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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Bodie Author: DakiniGrl Pairing: A/S Rating: NC-17 Setting: Post 'Not Fade Away' They have fed on too many down-and-out marketing agents, computer techs, and human resource managers; now Spike has indigestion. Even the fifth of Jack he slugged down since dawn doesn't seem to quell the clotting malaise he has swallowed from their veins. Spike wants to move on to Las Vegas where the despair is at least mixed with narcotics and glitter, but Angel, as usual, is on a mission. They've taken up residence on the top floor of some too-shiny ghost town corporate tower in what was once Silicon Valley. Every town around here is named after some saint it seems: Saint Josie, Saint Francis, Saint Rose, Saint Ramone. Spike can't even keep track of them. It reminds him of Spain and of Italy, where he never bothered to learn the language. Just drank the blood of saints and whores alike and never could taste the difference between the two. Angel is hulking in the corner, staring out the north side windows where the light never cuts in directly. He misses the tinted glass of Wolfram and Hart, Spike would bet. It never made much of a difference to Spike one way or another. Basement, ballroom, boudoir, hole-in-the-wall tavern. Everything stank of the crypt through the muzzle of the undead. No matter how high up in the world they placed themselves - no matter what vantage point they managed to claw out for themselves somewhere - he and Angel, they'd never be saints. The only difference between them was that Spike knew that now. He'd learned it at the hands of the fates: under a slayer; through fire and death; past martyrdom; in nightmare and shadow; from the end of an alley at the end of the world. To Shansu my ass. Someday I'll be a real boy and turn to ash like everyone else. Unredeemed and unsung. As soon as the universe is done making me its bitch. Meanwhile, ever since slaying that dragon, Angel had been impossible to live with. More than usual even. Spike realizes that in some parallel universe they are both dust already. In some other dimension Buffy didn't arrive with her army of slayers, Willow never wrapped her tendrils around greater Orange County and tipped the balance of dark and light while she danced on a razor's edge herself. Down a different rabbit hole they all went down like Gunn that night, sucked into the screaming vortex of another Chapter of The Apocalypse. Capital T, capital A. The one that apparently never bloody ends. Because here they are. And the world ain't all sunshine and flowers yet. Although anybody's gamble what side they come down on now. Souls and all, things have gone a bit beige around here lately. -------------------------------- Angel's arm still tingles where the dragon's blood covered it. His sword arm. His wanking arm. Sometimes the bones still ache in there, which makes no sense really. It reminds him of the time Gwen jump-started his heart for a few beats. The taste is still metallic in his mouth. Even all the blood Spike brings him from god-knows-where (God knows where) doesn't cover the taste of bronze that clanks against his back teeth all afternoon as he skulks away from the light, looking down at a hollowed-out city that was never beautiful to begin with. Nouveau Riche didn't help it any, nor did corporate sleek and geek décor. Only 21st Century California could have spent this much money to be this pointless. Angel knows Spike hasn't been hauling home pigs blood all these nights. He doesn't care. He tastes the mu shu pork or thai cuisine, Bombay gin and quinine, and stares William down while he quaffs it anyway. He probably thinks he's being amusing. Thing is, it doesn't matter. There are no souls in this town to steal from. They both can feel it. That's the joke; they survived the battle but there's nothing left to fight for anymore. Not that they can locate anyway. Bob Barker told out contestants what they've won an the box is empty. Angel feels like one of those assholes jumping up and down in a bunny suit and a sandwich board who suddenly looked in the mirror and saw his head turn into a giant cartoon lollipop. Sucker. Gone. All gone. What now? He doesn't quite believe it. He wants a soul douser. A witching wand. The fucking witch to come back. Anything. The earth to shake and swallow them up. An antacid. Fewer nightmares. No such luck. He hunches in the corner and waits for the light to fade. Spike is quiet for once. Angel likes it when he shuts the fuck up. He used to like it when he screamed, but that was a long, long time ago. For now silence is a damn close second. -------------------------------- Angel wakes up with his cock in Spike's hand. The light is fading outside - going orange and magenta across the Bay in the distance. They are naked on a mattress on the floor in the corner of the room, Angel on his back, Spike curled next to him as if Angel is some massive comfort toy he grips for dear life. Angel wants to be annoyed, but he has woken up hard, as usual. All the human blood is making him horny as hell. He'd rather kill than kanoodle these days, but then Spike was really never one for tenderness anyway. Angel can feel game face coming on. He is hungry and pissed off. dreamed about the dragon again. And Buffy. Buffy. -------------------------------- He sees her silhouette out of the corner of his eye, at the top of a building, looking down at him as his sword slices through demon sinew and bone. There is no time to double take, his mind has slipped into kill zone. He thinks he is dying - why shouldn't he see her there? In his mind they are all there: Darla, Dru, Wes, Cordy, Connor. All watching his glorious last battle. His final redemption. Buffy, of course, would stand above them all, seeing him go down with honor. Worthy at last. Then the dragon has her. Dragon? The demons were going down faster now. Angel began to see lithe bodies, breasts and asses among the fray. The fuck? And then Gunn was going down. And Buffy was falling from the sky. Spike's shout. Teeth and scaled and blood and fire. Illyria's blue eyes and the world shearing away from him. The burning. And his own screams. What it takes to make a vampire cry. -------------------------------- Angel was hard and Spike was jerking him off. Angel grabbed Spike's throat and squeezed. Game face and coarse blonde hair going down on him. The feel of fangs in his cock and blue eyes glinting up at him. Fuck this. He growled and threw Spike to the corner, blood and cum spattering the sheets. Nothing would bring Buffy back, but he didn't have to take it laying down. He fucked Spike for everything that was never going to happen now. He fucked him and tore his back up and William laughed and called him 'Angel Daddy'. And nothing was made better, but at least he wasn't dreaming anymore. And the place where the dragon clawed him burned. And Buffy's blood mixed in his veins. Her eyes had been lifeless and he'd sucked her dry and killed everything in his path until Spike pinned him to the wall and beat him senseless. Outside the moon was rising above empty streets. Under him Spike shuddered and inside Angel's mind the world sheared away again. Soon he would send William hunting; they would feed. Tomorrow the sun would rise. -End Feedback |