck the hell out of me."

Still laughing, Spike braced himself on the bed and did just that. Angel locked his thighs against Spike's hipbones, arched his back, and the odd, unfamiliar laughter changed to low, needy grunting.

Then, finally, the heat exploded inside him and he grabbed at Angel's shoulders, anchoring himself and coming, hard, one powerful, glorious pulse after another.

"Angel. . ." He bowed his head into Angel's shoulder. "Shit, Angel."

Angel cupped the back of Spike's head, cradling him. He said nothing, for which Spike was profoundly grateful.

He finished finally, empty, pressed his forehead against Angel's collarbone.

"Why?" he asked. In a way he dreaded the answer. "Because you needed it," Angel would say, or, "I wanted you to know I wouldn't hurt you." Some lame-ass poof emotion-laden shit that would make Spike want to curl up and disappear.

But Angel looked at him, brows drawing down, and said, "Because I wanted it."

There was nothing but sincerity in those deep, brown eyes. Was he ever insincere? Sober as a heart attack, was Angel. Never told you what you wanted to hear just because you wanted to hear it. Sometimes told you what he thought you needed to hear, but the bloody great fool couldn't lie to save his life.

"You wanted it?" Spike repeated. "You wanted me."

"Just wanted a fuck. No shame in that." He looked away, then back. Spike understood. It wasn't about power any more--never had been, not for these last six weeks. It was about sex, lust, and, God forbid, some kind of mutual respect. Bonding. Some such bullshit.

Spike smiled. "No. No shame in that."

He settled into Angel's embrace. He never would have admitted it out loud, but it felt good there. Comfortable. Maybe it was just a matter of familiarity, but he didn't care. It had been a long time since he'd felt like he belonged anywhere

It felt good.

END.