a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Five Things Angel Never Says to Spike
Author: Lyrstzha
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Setting: AtS S5


1)

Spike darts away from Angel’s grasp, laughing. His leather duster swirls in his wake with a rustling crack. The pale wash of the full moon overhead silvers his grinning face bone white; he is all carven ivory and shadow.

“Say it!” he crows, dodging Angel again.

“Not if I live another three centuries,” Angel grits out between his teeth, gathering himself for another leap at Spike. “Now give me the record or—”

“Or what?” Spike interrupts tauntingly. “You’ll sing all the songs at me? Now that’d be a proper threat.” He bounces lightly up onto the railing of the bridge, perfectly balanced, carefully watching Angel. His left arm clasps a jacketed album to his chest; just over the shield of his forearm, Barry Manilow’s eyes smile sightlessly at Angel. “Give in, mate. Tell me what I wanna hear, or ol’ Manny here gets it right in the Copacabana.” He swings the record over the long drop, dark water rushing so far below that the sound of it is barely a whisper.

“Spike! That’s a mint condition, signed copy!”

Spike arches a challenging eyebrow. “So you’re sayin’ a bath wouldn’t do it much good, yeah?”

“Okay, okay.” Angel holds up both hands in a placating gesture. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called you my sidekick. I see that now.”

“Close,” Spike allows, narrowing his eyes. “It’s got a beat. But I can’t do a victory dance to it. Say it.” He swings the album back and forth slowly over the abyss like the pendulum of a ticking clock.

“I, um.” Angel fidgets uncomfortably, his eyes flickering anxiously from the record to Spike’s face. “I was, you know. Insensitive. To your feelings.” His lips twitch around the word ‘feelings’ like he’s having trouble getting it past his teeth. “Or whatever.”

Spike’s eyes narrow further. “Did I ask what you learned on Dr. Phil today, you bloody poof? Not what I wanna hear—ever, come to that.” He lets the album slip a few inches through his fingers.

“Wait!” Angel takes hasty step forward. “Look, there’s no way I’m saying those words. My tongue would probably turn to ash. It’s just not gonna happen.” He folds his arms, sets his jaw stubbornly, and glares at Spike.

Spike glares back silently for a moment, then finally gives a long-suffering sigh and rolls his eyes. “Wanker,” he says, tossing the record lightly to Angel, who leaps to catch it anxiously. “Like it’d kill you to say, ‘you’re the Master Vampire of me’.”

Angel looks back up at Spike, Manilow clutched safely to his broad chest with both arms. “Really thinking it would.” Those aren’t words he can imagine saying under any circumstances. Not to anyone, actually, but especially not to Spike.

Spike shakes his head and hops down off the railing to land next to Angel with the faint hissing crunch of boots on pavement. He rolls his eyes again as Angel not-so-subtly shifts the album around to his far side, safely away from Spike.

“Easy, princess. Not gonna snatch your muzak again.” He turns on his heel with a smirk and starts walking back toward Wolfram and Hart.

After a moment’s frowning hesitation, Angel follows, falling into step beside Spike. For a while neither of them says a word, though Angel starts to open his mouth a couple of times. Finally he manages, “So, anyway. Thanks. For not...,” and he jerks his chin back toward the bridge.

Spike shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, well. Harm burned all mine, didn’t she? Know the feeling.” He darts a look sidelong at Angel. “Not that I’m sayin’ Manilow’s in any way equal to the Sex Pistols, you understand. S’crazy talk, that.” His smirk widens into a full grin, moonlight glinting off of his blunt, human teeth.

And Angel utterly surprises himself by grinning back.


2)

Angel never says, “Buffy loved you,” to Spike, even though he knows it’s true. He even knows there are times when Spike needs to hear it, knows that it would be the gracious thing to say. But really, he just can’t. He doesn’t even like to hear it in the privacy of his own skull.

So instead he drinks with Spike after Rome and they talk about moving on, and it’s surprisingly civil. And when Spike says, “She loved me, I know she did,” in a voice which suggests he doesn't really believe it himself, Angel doesn’t contradict him. It might seem like a small concession to someone else, but it makes Angel feel pretty magnanimous.


3)

But in spite of the kinder things that he can’t say, there’s a few uglier words that Angel doesn’t say either. Oh, he tosses off ‘I hate you’ and ‘go away’ and ‘you disgust me’ with complete abandon. Neither of them pay those too much mind, and Spike bickers back with gusto. Angel hates to admit it, but he thinks they might both kind of enjoy that part. Sometimes he puts it down to vampire fuck-upedness.

But no matter how hotly they’re arguing, Angel never calls Spike ‘motherfucker’.

Angelus said it once, early on, casual viciousness accidentally finding a real vulnerability. Spike recoiled like he’d been splashed with holy water, his eyes going hollow and bright. Angelus thought for a moment that he might have to stake the lad after all, but then Spike turned away and stalked off without a word. Spike never did explain what it was about that particular epithet that disturbed him so much. When he finally came back three days later, he reeked of blood and gin.

For years afterward, this scent would mean forgiveness to Angelus.


4)

Angel doesn’t say, “I’m glad you’re here,” to Spike, even though he kind of is a couple of times. Like when the necromancer tries to control his body, or when Eve traps him in a bad trip with that demonic parasite. But mostly, at first Angel isn’t so glad that Spike’s around. There’s a lot going on in that year they’re with Wolfram and Hart, and Angel’s got enough on his plate already. The last thing he needs is Spike, full of sarcasm and pointed questions and a really annoying ability to make Angel feel less certain of himself and his choices. It’s like the quiet voice in the back of Angel’s head that whispers you sold out, you’re no champion anymore has managed to incarnate itself in bleached blond form.

But then Cordy comes back, and things are different. There’s no doubt in Angel’s mind anymore; he’s not trying to reassure himself that he’s going to change things from the inside, he’s plotting to bust the whole evil system wide open. That makes Spike’s presence considerably less irritating and actually maybe sort of handy. Just a little bit.

When Angel has to blow off championing to make himself look good to the Circle of the Black Thorn, it’s not so bad because he knows Spike’s working on that side of things. Angel can push Wesley and his concerns about Boretz demons safely aside without worrying, for instance. It’s surprisingly nice to be able to trust the mission in Spike’s hands. Who’d have thought it?

Besides, hey, Angel’s going to need as many fighters as he can get for his end game. And Spike’s pretty good; Angel can admit that. Not to Spike’s face, of course, but still.

Then the battle comes, and Angel loses all of his people one by one. Wesley’s first, dead even before the showdown in the alley, the dark smell of his blood still clinging to Illyria’s fingers even as the rain washes the stains from her hands.

But there’s no time to mourn, because Gunn’s already bleeding out in his turn. He falls perhaps five minutes after the vanguard sweeps over them. Angel looses a roar and swings his sword harder. It’s the only memorial he can spare.

Angel doesn’t even see Illyria go down. He stumbles over her while parrying the swipe of a Durslar beast and almost loses his footing. She’s still warm. He’s a little startled to feel a pang, because he didn’t know until now that he still thought of her, just a little bit, as Fred.

He looks around for Spike in the crush, needing to see if his last soldier is still standing. Everything is blood and rain and shadow, and even keen vampire eyesight is hard-pressed to make sense of it all. Angel almost wishes the dragon would stop circling and breathe a little fire down this way so he can see. He’s just beginning to think that Spike must have fallen somewhere.

And that’s when a whooping, hollering crash of bodies comes barreling down the alley, swarming all over the enemy. One of them broadsides the Polgara attacking Angel with a cheerful-sounding grunt, sending the off-balance demon stumbling into Angel’s sword. Angel blinks uncomprehendingly, because seriously, is that Trepkos raising a fist at him in shared victory? And behind him, in a phalanx formation, that looks like Jhiera with a group of fierce-looking women, not to mention a decent-sized gaggle of kevlar-suited and extremely armed shock troops clustered around, if Angel is not very much mistaken, a grinning David Nabbit.

Angel suspects that in some dimension there’s a rational explanation for all this. But he’s pretty sure it isn’t this one. Rain falls into his open mouth, making him splutter. He stops gaping long enough to blurt, “What the hell?”

David Nabbit lunges closer under the cover of his guards. “Pardon?” he yells over the din of the battle. He’s got a crossbow dangling from one hand in a grip that looks almost confident, and the press of his helmet makes his face look even rounder and younger than Angel remembers.

“What the hell, Nabbit?” Angel shouts back. “What are you all doing here?”

“Cordelia! She called months ago, said she was getting in touch with everybody who owed you one.” He grins wider and shrugs awkwardly under his heavy kevlar. “I guess you’ve helped a lot of people.”

Angel ducks aside as a vampire leaps at him, but one of Nabbit’s troopers fires a flamethrower over his head, the wave of heat like a palpable weight on Angel’s bent back. “But I help the helpless,” he says, when the coast is clear and he can stand up straight.

Nabbit, loading another shot into his crossbow, shrugs again. “Everybody’s helpless sometime, but that doesn’t mean we stay that way. Now it’s your turn to be helpless, and here we are to help.” He aims and lets his bolt fly, then adds, “With kickass demon fighting!” He spares Angel a cheerful nod. “Cool the way that works out, huh?”

“Um, thanks,” Angel answers numbly, utterly lost for an appropriate response. He turns away, looking for another opponent. “Cordy, Cordy, Cordy,” he whispers softly, as if it's a prayer. She's still one step ahead of him, still watching his back. He should've guessed.

The next thing he knows, he’s standing beside Trepkos and helping to take down something with tusks. They get a nice rhythm between them, baiting the creature back and forth so that they can take turns hacking at the less-armored belly. It takes time, but they fell it eventually. As reeking grey intestines spill over their shoes, Angel’s hair ruffles in a strong gust. He looks up to see the dragon swooping low, jaws snapping near Trepkos.

“Dragon!” Angel warns him, grabbing Trepkos’ arm and pulling urgently.

Trepkos frowns at him. He looks up, then back down at Angel. “Who, Lenny? He’s with us.”

Angel’s getting really tired of yelling, “What?” But he does anyway. It’s just the kind of apocalypse he’s having, he decides.

Trepkos shrugs. “Don’t ask me. I’m not the one who brought him.” And with that he wheels around to grapple with something that looks a lot like a manticore.

Angel looks around for a foe to call his own, but the balance seems to have shifted. There are a lot of faces he recognizes, and many others he doesn’t know on sight who seem to be on his side anyway. And it looks like his side is actually winning. By the time the sky lightens with the first streaks of dawn, the Circle’s horde is actually trying to retreat. Which is just as well, Angel figures, because dawn.

“Get inside, vampire,” Trepkos calls to him in passing. “We’ll finish this.”

Angel staggers a little, shoes slipping slightly in the ichor on the pavement, hunting for a platinum blond head in the crowd. He hasn’t seen Spike in almost an hour, and he’s not holding out much hope. Angel’s head snaps around sharply at a pained groan of, “Bugger.”

It seems to come from beneath the body of a ten foot tall—and nearly as wide—troll. Angel hastily grabs the troll’s shoulders and pushes, rolling the heavy corpse aside. Spike blinks up at him, battered and bloody but definitely still there.

Angel stares, eyes wide, some emotion he can’t name gutting him slowly. “You’re okay,” he finally says blankly, as though he doesn’t believe it.

Spike snorts at him faintly and lurches to his feet with a wince. “More or less, thanks to the surprise reinforcements. Been worse, anyway.” He offers Angel a weary shadow of a smirk. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Angel draws in a deep breath and shudders once faintly. “No, I’m...,” but his throat closes there, swallowing a sentence that might end in glad you’re here, or maybe just glad; Angel’s not sure. Instead he reaches out to fist a hand in Spike’s stained and torn shirt and yanks him into a fierce embrace, both arms closing vise-like around Spike’s back.

Spike gives a surprised sort of grunt, muffled by Angel’s shoulder, and stiffens awkwardly in the tight circle of Angel’s arms, though he doesn’t move to pull away. Angel still can’t finish his sentence, but he mouths the words against Spike’s neck silently and doesn’t loosen his grip.

But Angel doesn’t need to say it aloud for Spike to hear it, apparently, because then he goes boneless and easy in Angel’s hold, and his hands slide slowly up under Angel’s shoulderblades.


5)

Angel pulls Spike into the Hyperion before the rising sun can scorch them. They stagger their way upstairs, exhausted and aching and leaning on each other. Angel chooses a room with a window that looks out over the alley, and they watch the fight for the last few moments they can manage before the sun hits the right angle to burn them through the glass.

Then Spike draws the curtains reluctantly, his hands leaving bloody prints on the pale fabric. He gives a slight hiss of pain as he lifts his arms.

“Let me see,” Angel says simply, taking Spike’s shoulders and guiding him back towards the vanity, where there’s a handy lamp.

He rucks Spike’s shirt up until long claw gashes are visible over the prominent, vaulting arch of his ribs. There’s something shocking and disturbing about the way the gouges are starkly crimson against the pale skin.

“Not so bad as all that,” Spike says softly, which is when Angel realizes that he’s been staring.

Angel looks up at Spike’s face, half in shadow where it’s turned away from the lamp. There’s nothing he can think of to say, and it suddenly hits Angel: this is all he has left. This is all there is.

Angel draws in a stuttering gasp; he can’t think under the weight of mourning and consequences. The room suddenly seems too close, too stifling. His big hand curls over the sharp line of Spike’s jaw, urging insistently upwards. And abruptly Angel finds his mouth on Spike’s, teeth grazing against lips and tongue pressing stubbornly until Spike opens for him. Spike tastes of blood and ashes and just a touch of gin.

Forgiveness, Angel thinks, before he stops thinking altogether.

Spike moves against Angel firmly, as if he’s trying to close every inch of negative space between them. One of his hands curves over Angel’s hip, his thumb sliding beneath Angel’s waistband to rub against the skin; his other arm circles Angel’s shoulders in a close embrace.

But that’s too gentle for Angel. He drags his mouth down with a small, wet sound and sucks hard on the column of Spike’s throat as his hands tear desperately at the fastenings of Spike’s pants. The zipper gives with a hiss, and Angel plunges his hand inside roughly. He grips Spike’s hardening cock in a tight fist, catching at the silky skin with his calloused fingers, and Spike shudders and bucks against him with a groan that sounds almost startled. Angel growls low in answer, his other hand working on his own pants now until his own erection springs free to brush electrically against Spike’s. He growls again, but Spike swallows the sound in a kiss, licking at Angel’s palate and sucking his tongue.

The hand on Angel’s hip slides back to cup around the curve of his ass, pulling hard. Angel goes with it, grinding his cock against Spike’s in a crash of hips. He blindly grabs at one of Spike’s legs and hauls it up to hook around the back of his own upper thigh, making the angle impossibly better. Spike squirms and makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat when he can’t thrust anymore without losing his precarious balance. So Angel helpfully pulls on the other leg too, until Spike gets the hint and locks both legs around Angel’s waist with an agile hop.

And that angle is enough to grey out Angel’s vision at the edges, especially when Spike uses his own weight to drive his thrusts against Angel, squeezing with his legs and using the strength of his arms around Angel’s shoulders to raise himself a little before letting himself grind back down hard. Angel’s death-grip on his ass urgently crushing them together would almost be unnecessary, except for how Angel most definitely needs it with a maddening ferocity.

It’s almost painful, especially before their cocks are slick enough to slide together smoothly, transmuting the burn of dry friction into a better kind of burn altogether. Besides, there are broken places on their skin and beneath it, but Angel can’t feel any of them now. He’s aware only of Spike’s ragged breath against his mouth, Spike’s solid weight in his arms, the rub of Spike’s stiff cock against his own aching hardness.

Nothing else makes any kind of sense at all until Angel throws back his head to bare his throat for a sharp, possessive bite and accidentally opens his eyes on the vanity mirror before them. It reflects the room, calm and still as if their battered bodies aren't real and nothing they do makes any track upon the world. As if everything that's happened tonight will leave no trace, make no difference. Angel looks into that unruffled, quicksilver surface as they writhe against each other, and he makes a wordless, broken noise that has nothing to do with pleasure.

Spike stops moving for a moment, chest still heaving against Angel but hips becalmed. He frees a hand from Angel’s shoulder and reaches out to press his palm against Angel’s cheek. He gently drags Angel’s face toward his own, turns it back until their eyes meet, and there they are each reflected; by that compass, at least, they can see themselves proved real and true.

And that’s all Angel can take. He comes hard without even moving again, his orgasm whipping through his belly and groin without warning, wringing a choked cry from him. He narrowly misses dropping Spike as the muscles in his arms jump wildly. Spike shivers and gasps against him, cock still hard between them but the mirrors of his eyes going softer.

“I,” Angel says, and stops, lost. He doesn’t say, “Love you.” He’s not even sure if those are the words rattling around in his mouth, sliding uselessly off his tongue before he can shape them.

But Spike just breathes, “Yeah,” against Angel’s lips like he knows what he’s agreeing to.

-End

Feedback