It's six o'clock, and as usual, Spike has meandered into Angel's penthouse apartment and is helping himself to Angel's liquor. Angel's not entirely certain how this pattern came to be, but it's slowly engrained itself into his life over the last several weeks. It annoyed him at first, but he's gotten used to it, and tonight it actually feels almost comfortable. Maybe because he'll put up with almost anything to forget about what happened this afternoon, when Buffy came to visit.
       Spike passes him a tumbler of whisky and he takes a drink, feeling it burn down his throat, then settles into his favorite chair and leans his head back. He wants nothing more than just to empty his mind, though there's so much in there right now, rattling around, Buffy's eyes and her voice, and what she'd said to him today. More importantly, what she hadn't said.
       Spike sits down, as well, and to Angel's surprise he doesn't start talking. He's quiet for a long time, sipping his drink. Eventually he picks the bottle back up and refills their glasses. They both stare emptily at the opposite wall. Angel wonders how closely Spike's thoughts echo his own.
       "You were always good, you know." Spike says suddenly, out of nowhere. The whisky bottle is empty by this time, and Angel is starting to feel maudlin.
       Angel stares at Spike, surprised at the words, wondering where they are coming from. "What?"
       Spike regards him with surprising frankness. It occurs to Angel that they've probably both had more than a little too much to drink. "You were always good. You know how to do it, you know? Where to put your hands, how hard, how fast." He laughs a little, the sound reluctant. "Hard to say it, mate, but it was damn good."
       Revulsion rises in the back of Angel's throat. He's tried so hard to forget that, every second of it, the smell and the taste and the friction. He can barely force the words out: "I raped you. Repeatedly."
       Spike's mouth twists in that odd, canted smile. "Nah. Well, part of the time. Mostly I made you think that, because you liked it that way." He shakes his head. "You were brutal, but damn, it was good."
       But Angel is repulsed. "I hate everything that I did to you." He spits the words out, and is surprised that Spike actually looks hurt.
       "Bullshit, Angel. We were bloody soulless demons, or did you forget that already? Why do you fucking hate yourself so much? What's it got you, pet?"
       Angel pushes himself up out of his chair. Spike watches him stalk across the room. He's indolently sprawled across the other chair, watching his Grandsire with tolerant annoyance. Angel retrieves another bottle of Scotch, pours out another glass. He doesn't know how many he's had. It doesn't matter. "What's it got me?" he says, his voice harsh. "Fucking nothing, that's what. What's the point? Was there ever a point?" Suddenly, violently, he flings the bottle of Scotch at the wall. The golden liquor pools on the floor and Angel is immediately repentant. It was expensive Scotch.
       Spike shifts in his chair, leaning forward. "Tell me this, Angel. Do you hate a wolf when it tears up some fluffy bunny? No, you don't, because it's in its nature, in't it? It kills, it eats. It's all we did. We didn't choose it. Why d'you bloody beat yourself up about it all the time?"
       Angel spins on him, glaring. He's not sure why he's so angry, or why he wants so desperately just to hurt Spike, and this shames him as much as anything he can dredge up from their twisted, sordid, bloody past. "Is it that easy for you? You can just...forget all of it? Let it go?"
       Spike shrugs. "Dunno, mate. Sometimes it's there, sometimes it ain't. Can't do anything about it, now, can I?"
       "Maybe it's the curse," Angel mumbles, the idea forming small in the back of his mind. It's not the first time he's thought of this. "Maybe the curse is what makes it all so hard."
       Rising to his feet, Spike crosses the room to lean against the wall next to the liquor cabinet. "Maybe." He shrugs, flexes his hands. Angel watches. Spike has only been corporeal for a few weeks now, and he seems to still be entranced with the novelty of it. Angel wonders what it's like, to have a body after so long being nothing. Maybe a little like returning to Buffy's warm arms after a century in hell.
       And suddenly he says, "I don't think she's coming back."
       Spike looks up sharply. Buffy was there today, only for a couple of hours, all smiles and laughter and warm embraces for both of them, and when Angel looked into her eyes hoping for her to look back, she didn't. She looked sidelong, up, down, everywhere but at his face, or at Spike's. Angel's heart had constricted, and he had seen Spike's face fall. She was going to leave them both.
       Spike's expression turns harsh and sharp, then he lets go of the pretense and lets Angel see the edge of his pain. "No. Don't seem that way, does it?"
       The odor of the Scotch has risen to permeate the room. Staring mournfully at the golden puddle on the floor, Angel lets himself feel his own pain, just for a moment. He never dreamed Buffy would choose to turn away from him. He's always assumed her affair with Spike was an aberration, an act of desperation, and maybe it was, but to move on without Angel, to look for someone else... It hurts so much he can't bear to think about it.
       "You all right, mate?" Spike's voice is surprisingly gentle, and it is this, combined with the effects of the Scotch, that makes Angel answer honestly, "No, not really."
       He is surprised to feel Spike's hand settle on his shoulder. He flinches a little; he's not sure why.
       "She loved you. You know that, don't you? Used to drive me crazy. Said your name more than mine, when we were--"
       "Don't." The word comes out half-choked, and suddenly Angel turns and grabs Spike by the shoulders, slams him into the wall and kisses him, hard.
       It's like instinct, the need to force Sire-right upon him, the need to have him, and Angel is anything but gentle, forcing Spike's mouth open, shoving into him with his tongue. Spike stiffens against him and starts to push at his chest, then suddenly his whole body goes limp and he moans into Angel's mouth, kissing him back, grabbing his hair, pulling him closer, grinding into Angel's body.
       It's the acquiescence more than anything else that makes Angel back away.
       "Spike--"
       But Spike is grabbing him by his collar, even as he starts to move away. "Don't stop! God, Angel! I have skin now, God, I have fucking hands.... Don't stop..." He pulls Angel in to him and kisses him, mumbles against his mouth, "God, don't stop."
       Again, Angel wonders what it must be like, to be able to feel after all this time. Like walking into the sun, those first moments before it begins to burn. Like looking into Buffy's eyes... He pushes Spike back a little, but not away, just enough so that he can be gentle, and kiss him the way he should be kissed, deep and thoroughly, with care and patience.
       The sounds coming from Spike's throat sound like sobs. He slides his hands inside Angel's shirt, clutching at him, as if trying to absorb as much sensation as he can through his palms. Angel lifts his arms, letting Spike pull his black henley off over his head. He has to break their kiss to let the shirt go by, and Spike isn't quite tall enough, so Angel goes to his knees. The shirt goes up, he goes down, and he grabs at the hem of Spike's black T-shirt and pulls that up, and latches his mouth to Spike's smooth belly.
       Spike grabs Angel's hair, not entirely sure he's going to make it through this without losing his mind. He's been weeks unable to touch anything, not even able to breathe if he wanted to, and now here he is pushed up against the wall in Angel's bedroom, and Angel's unbuckling his trousers, and the next thing he knows, Angel's big, familiar hands are inside his pants, cupping his ass, kneading him, and Spike thinks he might explode right there. Angel's never been like this with him before--hell, sexually, Angel's never been Angel with him before. It's always been Angelus, and with Angelus it was always lie down, or bend over, take it and like it and call me Sire, boy, and bleed for me.
       Not that there was anything wrong with that.
       But this is Angel, and Angel knows how to take his time, and God, Angelus never would have done that, never would have peeled Spike's clothes out of the way so he could get Spike's cock into his mouth...
       Angel takes him deep, right down his throat, and Spike can't help it, he's gone, and he hears Angel chuckle. Spike bangs his head against the wall behind him, part of him sinking with embarrassment and fear, because if he'd ever done this to Angelus, he would have been beaten within an inch of his unlife. Then again, Angelus never would have had his cock in his mouth in the first place.
       But Angel just digs his fingers into Spike's buttocks and pulls him closer, sucking Spike's cock down his throat, swallowing as Spike comes, and laughs a little, then makes a distinctively satisfied humming sound. And just when Spike thinks he's done, Angel slides a finger inside him, and prods him just right, and Spike almost shouts as yet another spear of sheer ecstasy shoots through him. Angel laughs again, and suddenly Spike's laughing, too, and he grabs Angel's hair and drags him off his cock, because if Angel sucks him one more time Spike's going to explode, or dust, or catch on fire, or something decidedly fatal.
       "Damn, Peaches," he manages, "you got a mouth on you, don't you?"
       Angel bites his thigh, hard, then licks his hip bone. "And you're a bit lacking in stamina."
       "Sorry, mate, it's been awhile."
       Angel just laughs. He rises on his knees and rubs his cheek against Spike's nipple, breathes against his chest, drawing in the odor. "You smell good, boy. You quit smoking?"
       "Yeah. Didn't like it anymore."
       "Bullshit."
       Spike doesn't argue. Angel's licking his chest now and it feels so damn good he's not sure he can stand it. He lets his hands slide down to Angel's wide shoulders. "You know what I want?"
       Angel looks up at him, his dark eyes about as warm as Spike's ever seen them. "What?"
       "Put me down on that floor and bugger me good. Just like old times."
       "You sure?"
       Spike looks down into Angel's face and is surprised to discover he trusts him. It's never occurred to him before, but he does. Trusts Angel more than he's trusted anyone, except maybe Buffy, and that only in the later days, after he'd stopped fucking her. "Yeah," he says, plain, gentle, and Angel nods.
       And he understands exactly what Spike wants, because he gets to his feet, looks down at him and says, "On the floor, boy."
       Spike grins. It really doesn't sound that convincing. But Angel's glowering at him under those low-slung brows, and Spike's smile fades. It's a lot like Angelus, he has to admit. He lowers himself to the floor.
       Even the carpet against his chest feels good. This is good carpet--of course it is, nothing but the best for the CEO of the most evil law firm in the history of anything. He closes his eyes and pushes his forehead against it, anticipating Angel's rough hands on him.
       Nothing happens. He looks up to see Angel rummaging in a drawer. Oh, good God, he's getting lube. Spike chuckles. Then Angel turns around and starts unbuckling his belt, and Spike sobers again because Angel is looking at him the way he always used to, with that little sneer, and his dark brows low over menacing eyes. Spike digs his fingers into the carpet, surprised to find himself hard again. God, he wants this so much.
       He watches Angel unbuckle his belt, watches his trousers fall to the floor. Angel steps out of them. He throws the lube onto Spike's back, and Spike flinches at the impact. Peeling off his underwear, Angel walks around Spike's prone body, and a moment later he lowers himself onto Spike. He's heavy, even bracing most of his weight on his hands.
       "You want it, boy?" he hisses into Spike's ear, and Spike nods. Angel's big hand slides up his side, from hipbone to armpit, softly. It's such a strange combination, Spike thinks, Angelus' harsh voice in his ear, Angel's gentle hands on his body. He cups Spike's ass, slides his fingers down the back of his thigh.
       There are soft, wet sounds--Angel preparing, lubing himself. Spike grins into the carpet. He has no idea why he finds this so amusing, except that it's so completely not Angelus. Angelus didn't give a flying fuck about lube. Vampires like pain, after all, so why bother? But this is Angel, and Angel bends to lick his spine, from the small of his back to the base of his neck, while his hand eases between his thighs, opens him up.
       Spike lets himself go loose and liquid on the floor. Back in the day he might have tightened up on purpose, just to piss Angelus off, but he doesn't want that now. He wants to feel everything this physical body can feel, because he's missed that so much. Even pulling air into his lungs is ecstasy, these days.
       The blunt tip of Angel's cock touches him, and just in case Angel has any intention of taking this slowly, Spike shoves backwards, impaling himself on the thick, hard length. He knows how to take this in; he's accepted or been forced to accept this exact penetration a hundred times--more. There's a long, sharp stab of pain, but it fades quickly as he slides himself forward again. Angel's actually holding still above him, letting Spike control the rhythm, the depth.
       Spike works himself on Angel's cock for a few minutes, just feeling it, until he's managed to seat him to the root. Then he settles down onto the carpet, spreading his arms out above his head, giving himself up. Angel can do whatever he wants, now.
       In the past, this would have involved pain, bloodletting, teeth sunk hard into willing or unwilling flesh. But this time Angel slides his hands down Spike's arms and folds his fingers between Spike's, then lifts his strong body over Spike's back and sets to work.
       He moves slowly, but with the kind of harsh authority Spike's used to. Again, it's a strange combination, but God, it feels good. Angel speeds up the rhythm, spearing him harder and harder, and when his mouth touches Spike's shoulder Spike expects to feel teeth tearing into him, but instead it's lips, soft, wet tongue, laving across the back of his neck, then Angel's mouth latches onto his skin and suckles him, teeth grazing his skin but not biting, and not sharp. Spike's pelvis pools with heat again and his hardened cock rubs uncomfortably against the carpet. Without thinking, he shifts his hips, lifting them from the floor, then freezes. He's supposed to lie still.
       But Angel just lets go of his hand and slides his fingers under Spike's hipbone, lifting him a little more, adjusting him. His big hand curls around Spike's shaft, his thumb sliding over the wet head. "Go ahead," he says, whispering it into Spike's ear. Spike shudders at the soft breath on his skin. "Come in my hand, boy."
       Spike brings himself up onto his elbows, letting go of Angel's other hand. Angel doesn't seem to mind; he shifts along with him, thrusting into Spike as Spike thrusts into the strong curl of his fingers. Angel braces his other arm against the floor; his forearm is right in front of Spike's face and Spike just leans forward a little and digs his teeth in, still blunt but hard. He doesn't break the skin, but he can taste the shadow of the blood beneath the surface. Sire blood. Sweet, thick, and something he's rarely tasted.
       Angel gasps, but doesn't pull free. Instead he just shoves harder and faster into Spike's body, driving him hard, bringing him up toward yet another blindingly ecstatic peak. Then his teeth clench hard on the back of Spike's neck, and that's all it takes to send Spike over the brink again. He can barely contain the sensation as he spills himself all over the carpet and Angel's hand. It's so intense--the only times he's ever felt anything this intense were the times he died.
       A half-second, a half-thrust later, Angel hunches into him, his hand clasping too hard on his cock, his teeth on Spike's neck breaking the skin, and he growls, just on the edge of human, and comes hard. Spike can feel it inside him--Angel's hard, pulsing release--and he wonders how long it's been for Angel. A long time, undoubtedly. He lets himself bite harder, tastes the blood as it wells against his teeth. Just a little, just enough to taste it. Angel's growl turns into something closer to a sob. He lurches, finishing. Carefully, he loosens his teeth from Spike's neck and kisses him there, then rolls sideways, pulling Spike into his arms.
       Spike laughs again; he can't help it. "Good God, y'bloody great poof, you want to cuddle now?"
       "Shut up, Spike," says Angel, and cradles him into the wide curve of his chest, drapes one leg over Spike's. Spike closes his eyes. It feels good, really, Angel's chest against his back, his body lax from satiation.
       God, I could use a smoke," he mutters.
       "I can supply something else for your oral fixation." Angel's voice rumbles sleepily.
       "Not right now. I'm bloody knackered."
       Angel settles his chin against Spike's shoulder and tries not to think about the teeth marks on Spike's neck. He can smell the blood, and he wants more. "You all right?"
       "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?" He shifts in Angel's arms, and Angel pulls him a little tighter. It feels good, having him here, and he's not sure why. They've spent so much time hating each other, sniping and bitching, that they've ignored the fact that they are the only two creatures in the entire world who can really understand each other. "What about you?" Spike says, his voice suddenly gentle. "You took it hard this afternoon. I could tell."
       "So did you." Angel doesn't want to talk about this.
       "Yeah, but I can live with it. Never really thought she loved me, anyway."
       "She did." Angel isn't sure why he even said it, but he knows it's true.
       Spike is silent. After a moment, he moves a little, nestling a little more thoroughly into Angel's embrace. Angel feels dampness on his arm as Spike's cheek rubs across it--tears. "Who bloody needs her?"
       Angel won't cry for Buffy; it hurts too much for tears. "I did. I still do. But it'll be all right."
       "Maybe we were wrong. Maybe she's coming back."
       "Maybe," Angel says, but he doesn't believe it. He's never gotten anything else he wanted in his life, never been allowed to keep anything or anyone he loved--why should this be different?
       He pulls Spike in even closer, drawing in his odor--aroused male vampire and hair bleach and come. "You want to stay? The bed's big enough."
       Spike chuckles a little. It's a nice sound, Angel thinks. "Yeah," Spike says finally. "Think I might like that, believe it or not."
       "So would I," says Angel, but right now he's perfectly comfortable here on the soft carpet, with Spike nestled in his arms. "So would I."

END.