about 5000 words, Post NFA, S/A, NC-17. Fondly dedicated to
makd.
Starting Anew
“You did what?”
“I signed it away.”
Spike looked somewhere between bewildered and consternated, and with
pain coursing through him Angel couldn’t manage to understand why. He
braced himself for the tug and twist, but cried out anyway when the
bone was reset. Spike wiped his hands on his jeans, picking up more
blood than he was leaving behind.
“You’re an idiot,” he murmured through gritted teeth. “Who asked you to
sign it away?”
The bandages he wove around Angel’s arms had seen better days. Try as
he might, his show of being rough and brusque did not fool Angel for a
minute, not when the pain was slowly receding rather than increasing.
“As a matter of fact, the Black Thorn did,” Angel replied. He wanted
nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for a year – or a
century. He couldn’t, though, not when the fight was only beginning.
“You could have asked my opinion,” Spike continued to gripe. He was
done with the bandaging, as useless as it would be, and turned away to
approach the window. The sky was still black from the storm, but cracks
were appearing in the clouds, and light was beginning to filter through.
“That’s just like you. You’ve always been making decisions for me.
Always pushing me even when I don’t bloody want…”
He trailed off and lit a cigarette, taking only a drag before he threw
it to the ground in a raging gesture.
It wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Spike had always been a willing
participant in everything Angelus, and Angel, had ever suggested. But
Angel let it go, and instead watched him – his nemesis, his friend and
foe, his sometimes lover and always adversary – bathed in the rising
sunlight that Angel had signed away with his blood.
“It’s not fair,” Spike breathed, and Angel did not have in him the
force to disagree.
Angel was surprised that it took Spike so long to even try. Patience
had never been his biggest quality, and a week had to seem like an
eternity for him. It didn’t occur to Angel until after the fact that
Spike might have been waiting for him to be healed.
It started out rather innocently with an argument about whether or not
Angel was well enough to go out and hunt a few of these demons that had
stayed behind when Wolfram & Hart’s armies had retreated. It
continued, more viciously on Angel’s part, with the remark that Spike
ought to stay away from fights altogether, unless he intended to throw
away this new life like he had wasted his first one.
The taste of blood in Angel’s mouth was familiar enough, although
Spike’s blow had been nowhere near as strong as it would have been just
a little more than a week earlier.
Angel reacted without a thought, striking hard and fast, his
frustration piercing through his blow. Spike tried to evade his fist,
but he wasn’t quick enough, not anymore. He had never seemed as fragile
and broken as he did lying down on the floor, arms spread out on each
side of him, blood tricking from his nose and mouth.
Angel’s hands dropped to his sides, and he promised himself in that
instant—never again. Not even if Spike angered him on purpose. Not when
it was so damn easy.
Spike, however, was still Spike. He stood, wiped the blood away, and
struck again. And again. And once more, until Angel yelled at him to
stop, that it wasn’t going to work.
That he wasn’t going to kill him.
The door banged shut behind Spike, and Angel wondered for a few hours
whether he would be back at all. He should have known, of course. Spike
always came back. And as so often in the past, he came back drunk,
hanging on to a bottle as though to dear life. He did share it with
Angel, though, without a word or even looking at him. Angel accepted
the offer as the apology that it was.
The next night, they patrolled together, and Angel almost got himself
dusted twice while trying to make sure Spike would come out of the
fight alive.
Nights of fighting succeeded to days of healing. Angel continued to
keep a very close eye on Spike when they went out, although Spike
adjusted remarkably well to his new limitations. He learned to fight
with less blunt force and more strategy. Some nights, though, Angel
could tell that his patience was running thin, and that it took all
that Spike had not to rush into a fight and confront a demon hands to
claws.
Angel’s worry didn’t fade, however. It couldn’t, not when Spike didn’t
adjust as well to things that weren’t linked to fighting. He watched,
day after day, and gritted his teeth as Spike slowly killed himself.
Spike had never had much bulk to him, but despite Angel’s repeated
reminders that he needed to eat, he continued to pick at his food and
lose weight. There were also the cigarettes. In the first few days,
Spike had left those alone. But old habits had resurfaced, and despite
some nasty fits of coughing, Spike was now steadily smoking a pack a
day. If that wasn’t enough, the marks beneath his eyes darkened and
deepened with every sleepless night spent fighting demons, every
restless day wasted pacing through the flat they shared.
It came to a point where Angel couldn’t bear it anymore. Wouldn’t bear
it. And made it clear.
“If you keep it up, I’m leaving.”
They had just returned from another fight. Spike had lit a cigarette as
soon as they had passed the threshold.
“Keep what up?” he asked, his voice sounding hollow. “And why would I
care if you left?”
Angel met his eyes, and saw two clear lies in them. He shook his head
and went to the closet that was supposed to be a bedroom according to
some twisted architect. He threw the meager possessions he had amassed
in a few weeks into a bag, along with an axe and a few stakes. The
smell of cigarettes announced Spike’s silent presence. He flinched when
Angel threw a hard glance at him.
“Don’t,” was all Spike said.
Angel growled. “If you don’t give a damn about your life, why should I?”
Spike’s laugh was painful to hear, void of any joy or feeling. “Because
if you don’t, no one will.”
Angel stared at him, for a long time, until Spike shifted under his
gaze as though uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything, but he left his
bag at the foot of the bed and went to pluck the cigarette from Spike’s
lips. Then he held out his hand, and although Spike scowled, he did
surrender the rest of the pack. Angel pushed past him and went to
dispose of the cigarettes in the garbage bin.
Next was the food. He picked up the phone and found a place that
delivered at all hours. He ordered enough food to satisfy a dozen
hungry teenagers, and when it arrived, he looked at Spike, crossed his
arms and waited. Spike sighed, but he ate three slices of pizza – more
than he had eaten in the past three days, Angel was sure.
That left only the lack of sleep. As it turned out, Spike wasn’t so
inclined to pacing all day when an arm thrown over him prevented him
from going anywhere and left him no other choice than to sleep.
The next evening, Angel unpacked.
Late morning light filtered through the blinds, indirectly so that it
wasn’t a threat to Angel, but strong enough that it cast shadows over
Spike’s sleeping features. Even in his sleep, Angel noticed morosely,
he seemed unhappy, that small line over his brow never quite
disappearing. He had watched him enough in the past few days to know as
much.
Spike grunted then shifted and rolled onto his side, turning away.
Angel lifted his arm for a second to give him time to settle down
again, then draped it over him once more, mindful on the bandage low on
Spike’s ribs. It had been three nights since he had been hurt. It would
take many more until he healed completely, even if the wound had been
superficial. Angel hated to think of what might have happened if that
axe had struck a little higher, or cut a little deeper.
He hated to think of what would happen the night when he was too slow
to push Spike out of harm’s way.
“God, can you brood more quietly? I was trying to sleep, here.”
Angel snorted but did not reply. Now that he was awake, he expected
Spike to free himself with his usual shrug, but all he did was yawn.
The light filtering in strengthened as the sun reached its peak over
Los Angeles. Neither of them moved. Spike didn’t comment on Angel’s
cock pressing against the small of his back, and Angel pretended not to
notice the heavy scent of lust filling the room, only part of which was
his own.
Spike’s hair was getting longer, with darker roots at the base of curls
that would have been soft as down if Angel had dared caress them.
“Why don’t you call her?”
Spike did not react in any way to Angel’s question. Feet propped on the
rickety coffee table, he continued to watch some stupid show or other,
his new way of spending his afternoons. Angel was beginning to think he
had liked the pacing better.
“So?” Angel insisted when long seconds had yielded no answer.
“So what?” Spike shot back without deigning to look at him.
Angel flung the cordless phone at him. It hit Spike’s shoulder, and
earned Angel a filthy glare. Not that long ago, Spike would have caught
it easily, with or without warning, and the fact that they both knew it
was not making anything easier.
“Don’t pretend you don’t have her number,” Angel barked when Spike
started to say something. “I know Harmony gave it to you, and I know
you memorized it.”
He bit his tongue rather than admitting he had watched Spike dial this
very same number dozens of times, and always hang up before anyone
could have a chance to answer.
“I don’t bloody want to call her,” Spike muttered as he threw the phone
onto the seat next to him. His hands patted his jeans pockets, then his
shirt, and he scowled when he didn’t find the cigarettes he undoubtedly
had been looking for.
“Why not?” Angel sighed. “She’ll be happy to hear you’re alive.”
Spike’s expression only darkened. “Yeah, I bet she would be,” he said,
his words cracking with ice. “And that’s precisely why I’m not going to
call.”
Understanding hit like the proverbial ton of bricks and Angel let go of
the topic for good.
The kiss was an accident. At least, that was Angel’s story, and he
would cling to it if Spike said anything, which he was bound to do
eventually.
They had put an end to the night’s fight earlier than usual, mostly
because they couldn’t find one stupid demon to send back to hell. Angel
knew they were there, he could practically feel it in his bones, in his
blood, but that didn’t help him find them, not when the stench of the
city, pollution and overflowing sewers after too much rain, hid their
scent from him.
While walking back toward the apartment they shared, they had walked,
quite by accident, on the grounds where the Wolfram & Hart building
had stood. A new building had been erected in its place, even taller,
it seemed. The sign in front of it was the same as it used to be. Angel
had felt the ground disappear beneath his feet for a minute, and only
Spike’s hand closing over his arm had pulled him back to a present in
which no friendly face would greet him if he decided to walk past these
doors. Or at least, he hoped so. The alternative would have been too
painful.
“Come on, then,” Spike said, pulling Angel with him. “I know just what
you need.”
What Angel needed, apparently, was to get drunk. Not particularly
original, but it had worked often enough in the past. The bar was just
this side of seedy, the booze cheap enough for their meager resources,
and after two hours of silently tossing back beers and stronger
alcohol, Spike was well and truly pissed, and Angel had just enough
brain power left to find their way back to the apartment.
“You’ll have to cut out that kind of drinking,” he informed a rather
comatose Spike as he half carried him, half dragged him up the three
flights of steps. “Your insides pro’bly aren’t suited for it anymore.”
If Spike heard any of it, he did not comment on the warning. Angel
didn’t mind, he was slowly getting used to a Spike that didn’t talk and
snark as much as he once had. He didn’t like it, but there were many
things he didn’t like that he was getting used to lately.
“That’d be a really stupid way to die,” he continued after they had
passed the threshold. “But then again, you’ve never been all that
bright, have you?”
Still no answer. Grunting, Angel carried Spike to the bedroom and
plopped him down onto the bed. He glared at the dirty boots staining
the sheets.
“You’ve always been a slob,” he growled. “Dead or alive, that’s one
thing that doesn’t change.”
Two hard tugs and the offending shoes tumbled to the floor. Spike did
not stir. With numb fingers and a yawn, Angel stripped and fell in bed
next to his companion. There’d be no bad dreams, this night, at least.
He closed his eyes gratefully.
Five seconds later, he opened them again and poked at Spike’s ribs with
a finger. Spike’s heartbeat was there, almost sickeningly regular, but
he still hadn’t moved at all since Angel had dropped him onto the bed,
one of his arms dangling off and his neck bent at an angle that would
hurt sooner rather than later.
“Hey, you didn’t go and drink yourself into a coma, did you?”
No response. His head clearing up a little in his alarm, Angel sat up
and leaned over Spike, tapping his cheek lightly.
“Not funny, Spike. Wake up now.”
If Spike was pretending, he was doing an extraordinarily good job of
it. Frowning, Angel brought his face closer to Spike’s and inspected it
for involuntary signs of reaction. Up close like this, he could see his
pupils moving behind paper-thin eyelids. With a gentle finger, he
traced them, then the dark shadows beneath each eye. They weren’t as
large as they had been just two weeks earlier, but they were still
there, proof if needed that vampire hours did not suit non-vampires.
The same finger slid over a cheekbone. He’d need to find a way to make
Spike eat more. He had made progress, but a few extra pounds wouldn’t
hurt.
His lips were just as soft and delicate as Angel remembered from a
century or so earlier. Angelus had once taunted William and told him he
had a girl’s eyes and mouth. The boy had come back from his next hunt
with a black eye and grinning like a lunatic despite his lips being cut
in two places.
Slowly, gently, Angel bent down and pressed his mouth to Spike’s.
Of course, Spike chose that moment to open his eyes. He frowned and
tried to say something, but as soon as his lips parted Angel’s tongue
slid inside his mouth to hunt mixed flavors of alcohol on his tongue.
Spike allowed himself to be kissed without reciprocating much other
than a small lick at Angel’s lip when he pulled back.
“What was that?” he demanded, sounding groggy still.
“An accident,” Angel said firmly. “I was checking you were still
breathing. Next time you’ll stick to beer, no hard liquor for you
anymore.”
Spike turned onto his side with something that sounded very much like
“Wanker” and he was soon snoring lightly with every breath.
Morning came and went, and still Angel remained awake, a single finger
touching his lip where Spike’s tongue had caressed him.
For two days, Angel waited for it, his excuse on the tip of his tongue.
He was so tense, his back was a mass of knots. He slept badly, and
wielded his axe differently enough that Spike noticed and made some
kind of insulting comment about how Angel’s technique was failing him
in his old age.
But he didn’t comment on what Angel expected. He didn’t mention the
kiss.
Had it been that unmemorable, Angel wondered, the thought making him
grumpier than it had any right to. Or maybe Spike was uncomfortable
about the whole thing. As a vampire, he had not been very particular
about whom he fucked – or who fucked him – but maybe things were
different, now. Maybe sleeping in the same bed as Angel was as far as
he was willing to go. Maybe…
“It was an accident,” he blurted out one late afternoon.
The microwave had just pinged, announcing that his blood was warm, but
he didn’t turn to it. Instead, he watched Spike, sitting at the table
and methodically eating his way through a bucket of spicy wings with
the air of someone who would rather have been doing something else.
Spike looked up at him for a second, then back at his meal.
“What was, now?”
Angel gritted his teeth. “The kiss.”
Another look up, this time punctuated with a raised eyebrow. “You
kissed someone?”
The urge to cuff Spike over the head was strong, but Angel had years of
training at resisting this kind of impulse.
“You,” he snapped.
This time, Spike looked positively mystified. “I kissed someone?”
“No, I kissed you, you dumbass. And it was an accident.”
Spike’s eyebrows were going to fall off if they kept climbing up like
that. And the slow smile spreading over his lips made Angel want to
slap him silly. Or maybe kiss him silly. One or the other, as long as
that stupid smile disappeared.
Shaking his head lightly, Spike turned his attention back to the food
in front of him, and attacked it with more enthusiasm than he had
showed before.
“OK, then,” he said between two bites. “It was an accident. Fine.”
Angel had the clear feeling he was being dismissed. He didn’t like it
one bit, but he didn’t know what to add. Out of options, he finally
pulled the mug of blood out of the microwave oven and, cradling it
between his hands, he made his way into the other room.
After a few seconds, he heard a whisper, so low he almost didn’t catch
it.
“So, it wasn’t a dream, then.”
Something flipped in his stomach at catching this murmur that hadn’t
been meant for his ears, and it wasn’t the blood he was sipping on.
And then he realized something.
Spike had been a vampire. He knew exactly how loudly he needed to speak
to make himself heard.
Angel’s stomach flipped again. It wasn’t all that unpleasant.
Spike was in a Bad Mood.
Angel only needed to look at him to see it, and to hear the capital
letters. And he had no clue whatsoever what had caused this Bad Mood.
He had been watching Spike get more sullen every day for almost a week,
now. Sullen, and quiet. He still wasn’t getting used to that, and there
were times when he wanted to shake Spike until he started blabbering as
he once had.
There were times when he wanted Spike to do everything as he once had.
To be everything he once had been.
And every time he did, the guilt was there. He should have been happy
for Spike. Or if not happy, jealous that Spike had gotten the reward
that should have been Angel’s. Angry. Disgusted. Anything at all,
except this quiet sadness that Spike was different, now. So different
that Angel did not understand him, or this Bad Mood.
The explanation came on the edge of the seventh morning, in an
explosion that made Angel realize that it didn’t matter whether Spike
fed on blood or spicy wings, or whether he drank straight whiskey or
light beers. It didn’t matter whether his heart beat, or his fangs
extended. It didn’t matter that he was quiet and sullen, sometimes, or
that he refused to admit waking up, sweating and his heart hammering,
from nightmares. None of it mattered, because deep down, he was still
Spike. And the Bad Mood, suddenly, was easy to explain.
“Are we going to shag then or are you waiting for a bloody invitation?”
The first time was frantic and messy, echoing another first time
neither of them would have admitted remembering as though it had
happened the previous night.
Torn clothes and hungry mouths. Hard cocks and harder kisses. Fingers
that pinched and tugged, nails that scratched, palms that stroked,
hands that rediscovered familiar bodies.
And Angel’s sudden realization that this wasn’t going to work.
With a curse, he rolled off Spike and sat up on the edge of the bed
with his back to him. He could hear Spike panting behind him, each
harsh breath an accusation until the predictable explosion.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, now?”
Angel winced both at Spike’s frustrated tone and at the unpleasant
reminder he had to give him.
“You’re human,” he said, very low. “I can’t…”
He couldn’t even say it, apparently.
“You can’t what?” Spike snapped. “Fuck me? Because I’m human? Never
stopped you before, as I recall. Always raving about the warmth of a
living body. Or did you forget?”
Another wince, this time because Angel hadn’t forgotten, far from it.
He remembered very well some of Angelus’ games with more or less
willing bodies. He remembered, especially, how fragile they had been,
how easily they had bled. It hadn’t mattered, then, but it most
certainly did now – because of the soul, and because it was Spike. He
wasn’t sure which reason came first.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally admitted.
“Hurt…oh for fuck’s sake! You can’t possibly be that moronic!”
Annoyed that his concern would be received so badly, Angel turned
toward him – and was hit in the shoulder by a small plastic tube. He
looked at it, then at Spike who was rolling his eyes.
“It’s called lube, idiot. You need me to draw a diagram, or you think
you can figure it out for yourself?”
Angel didn’t glare, didn’t growl, didn’t tell Spike to shut up or ask
him when he had bought the lube. There would be time for all of that
later. What he did do, very thoroughly and, he thought, rather
expertly, was demonstrate to Spike that no, he didn’t need a diagram.
Judging by Spike’s moans and the way he clung to Angel, digging his
nails into his shoulders until he drew blood, the demonstration was
successful. Angel didn’t exactly mind it either; the warmth – no,
blinding heat – threw him off at first, but it was the same body
beneath him, the same mouth demanding more in one breath and pleading
with the next, the same lips caressing and devouring his own in turns.
After so much time, it wouldn’t last – it couldn’t last. It was OK,
they’d have other times, they’d have…not eternity, not anymore, but
enough time, enough nights and even more days, now that the first step
was made, and Angel only hoped—
Spike didn’t even need to ask with words. A small movement bared his
throat and said it all. The look in his eyes – daring, begging,
cursing, needing – only confirmed that Angel had understood right.
Angel averted his eyes, looking down at the scars on Spike’s body even
as he thrust in faster, pumped his fist harder, until the white heat of
release made Spike arch beneath him and wrenched guilty pleasure out of
him. He collapsed next to Spike – not on him, he would have crushed him
– and shut his eyes tight so he wouldn’t see the look of reproach he
imagined Spike would give him.
They didn’t talk until later that night, when they left the apartment
to go hunting.
“I want you to do it.”
Angel had known the topic would come up. He had tried to figure out
what he would say. But anything he thought of sounded lame to his own
ears, and he knew Spike would reject any argument Angel could give him.
So he remained quiet, and kept his eyes on the alley in front of them.
There were demons hiding somewhere close, or so the stench around them
claimed.
“It’s not like I don’t know what I’m asking for,” Spike continued after
a few seconds of silence, his voice growing edgier. “Been on the biting
end long enough. I haven’t forgotten any of it. Not asking you to kill
me either. Just a bite, that’s all.”
Angel still didn’t answer. Sometimes – rarely – he thought it would
have been a kindness from the Powers That Fucked to give Spike a blank
slate to start over with. Then again, when had the Powers ever been
kind to anyone?
“T’s just a kink,” Spike insisted. “You can’t say you don’t get it.
You’re not that much of a liar.”
Abruptly, Angel stopped walking and took a deep breath through his
nose. Spike tilted his head as he looked at him, clearly expecting an
answer and clearly ready to argue until he got what he wanted.
“They’re gone,” Angel said. “The trail stops here, completely vanishes.
Dead end.”
He turned on his heel, but not before he could see Spike’s face twist
into a scowl.
“If you won’t do it, I’ll find another vamp who will. This town has
more fangs than—”
Before he could realize what he was doing, Angel whirled back to Spike
and fisted his hands in the leather of his duster, pulling him close.
He glared at him through the golden eyes of the demon.
“No.”
Spike pushed him back with a snort. “What, you think that just because
we fucked once I won’t go elsewhere? If you don’t give me what I want,
I bloody well will. It’s not like you’re the best fuck I—”
Angel had promised himself it wouldn’t happen again, promised himself
he wouldn’t hit Spike, taunting be damned, but he couldn’t stop his
fist from smashing into Spike’s face. Spike staggered back but he
didn’t fall, and when he looked back at Angel, for a second his eyes
almost seemed to gleam with fire as they once had. He threw himself at
Angel with a roar, hitting and kicking and receiving as much in reply,
but Angel barely noticed any of it. All he could see was the blood
sliding from the corner of Spike’s mouth, all he could think of was how
sweet it would be on his tongue; the taste of home and family and
strength he had been craving for weeks – for a century.
He wasn’t sure how, but eventually the blows ceased, and Angel found
himself trapped between the cold bricks of a wall and Spike’s smaller
frame. The blood was everything he had known it would be.
They made their way back home, starting to tear clothes off each other
before they even reached the apartment. They weren’t tender, or loving,
or slow, and it was all right. They didn’t need to be. And this time
when Spike offered, Angel swallowed back his fear that he wouldn’t be
able to stop, and simply took.
“To humans we won’t forgive, and
demons we won’t forget.”
The words still echoed in Angel’s mind, even though Spike had raised
his glass and pronounced the toast a good half-hour earlier. They
reverberated in his head with each thrust, each easy slide of his cock
inside the searing body beneath him, each grunt and moan.
A year had passed, and Angel hadn’t forgotten; nor had he forgiven. He
wouldn’t. And neither would Spike. The toast had been useless in that
sense, but at the same time it had felt important because it had been
the first time either of them acknowledged the battle in any way. Why
speak of what was so obvious to both of them, every second of every
day? Maybe it had been Spike’s way to add to the significance of the
anniversary. Or maybe there had been another meaning to his words.
Maybe…
Spike started mumbling familiar insults and curses. Angel took his cue
and increased, in the same instant, the rhythm of his hips slapping
against Spike’s ass and that of his hand on Spike’s cock. His knees
hurt from resting on the hardwood floor; the edge of pain added to his
growing pleasure rather than detracted from it. Spike wasn’t
complaining either, but then, he had been the one who started things
here, practically beneath the table, when he had slid off his chair and
onto his knees and left his half empty glass on the floor to advance on
Angel with lips still tingling from champagne.
They still tingled even now.
“Do it.”
Angel hesitated for a second, even lost his pace as he drew back, just
a little, just enough that he could see Spike’s face. He always
hesitated. Spike had never asked him why.
The blue eyes staring back at him were clear, determined, as they
always were. But there was more, this time. The tiny glint of pleading
wasn’t quite hiding anymore, and Spike’s words took a whole different
meaning.
Angel had known this day would come ever since the first time. He had
wondered endlessly about what he would do when faced to the request,
had hoped he would be strong enough to say no. But as his features slid
almost too easily into the familiar demon mask, he knew that he’d do
what Spike had asked. And he’d do what he wasn’t quite asking for, too.
Spike came with a wordless cry when Angel’s fangs tore into his neck,
right on the pulse point that was beating so wildly. Angel followed him
in the abyss when warm blood hit his tongue. Months of doing this, and
even now it was like the first time all over again. With each swallow,
Angel tasted that redemption he had consciously forfeited. It was
bitter, and sweet, and very much Spike.
This time though, he didn’t stop when he came. Still buried to the hilt
inside Spike, held there by legs and arms, he kept drinking warmth and
life alike until Spike’s heart started struggling.
There was no hesitation anymore when he slashed his right wrist.
