"I lost Cordy."

Spike looked at Angel. His eyes were wet--big brown puppy dog eyes. Poof. He looked bloody pathetic.

"And I suppose you blame yourself for that."

Angel looked out the window. Spike still couldn't get used to the sight of his Sire in the sunlight. Or himself, for that matter. He looked down at his hands, sunlit in the beams coming through the necro-tempered glass, and his skin tingled for no reason other than the fact he was looking at it.

"If I hadn't run into her that night," Angel mumbled, "she'd be off being an actress somewhere. She'd be happy. Instead of-" He broke off.

"'Stead of dead?"

Angel looked at him sharply.

"Wasn't your fault, you know," Spike went on. "She made her choice. Not like you dragged her kicking and screaming to be your secretary or whatever the hell she was."

"She was not my secretary." Angel's voice hissed, sharp and edgy, and Spike saw a dark anger in his eyes. "She was a conduit to the Powers. She gave her life for that."

"Well, way I hear it you didn't drag her kicking and screaming into that, either." He started to add something about how Angel hadn't apparently dragged Cordelia kicking and screaming anywhere else, either, and how that was a shame because she'd been quite the tasty little morsel, but by the look in Angel's eyes, he wouldn't take that very well. So, for once in his unlife, Spike refrained.

"Sorry about what happened, though," he added, and meant it, and Angel's expression eased a little.

"Yeah," said Angel, and turned his attention back out the window.

Spike watched him for a few minutes. God, he was boring. Big and boring. He looked out his own window for a time. The ground was...a really, really long way down.

He took a shivery breath and stood up. Paused, because he suddenly felt like the floor was sliding out from under him, and grabbing the seats to steady himself would be very not cool. But there was a bar at the back of the plane; he'd seen it when they'd boarded. And he wasn't going to let a minor fear of flying keep him away from a good bottle of whisky.

But the bottle of whisky turned out to be all of three inches tall, and American. He eyed it forlornly.

Angel came up behind him. Spike turned. Angel was a little unsteady on his feet and trying to hide it.

"Bloody Southern Comfort. Tastes like piss." Spike put the tiny bottle back down on the bar and looked to see what else was available. There were several other tiny bottles. He finally settled on the itty bitty vodka. He popped open a can of orange juice and carefully poured the little bottle's contents in through the hole the pop-top left behind.

"I kind of like it, myself," said Angel. "The Southern Comfort."

"Well, you drink it, then." He slugged down half the can of juice and belched impressively, then looked at Angel, who was regarding him with something less than approval. "What?"

Angel shook his head. "Nothing."

Spike headed back toward his seat, taking careful steps. He fell loosely back into it, as nonchalant as possible. His stomach lurched oddly. He really didn't care for flying, he decided.

He tipped his head back, then tilted it sideways, looking again out the window. Clouds. They were interesting. Big and puffy, and from here they looked solid. He considered them for a moment.

Again, he heard Angel approaching from behind, his big, hulking self shuffling up the small middle aisle. "We have to get her back."

Spike glanced at him. "No shit."

Angel settled into his seat. "You like her, don't you?"

"Fred? What's not to like? She's good people."

"Yes, she is."

"So was Cordy, for that matter." He took another swig of the vodka-laced orange juice. "Good people. Shame, all of it."

"We'll get her back." Angel's voice carried a confidence his eyes lacked. "We have to."

Spike perused Angel's face, noting the beetled brow, the pain in his eyes. "Yeah. We will."

Angel twisted open the little bottle of Southern Comfort and downed it in a single swig. Then he reached into the pocket of his leather coat and pulled out another. Then two more, then another. He lined them up neatly on his tray table and began to down them, one by one.

"Planning on getting drunk?" Spike asked him.

Angel snorted. "On these? This is like...dollhouse liquor."

"Puppet liquor," Spike offered.

"Shut the hell up."

Spike laughed. "Sorry, mate."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

"And I so kicked your ass."

Spike reached over and snagged one of the little bottles from Angel's tray table. "What's with this, anyway? You're the bloody CEO-you should have real bottles of booze on your plane."

"Yeah. Tell me about it." He wrenched open another bottle and drank it.

Spike eyed him. "God, you're tense."

"I'm always tense."

"Yeah, you need a good fuck, is what you need." He picked up the can of soda and swigged the last few swallows.

Angel looked at him, an odd, dark smolder in his eyes. "You offering?"

Spike nearly spat the last of his impromptu screwdriver back into the can. Carefully, he composed himself and set the can down on the tray table. "What?"

"I said are you offering? You want to put your money where your big, loud mouth is?"

Spike bristled. "Maybe you want to put your cock where my big, loud mouth is."

Angel leaned toward him. "Maybe I do. I mean, not much chance of perfect happiness right now, is there? Because I'm really, really pissed off."

"You pissed off at me?"

Angel's bluster suddenly subsided. He looked away, toward the window again. "No. Not at you."

Spike nodded. "Yeah. Me, either."

They were silent a moment. Spike crushed his orange juice can and tossed it nonchalantly across the plane.

"You leaving that there?" Angel asked.

"Yeah."

Angel twitched a little, but said nothing else.

"You ever been?" Spike said abruptly.

Angel looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Been where?"

"Been fucked." He suddenly realized what he was saying. Angel's eyes had hardened, but suddenly they changed again.

"Not for a long time." His tone was almost conversational.

His answer surprised Spike. "Really? Because before...well, you know."

"Yeah."

"So..." Spike ventured, "having a soul makes you want to take it up the ass?"

Angel actually chuckled. "It do that to you?"

"Not this week."

Silence fell again. Outside the plane, it seemed to be growing dark. Spike looked out the window. A long, forked tongue of pale lighting twisted from the clouds.

"Shit," he said.

Angel looked at him. "Is it safe to fly in that?"

"Must be, or we wouldn't be here."

"Not necessari-"

Angel broke off mid-word as the plane lurched to one side and dropped, fast. Spike flew out of his seat, then landed hard in the aisle next to it. A moment later, Angel hit the floor, his torso on top of Spike, legs sprawled over the narrow aisle.

"Holy mother of-" Spike stopped. Mostly because Angel's tongue was in his mouth. He held back the shock long enough to grab Angel's hair and pull him closer, kiss him harder.

"Don't like to fly," Angel managed after a moment. He had one hand cupped around Spike's jaw, the other clenching his ass.

"Don't think I do, either," Spike conceded. He lifted his head to nip at Angel's neck. "Like this, though."

"It's been a long time."

"It's been never."

Angel started to protest, then stopped, and Spike saw the flash of dark guilt go through his eyes. Thinking about that again, about the old days, and what he'd done to Spike.

"Shut up," said Spike, though Angel had said nothing. "You want a fuck? Think it'd make you feel better?"

Angel shrugged. "Worth a shot."

Flattering, that, Spike thought, then Angel's gaze met his and Spike allowed himself a wry smile. There was desire there, and Angel was letting him see it. That didn't happen very often. Actually, it had never happened.

He had only a moment to enjoy it, though, before the plane lurched again. The movement threw Spike into Angel's wide chest. Angel caught him, put his arms around him as the plane steadied again.

"Reckon they're watching?" Spike asked. "In the cockpit?"

"Think I give a shit? I own them. All of them."

Spike nodded. That was a story he needed to hear. Someday. Not now. He grabbed the back of Angel's neck and kissed him. Hard.

"Not your fault," he said after a few minutes. His mouth tasted of Angel. "Not any of it."

"Might as well be." Angel's voice was soft, his tone heavy with regret. "I couldn't save Cordy." His fingers traced Spike's face, outlining his cheekbones. "Never had a chance in that one."

Spike smiled a little. A soft lilt had come into Angel's voice, that vague sound of Ireland that leaked out from time to time.

"You have a chance in this one. Plus you got me helping. Haven't had that before, now, have you? Ought to make a difference."

"Ought to gum up the works pretty well," said Angel. He pressed his mouth against Spike's throat, where his pulse would have been if he had one. Spike felt his body quiver quite against his will.

Outside, the sky had lightened, the clouds no longer black, but puffy white again. Angel dragged Spike against him and Spike went willingly, aroused more than he'd expected to be by the big, forceful hands.

They had rolled--and been thrown--by this time behind the main seats. If anyone came out of the cockpit, they wouldn't necessarily see anything unusual. Not that Spike cared. He doubted Angel did, either.

He moved his body into the movement of Angel's hands, increasing the pressure of already aggressive caresses. Angel pushed Spike's duster back from his shoulders, shoved his hands under the tight black T-shirt, and Spike pulled at Angel's own leather coat, his fancy schmancy striped dress shirt. He pulled at Angel's belt, jerked at the fastener on his trousers. Angel was taut, his gasps sounding as much like sobs as desire.

Spike pulled Angel's head into his chest suddenly, cradling him there. "You did all you could," he said. "Nothing else you could do but what we're doing now."

"I know." He didn't sound very convinced. "It never works out right, though. Doesn't matter what I do. It always goes wrong."

Spike didn't bother contradicting him. There was no point. Instead he kissed him again, and let his fingers trace the geography of his Sire's abdomen.

Angel held onto him, just let Spike caress him. Spike felt himself beginning to burn, his cock thickening, ready, eager. He kissed Angel's face, flattened his hand against the wide, strong abdominal muscles. Big, powerful--Spike remembered what it had been like to be overpowered by this body, and the memory sent heat spiraling through him. He worked Angel's zipper down and put his hand inside the soft cotton boxers to palm Angel's cock.

Angel shook a little against him, and Spike had the sudden, discomfiting thought that he might be crying. Surely not. He traced Angel's long, thick erection, circled the head with his fingertip, then leaned forward to lick the underside of Angel's chin. Angel tilted his head, accommodating him.

"Cordy," Spike ventured, not sure how Angel would react to his saying the somewhat sacred name. "You loved her, didn't you?"

Angel closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"She love you?"

"I don't know."

"You two ever--" He broke off at Angel's glare. "Sorry."

"Just shut up and do something useful with that hand." He tilted his chin down briefly, indicated Spike's hand still curled around his cock.

"You likely to do something back?" He squeezed a little tighter, and Angel responded with a satisfying flinch.

"Not out of the question." He looked into Spike's face and Spike quirked an eyebrow in challenge. In response, Angel jerked the button of Spike's jeans open, yanked down the zipper, and put his hand inside.

"No underwear?" Angel seemed almost indignant, as if Spike's lack of underwear was entirely inappropriate.

"Nope."

Angel's hand slid farther down the front of Spike's pants, cupping his balls. Spike let his eyes fall closed. His own hand loosened again on Angel, and Angel thrust through his fist.

Spike let himself relax, enjoying the efficient manner in which Angel worked him. He knew what he was doing, and his hands were so damn big... He pushed and thrust against the wide palm, feeling the slow building of desire in his belly. It had been a good damn long time since anybody had touched him.

He had a feeling it had been a good damn long time for Angel, as well. Halloween, at least--Spike knew about that one. He pushed thought out of his head and shoved into Angel's expert grasp, then Angel slid his thumb over the head of Spike's cock and Spike let go.

Nothing like a damn mess all over the airplane, he thought, but Angel had grabbed a napkin from the bar and had things more or less under control. Spike watched him wipe up the spatters of come, while his orgasm wound down. Then, suddenly, he bent forward and took Angel's cock in his mouth.

Angel moaned and leaned back, giving Spike better access to his lap. It was awkward; Angel's pants were undone but not really out of the way, and Spike's lips kept running into his zipper, but damn if that big, thick cock didn't taste good. He drew it in and laved it, feeling Angel's body tauten under him.

Angel was close already, and it didn't take long. Spike only managed to deep-throat him a couple of times before he felt Angel's big body shudder, felt his balls go tight. Spike brought him down into his mouth, settling the glans against the back of his throat, and swallowed. It wasn't bad. It was close to blood, in its way.

He drew back after a moment and licked the head of Angel's cock clean, then looked up into his Sire's face. Angel looked drained, tired.

"You feel any better?" Spike asked.

Angel shook his head. "Not really."

"Well. Shit." Spike did up his pants and heaved himself back into his seat. "Did what I could."

"Yeah," said Angel. "Didn't suck."

"Yeah, I did."

Angel actually laughed. It was a little bitter, but it was still a laugh. It faded quickly, though. He was silent for a moment.

"What if we can't save her?" he finally said.

Spike sobered. "We'll save her. It's what we do."

"Yeah," said Angel, and his voice was so tired, so utterly empty, that Spike blinked in surprise.

He started to say something, but changed his mind. He had a feeling nothing he could say would comfort Angel, not right now.

He reached behind his seat and picked up one of the tiny whisky bottles. "Here," he said. "Better than nothing."

Angel smiled a little, and took the bottle, and drank.