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Title: Destiny Ends
Author: M
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC17
Setting: Future-fic, AU



Of course.

Of course there would be no roads, no signs, not even a path. Of course he would have to thread through muddy fields, battle the howling wind and the vengeful branches of centenarian oak trees. Of course the night would be rainy and moonless.

At least he hadn't seen any sheep.

He didn't like the bleating furballs. Since Dru had tried to vamp one a century ago, it just hadn't been the same.

His wet leather boots hit something solid and he looked down. The field had given way to what appeared to be a path of rough cobblestones. He lifted his hand to his forehead to keep the rain away from his eyes. He squinted.

There, in front of him, light.

He trudged on.

Whacked his chin against a low tombstone.

"Bloody fucking hell. Stupid catholic monasteries..."

He slowed down, slalomed through the standing graves. What did it say about this place that the cemetery was the only thing still standing?

He had come through the forest. He had seen the scorched ground where
the
circle of stones used to be.

He remembered the war, the End of Days, remembered fighting hard to protect the ethereal gate from a squadron of bloodthirsty archons - when everything had seemed so hopeless, so meaningless.

They had won though.

< But at what price. >

At last he reached the gothic arched gate of the ravaged monastery. Most of the edifice was in ruins. A flimsy shelter against the raging elements. He checked out the state of the roof nervously. The part that had been the library seemed okay enough. Good. Wouldn't want to get caught out here in the sunlight.

He allowed the magnificence of the coming dawn to herd him forward.

He had yet to decide for himself why he had chosen to come here. He wasn't sure what kind of reception he should expect from the man inside. He had
tortured a couple of Watchers to get the location of his latest hideout. The Watchers had been black ops though - fair game in his book.

The door hung open, swaying ominously on its hinges. The front court was deserted, a massive crater still scarring its center. The monastery hadn't had the time to really recover from the archons initial assault. The End of Days was already upon it, with its ineffable cortege of destruction and mayhem.

He ignored the grotesque creatures, which adorned the romanesque chapel - too close to his nightmares for comfort - and followed the light to the library.

A parterre of singed, torn books and broken shelves led him to the fire crackling in the hearth.

The man he had been seeking out for the better part of a year sat, sprawled on a lacerated dais - Morghane's favorite chair if he remembered correctly.

The air smelled like burnt herbs, incense, decaying earth and blistering wood. A whiff of leather and soap.

"Hello, Will."

The vampire took a few steps forward, stopping behind the chair. "You aren't easy to find, mate."

"Didn't think anyone would be looking for me."

It was the velvet voice that rhythmed his dreams, rich like cognac, smooth like a fine Bourgogne. Spike contoured the chair, crouching in front of his companion.

"How have you been, Angel?"

The dark-haired man did not dignify his question with an answer. His eyes remained closed, legs slightly bent, arms resting at his sides, fingers sprayed, deceptively relaxed. His hair had grown, wild bangs falling on his forehead. A few days worth of beard highlighted the strong jaw line. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a light cotton shirt, which did not seem warm enough to ward off the Irish winter.

"What day is it?"

Spike sighed. "Monday."

"What month?"

"December."

Angel nodded, as if it all made sense. "Christmas soon, then."

"So I'm told," Spike replied a little bitterly.

"How did you find me?"

"You don't want to know," the vampire muttered.

"Okay," Angel murmured. "I just wondered... if Morghane..."

Spike sighed.

"No, mate. No sign of her yet."

"Okay," Angel said again, listless. "Could you put another log in the fire? It's getting colder."

Spike felt his throat tighten, but he didn't comment. He grabbed one of the last logs and dropped it on the fire, raising a small cloud of bright sparks and gray ash.

He turned around.

Angel looked as if he was sleeping. Spike could tell that he wasn't, by listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of his breathing.

He just sat on the floor at Angel's feet, staring. He could see changes here and there, little signs - of aging. It had only been a year, yet Angel looked a decade older than the last time he had laid eyes on him. Spike had spent the last few years around enough humans to know that one year could not account for the deep creases marring Angel's forehead, for the sad crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. Who would have thought that Angel could finally indulge in
sunbathing at will when witnessing the paleness, the shallowness of his skin. The weight of time had put its brand everywhere on him - from the broad shoulders, now slumped and strengthless, to his trembling fingers. Spike did not ask if Angel enjoyed his newfound humanity. Although he hadn't seen the former vampire since the Aberjian prophecy had come to pass, the question would have been in excessively poor taste.

"Cordelia... she said..."

The heavy lids lifted, a spark of life in the dark orbs. Finally.

If this was living, Spike didn't understand what Angel had gotten so excited about all those years ago.

"How is Delia?"

"She misses you, mate."

The light dimmed again. "She has Wesley. Giles and Xander. She'll be fine. I made sure of that."

"They can't keep her in line like you did."

"That's not true."

The words lacked enthusiasm and feeling. Spike had never felt so much like punching his Sire - his former Sire - hard in the face. Couldn't quite do that without causing serious damage now, though.

Angel was human.

< Happy Meal on Leg. > The thought came accompanied by Buffy's lilting chuckle.

It was ludicrous. Angel was no victim.

Was he?

"You'll have to take of her if anything happens to the others, though. Promise me that. Take care of Morghane too, when she comes back." Angel lowered his eyes to the dusty stone floor. "She'll be alone."

Spike clenched his fists tightly. He knew Angel's pronouncement had nothing to do with the fact that, for all they knew, Morghane might not make it back from the ethereal plane for another century. Time passed so differently there.

No. What Angel meant was that he had no intention of hanging in and wait for her.

Spike didn't share his insight with the ex-vampire. Morghane would not come back if she had nothing to come back to.

There was nothing to be done now, but make sure that Angel wasn't alone. Morghane would have wanted it. Most of all, Buffy would have wanted it.

It had all started when Morghane had been drawn into battle in the ethereal community. Or maybe before that. They had lost friends before that, after the apocalyptic wars had begun. Spike couldn't quite remember. So much death. He had lost count. It all seamed to coalesce in one big hazy memory of gory battles and endless fight for survival. But the one constant had been Angel and Buffy, lovers, leaders of their small army, Spike their second in command, Morghane their free-lance lieutenant. And even in the midst of all that violence, things had been good for a while.

Spike had found a family, a pack.

Then Morghane had left, and Red had been killed. Or maybe it was the other way around? No matter. Suddenly the Guardian was gone, their ranks were depleted, the grand finale was drawing closer. Tara had been next in line, then the former vengeance demon, Anya.

Joyce.

Their one last fight had drawn them _inside_ the Hellmouth. During the battle, Buffy allowed herself to be separated from Angel and the multitude of their fellow ethereal warrior, lured by the specter of her mother suffering an eternity of torment. The Slayer had ended up facing the First alone.

She had won. Narrowly. The stench of high magicks was all around her, as if Morghane had tried to channel some of her power from wherever she was. But the fight had taxed her mind and her body to the point where neither could recover. She slipped into a coma in Angel's arms.

They won the war.

Buffy never regained consciousness. She died a few days later.

It was a simple, night-time ceremony.

Angel disappeared the following day. Spike found a lone word sprawled on a small scrap of paper.

'Human'.

Cordelia hadn't needed to plead with Spike. He had set out after the ex-vampire, tracking him down to the ruined Irish monastery after months spent roaming Europe.

Cordelia had sent Spike to bring Angel back to them, but the blond vampire held no such delusion. He had seen the understanding in Giles and Wesley's
eyes before he left. The Watchers did not expect to see Angel again.

"It's good that you're here, Will."

Spike shivered.

Angel had been waiting for him. He understood that now.

Deep chocolate orbs sought out icy blue eyes.

Spike nodded.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, Spike rose to his knees. Pleading was no use, and he had one last present to give.

One last gift to claim.

His hands shook slightly as they landed on Angel's jean-clad thighs. He breathed his smell in. A warm, masculine smell - different, not quite what Spike was used to. It was still the essence of Angel underneath - heady spices, rich silks and ivory soap - but without the underlying tang of blood and cold leather. Spike's fingers settled on Angel's stomach like so many pale feathers, and he felt the skin contract beneath black cotton. Blood rushed to meet his ghost-like touch.

Alive.

Human.

Angel had known Will - a breathing, live creature. Spike had never had the pleasure, or the privilege, of holding a living Angel in his arms. The sights, the sounds, the smells... it was like meeting Angel for the first time. He looked up, ready to speak, to plead, prepared to forcefully drag Angel back to the States, spoon-feed him if he had to - anything to keep the dark-haired man alive.

Angel lowered his eyes to the prostrate vampire. He smiled, a small, joyless twist of bloodless lips.

"Hold me, Will."

Spike bit down ferociously on his lower lip to hold back unwelcome, foreign tears.

He leaned forward, laying his cold cheek against Angel's abdomen. He wrapped his arms around the older man's waist, holding tight. It was like embracing the essence of life. Like Angel siring him anew by sharing this warmth with him.

This was the reward Angel had been hungering for all those years. Spike's throat clogged around a howl of anguish - or was it a snigger of disgust?

Bloody shanshu. What kind of a reward was that?

He whimpered, the little sound muffled by Angel's shirt. Maybe they had been thinking about this all wrong. Even Morghane, in her tower of millennial wisdom. Maybe they had all misread the goddamn scroll.

Maybe, just maybe, the Powers that Faffed Around had foreseen Buffy's demise, and this really was Angel's reward. Mortality. A short agony rather than an eternity of infinite despair.

Spike flinched when he felt Angel bend over him, enfolding his shoulders. He had hoped to stay still forever, the former vampire's warm body held hard against his own.

But Angel was ready now.

"You can't leave me, Sire."

He heard Angel sigh. "I'm not your Sire anymore."

Spike snarled. The stark truth of Angel's words was like a wooden knife through his unbeating heart. "Don't say that," he growled.

"Hush, Will."

The mordant irony of Angel trying to comfort him wasn't lost on the blond vampire. He rubbed his cheek against the dark-haired man's shirt - an overgrown bleached feline starved for affection.

"You have a family, Spike, and they'll take care of you. And Morghane, when she comes back, you'll have to take of her for me, okay?"

So calm, so detached, so cold. How could he be so cold?

"Shut up, Angel. Please, just shut the fuck up."

His face pressed against the older man's crotch now.

"I'm sorry."

Angel didn't sound sorry. In fact, he didn't sound like he was feeling anything at all.

"Fuck the PTB, fuck Morghane," Spike raged. "Where the fuck is she now? And fuck the Slayer, fuck them all to hell, fuck..."

"Shh, shh."

Was Angel rocking him?

There was no point. No point to any of it. They were screwed from the beginning, and now, now he was cursed to care for the rest of forever, because Morghane had said that neither hers nor Angel's death would free him from the bond which had tamed the demon all those years ago - tamed _him_. And because Angel had entrusted him with Cordelia's safety. She was the only mortal, precious thing the ex-vampire had left in this world.

"You can touch me, Will," Angel was now whispering in his ear. "It's okay to touch me."

"I don't want your pity," Spike snapped, drawing away.

"Will," Angel sighed, lightly reproachful.

The younger vampire swallowed, in pain. He raised his hands, framing Angel's pale face. His fingers settled on high, prominent cheekbones - < too prominent, he hasn't been feeding, I mean eating, well > - while his thumbs traced the line of perfect, dark eyebrows. Prolonged contact with Angel's skin sent goosebumps scurrying along his forearms. This new warmness, this softness, it was too much to bear. All he ever wanted after all these years of standing in the shadows of the Slayer, all he would have prayed for - if vampires were prone to that sort of thing. Angel, sprawled on this dais like a pagan offering, legs spread open, inviting
his touch. And to know that give in to the temptation was also renouncing that gift forevermore.

He knew madness then. Felt it stir, then wait at the edge of his mind, ready to pounce, patient, willing to allow him a short respite, long enough to answer Angel's entreaty - and once again know his Sire's embrace.

Spike lowered his lips to the hollow of Angel's neck. Habit. His fingers left the older man's face, unhurried, taking in every square of bone and flesh greedily. He lingered on the strong, wide shoulders, shoulders which had held up his entire world for so long - Angel a dark, inhuman Atlas.

He attacked the buttons of Angel's shirt with quiet determination, leaning ostensibly against Angel's crotch. He was rewarded by a short moan. Soon enough, he had the older man bare-chest and shivering. It was Spike's turn to moan.

He had always thought that so much beauty had to be preternatural. But a heart now beat in Angel's chest, yet he was still magnificent.

"Will, please."

The breathy supplication was more than Spike required to proceed. Eyes closed, he aimed for a perk nipple, eerily finding the little nub on the first try. Angel arched beneath his lips with a tight moan, caught between shock and ecstasy. His skin was warm from blood and fire. Spike's fingers dug deep inside Angel's firm biceps.

The dark-haired man groaned a little.

< Pain, > Spike's brain registered fuzzily. < I'm hurting him. >

He hadn't expected that. Hadn't ever thought that Angel could one day be human, and frail, and breakable in his arms. He experienced a hard little rush of fear and arousal. He relaxed his hold around Angel's upper arms, sucking the older man's heartbeat in his mouth.

"Stop, stop, Will..."

He wasn't hurting him any longer, was he? He raised his eyes. There was feeling on Angel's face, now. And Spike did not like what he saw.

"No."

"You have to promise me, Will."

"No fucking way in Hell."

"Please, do this for me. I don't want to die alone."

Angel wasn't pleading. He was stating facts. He was going to die that night, nothing could change that now. But he would rather not die alone, and by his own hand.

"I'm begging you, Angel, don't ask this of me."

"There's no one else."

Warmth, warmth. They needed more logs in this fire.

So cold in here.

So fucking cold.

"I... I... o... okay." Defeated.

This could not possibly be his voice. This could not possibly be him, rejoicing in a little corner of his dark mind, relishing the thought of tasting Angel's mortal blood.

"I'll help you. I'll do it. I'll kill you."

"Thank you."

A soft prayer of mercy to the heavens.

For the first time, Angel took the initiative of reaching for the blond. His left palm closed around the back of Spike's neck. Golden lips, golden from the reflected fire, approached his own and landed lightly, hot, soft, branding him. Searing his mouth. Teeth nipped and gnawed, light as birds, startling in their bluntness.

Was it different for Angel now too? After all, wasn't love a simple matter of perception? And if life hadn't altered Angel's perception, what ever could?

Spike pulled away from the sweet warmth of Angel's tongue, mapping a wet path down the older man's stubbled chin, down the lush curve of his throat, the firm muscles of his chest, the creamy planes of his stomach and abdomen.

Deft fingers found the buttons of Angel's denims and worked actively at freeing the straining erection. Spike pulled away jeans and underwear in one strong move, getting rid of shoes and socks. At last Angel was naked, a languid work of love, basked in fire.

Spike sat back, staring at Angel's jutting cock.

Would it taste different?

He didn't have time to wonder at it. Angel began to fidget.

Spike got rid of his own clothing at vampire speed, before settling back between Angel's long legs. He grabbed the firm thighs to steady himself. His tongue sneacked out of his lips to worship the head of Angel's cock. Still smooth. Saltier maybe.

"Inside me, Will. Please?"

The begging quality of Angel's voice made Spike's own painful erection twitch between his legs. He grabbed Angel's wrists, lightly, guiding him on the old rug covering the floor by the hearth. Heat licked at Spike's back, pooling in his groin.

Angel lowered himself on his knees, muscles straining, shoulders taut, wide back and narrow hips.

Spike approached Angel's ass with reverence. He could count the number of times he had been allowed in this position on the fingers of one hand. And the last time just did not bear thinking about.

Angel's opening looked tight and virginal. His human body had never been taken that way. Spike shuddered, his face shifted, sharp fangs slicing through his own swollen lips. In this light, Angel looked otherworldly. Like he was already not of this earth any longer.

Spike pushed the thought ruthlessly to the back of his mind. His fingers closed around Angel's waist. He licked a patch of sweaty skin above Angel's backside. His tongue found the natural cleft between the rounded, plush asscheeks. Angel groaned, spreading his knees a little further.

Spike dived for the puckered ring of flesh, his hard tongue breaching the gate of tight muscles.

A long, agonized moan fell from Angel's lips. Spike pushed deeper, committing to memory the kaleidoscope of Angel's mortal flavor. Agile fingers found the other man's heavy sack, kneading.

Angel buckled against him.

"Oh, God, Will..."

Spike ventured a look between Angel's legs. His cock was purple and strained.

He took pity on his overexcited companion. Mortal love was new to Angel as well. The thought almost rent his heart in too, both overjoyed and deeply
saddened that his Sire's mortal coil had never known the touch of a lover.

Felt almost ashamed that the only brand it would receive now was that of a cold, dead creature.

Spike drew away from Angel's flushed ass and rose, draping himself over the dark-haired man's back, tightening an arm around his waist to support him. With his free hand, he guided his rock-hard erection to Angel's opening.

"You okay?"

A ragged moan answered him.

He pushed forward, slowly.

His ear pressed to Angel's shoulder blade, he heard the older man bit back a scream. The smell of blood hit his nostrils, making him salivate. He ignored it. He paused, allowing his Sire as much time as he could without causing himself obvious injury.

Heat, scorching heat. Like being inside Morghane, but tighter. Maybe even hotter, if that was possible.

When Angel quieted, Spike chose a rhythm timed with Angel's deep breaths. His and wandered around Angel's coiled form to find his weeping erection.

"Ow."

Shock of his cold skin on overheated flesh.

He pushed deeper, stretching Angel's ass to the edge of pain. Retreated, then dived again quickly, carefully choosing his angle, making sure to nudge Angel's prostate on the way.

Angel's arms gave way, and Spike had to hold him up on his own.

It wasn't too taxing. Vampire strength. And Angel had lost too much weight. It happened to humans sometimes, Spike knew. Their mind just forgot to remind their body that they were still alive.

He tugged sharply on Angel's cock. To remind him, to punish him, maybe to tether him to this world? Who knew? It was a futile endeavor anyway.

Blood made for a descent lubricant. Spike knew that from experience. He slid in and out of Angel effortlessly now, the dark-haired man's muscles fluttering and tightening around his cock each time Spike pulled on his erection.

The blond vampire's vision swam in and out of focused, the meter of his moans his only referent, Angel's glistening back his sole horizon.

"Not much... longer. Will..."

Angel drew out his Childe's name on a whimper, knees locked, head raised, lips parted, deep gasps of life-giving air stretching his lungs. Assured that Angel could hold himself up for a while, Spike ventured a hand to an over-sensitized nipple. He flicked the hard nub, pinched it between black-coated nails. At the same tight, he wrapped his wrists tight at the base of Angel's cock, denying him release.

Denying to himself what the ultimate outcome of their joining would be.

Why should he be the only one to suffer, when Angel was leaving him behind?

"Will, no... please, Will."

Angel was sobbing.

Broken, defeated, Spike released his stranglehold on Angel's erection.

The dark-haired man came with a howl, convulsing against Spike. The sensitive muscles of his ass contracted around Spike's shaft, sending the blond tumbling over the edge after him.

Angel collapsed. Spike landed hard on top of him, softening, still inside him, hand sticky with the warm, spicy seed of his Sire.

Although Angel didn't utter a sound of protest, Spike pushed away the post-coital torpor long enough to roll clear of his Sire, slipping out of Angel with a moan of loss. He locked an arm around Angel's trembling shoulders, entwined his shorter legs with his and brought his fingers to his fanged mouth, licking them clean.

Angel tasted like ever, without the blood and the death; he tasted like his skin - like rain, and fear, and tears.

"Do it now, Will."

As if Angel didn't want to wait for the bliss to fade. As if he knew that the echo of his release would make his blood that much sweeter.

As if he still cared about these things. About Spike, about those who would be left behind.

Devastation warred with protective numbness for dominance.

"You were always my favored Childe, Will. I am so proud of you."

Tears of blood, staining his face, staining Angel's back, the older man snuggled against his chest, breathing lazily.

"I'll always be with you. We are bonded, Will. My death won't changed that."

Spike almost snarled, "Why? Because Morghane said so?" But he kept his peace.

It was the Slayer, standing between him and his Sire yet again. Only the ghost of the Slayer this time. But no less powerful for her absence.

"I love you, Angel."

"I know, Will. I love you too."

He was very careful, didn't want to leave an ugly wound. He would have to bring the body back to Los Angeles.

Only the complete absence of thought carried him though it. His teeth parted the skin of Angel's throat lightly, lovingly, and he drank with care, careful to take too much, too hard, because it would hurt the shivering, slightly feverish man lying in his arms. He felt Angel relax against him, felt his heart speed up a little, beating stronger, trying to compensate for the sudden vacuum in the veins. He could still have stopped here. Angel would have been unconscious from blood loss. He could
always have drugged him, brought him forcefully back to the States, to Cordelia who waited there with old, sad eyes.

But he didn't. He kept on going, past the point where it made no difference, whether or not he drained Angel dry. And he had to, drain him dry, because the thought of wasting one drop of this man's essence was sacrilegious, horrifying.

When Angel died, he felt it. Through the bond, Angel's soul, embracing him one last time with a flash of dark chocolate eyes, always so lost, at rest now, closed, forever.

When the sun came up, Angel was cold in his arms.

But Spike did not move, did not rise to add a log to the dying fire.

-End

(This author wishes to remain anonymous)