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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: Writing Stories in Chalk Author: voleuse Pairing: Spike/Angel Rating: PG-13 Setting: Post-NFA The moonlight jitters in Spike's blood, and he wakes to an empty room. He's more used to it than he'll admit to himself. He rises. On the dresser, there is a half-bottle of whiskey, a glass tumbler with a sticky, reddish-brown puddle still remaining. Spike taps the glass, and the liquid sloshes. He ignores it, drinks the whiskey straight from the bottle instead. There isn't any note, because Angel never leaves a note. He just disappears, and expects Spike to follow, or not. Spike finishes the bottle, save for a scant quarter-inch. He dresses: denims, black T-shirt, boots. He slips on his coat, and it flares around his legs. Spike smiles. Spike follows. * The streets teem in ways that would fascinate Spike, if he stopped to pay attention. Flesh, smoke, passion, blood. If he was hungry, he would stop. He hungers for other things, and finding Angel is the first step. So he lights a cigarette, sets his shoulders back, and swaggers through. He has no idea where Angel might be found. Previously, there has been a cemetery. A hospital. An apartment building. An elementary school. A taco stand. The smoking pit where Wolfram and Hart used to be. If there's logic behind Angel's choices, Spike does not care. Instead, he walks, and walks, until a sign comes to him, some small guidance. He walks past a fountain, a pavilion scattered with chattering socialites. He hears laughter, a woman's throaty proposition. A marriage breaking up, and a child's innocent confession. He hears, threading behind it all, a trill of violin, of flute and cello and timpani. Spike takes a last drag from his cigarette, then drops it. Grinds it against the pavement with his toe. He weaves through the crowd, to a discreet window behind a velvet rope. "I'd like one ticket," he requests of the teenager behind the glass, "to tonight's ballet." The boy looks skeptical, so Spike bestows on him a smile. * From what Spike overhears, apparently two orchestra-level seats opened up at the last minute. The volunteers, whispers, speculate a marital spat. Spike thinks a carjacking gone awry is more likely. Whatever the case, Angel is, as Spike expected, in one of those seats. His face is turned up to the stage, his eyes wide and unseeing. Spike settles in the cushioned seat next to Angel, clears his throat. Angel doesn't twitch. He puckers his lips, bares his teeth into that universal signal for hush. "Intermission," Spike replies. "Nobody's on stage." Angel smiles, a quick quirk that disappears in a moment. He doesn't say anything, just keeps watching the emptiness. Spike grumbles, slouches further into his seat. "Ballet? Really?" Angel's shrug is barely perceptible; Spike feels rather than sees it. "They liked the ballet." Spike twists, looks at Angel, sharp. There's a smile on Angel's face, and no question who they means. The house lights blink, and the orchestra hums loud, then louder. The third act begins. * After the curtain falls, Spike breathes out, a useless but significant gesture. Angel moves, for the first time in the hour. He looks at Spike. Spike shakes his head. "What the hell was that about?" A patron glances sharply at him, and he sneers. When he turns back to Angel, however, Angel has the same condescending surprise on his face. Angel rises from his seat, and suddenly looks out of place. To match, Spike pushes back in his chair, sets his boots against the row in front of him. "It's still early," he tells Angel. "Where next?" Angel walks backwards in the row, then turns, stalks away. Spike watches him go, watches the theatre empty out. He waits until an usher looks at him, anxiety splashed across her face. He releases a quiet curse, and decides to find himself a brawl. * The sun is cresting over the hills. Spike enters the apartment, sheds his coat. His mouth tastes like blood, but not from feeding. It's his own. He is hungry, and weary. There are bruises on knuckles, but they fade even as he observes them. "Busy night," Angel notes, and Spike looks up, wary. There is light leaking around the edges of the drapes, and Angel looks pointedly at it. "Nothing to write home about," Spike responds. He swipes his hand across his mouth. It stings. Angel watches him for a minute, then holds forth a mug. It's steaming, and Spike can smell the contents from where he stands. His attention sharpens, despite himself. He thinks there should be words to accompany the beverage, maybe apologies, or promises. Instead, they watch each other, as they always have, and Spike drinks. * The room is warm, a wrinkled green and gold, sunlight trying to filter through fabric. Spike coils inside the sheets of their bed, and Angel's skin is cool against his. He thinks, if he goes to sleep, Angel will disappear again. He thinks, it's damn inconvenient to chase after him every night. He thinks, maybe tomorrow night, he won't bother. Against him, Angel murmurs, and a hand smoothes over his ribs. Spike closes his eyes, arches against fingers and palm, lips and tongue. Spike closes his eyes, and when the time comes, he lets himself drift. He sleeps, and maybe the next night, he'll be alone again. Or maybe not. -End Feedback |