a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Reparation
Author: Tinkerbell
Pairing: A/S
Rating: NC-17
Setting: An AU domestic series




Three days sliding into four, and Spike has not come home.

Angel paces the Hyperion.

Three days ago, he went out for cigarettes, and Angel barely raised his head
from his paperwork. Hardly acknowledged Spike's taking of his car keys and
ten dollars from Angel's battered wallet, paid no mind to Spike's "Gotta get
out for smokes" and instead just gave him a brief nod and turned back to his
endless files.

Three days sliding into four.

+ * + * + * +

A week turns into ten days and Angel has not eaten for the last two of them,
has not slept or changed his clothes, and has borrowed Gunn's car four times
to scour the twinkling city for a sign of his childe.

He has prowled the dirty, stinking alleys. He has nudged the homeless with
his foot on the off chance that Spike, for whatever inane reason bouncing
around in his brain, may have decided to sleep on the street. He has gotten
in two fistfights, both of which he won, though not without injury to
himself. Angel cradles his left arm close to his body, wondering if the
cracked collarbone is taking longer to heal than usual.

Ten days, and Spike is gone, with no reason or rhyme.

+ * + * + * +

Cordelia comes. She peers into the darkened room where Angel sits in the
armchair, looking out over the city. "Anything?"

"If there were anything, you'd know," Angel says shortly, and doesn't watch
her leave.

Wesley's turn a day later, and he is bolder, actually entering the room and
coming to stand next to Angel at the window. He unconsciously mimics Angel's
pose, standing with his feet apart and his hands linked behind his back.
"Angel," he begins, not unkindly, "Spike may be dead."

Angel appreciates Wesley's honesty. He appreciates the fact that Wesley
considers their relationship to be strong enough to withstand the truth. But
if Wesley does not leave the room immediately, Angel thinks he may have to
demonstrate unusual force.

When Angel turns toward Wesley with glistening fangs, Wesley leaves.

+ * + * + * +

Two weeks.

The Hyperion is strangely silent. Angel has told Wesley and Cordelia to go
home and not return until he contacts them.

//yes cordelia you'll still get paid//

Angel is living in the void created by Spike's unexplained disappearance,
racking his brain for reasons

//excuses//

why Spike would stay away so long when he has never done so before.

//death is not an option spike is not dead//

Angel lies on his bed, stiff as a board. Stares at the ceiling. A tumbler of
whiskey is on the nightstand.

The void looms.

+ * + * + * +

On the fifteenth day, the front doors of the Hyperion burst open and then
slam shut. Angel hears booted feet clomping across the tiled floor. Overly
sensitive hearing picks up the jingle of car keys being dropped on the
counter.

Slowly, so as not to disrupt the white noise that is coating his brain, Angel
sits up and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He focuses bleary eyes
on the rectangle of light in the doorway.

Up the stairs, muffled by carpeting. Angel can hear soft whistling now, some
tuneless thing that is low and melodic. Still focused on the door. Somehow
Angel thinks that if he peels his eyes away from the door the room will begin
to spin like a mad carousel, and he won't be able to get off.

Silhouette in the doorframe, lean and lanky. Momentary pause as he squints in.

Angel focuses.

Into the room now, casually dropping his duster on the armchair that Angel
has inhabited every night for fourteen nights. Past the bed, looking at Angel
curiously, gesturing with his chin.

"Hey," Spike says, heading into the bathroom, smelling of tequila and
cigarettes.

The white noise increases.

Some time later, Spike emerges. Angel smells clean, damp hair. He can hear
Spike behind him, rooting around in the dresser drawer for a fresh shirt,
mumbling under his breath when he finds only Angel's clothing because Spike
has once again failed to put his soiled shirts in the laundry.

Spike gives up and yanks one of Angel's too-large shirts over his wet head,
mussing his hair and causing his bangs to tumble over his forehead. Angel
watches him with interest.

"There any blood down there?" Spike asks, pulling up a relatively clean pair
of jeans and leaving the fly open at the waist. "Huh? Is there?"

Angel blinks at him owlishly, unsure of the answer. He hasn't eaten anything
since day eleven, when Cordelia, against his wishes, returned to the hotel
with a bag of blood.

//don't ask where it came from angel just drink it please//

It had been human, and still warm.

Spike rolls his eyes and gives up on an answer, leaving to discover for
himself.

Angel hears him slamming doors in the kitchen and letting out a string of
profanities when he finds an empty refrigerator.

Spike returns to the bedroom, disgruntled. "Whyn'tcha got any food, lameass?"

And then the white noise is turned off, and there is a terrible silence. At
once Angel has to fill the quiet.

"Because there's been no one here to eat it!" he shouts, and suddenly he is
rising from the bed and advancing on his startled childe, backing Spike into
the corner of the bedroom and his voice just keeps getting louder and louder
until Spike's brow is furrowed and he is turning away from Angel in confusion.

"Two weeks!" Angel continues to yell. "Fifteen days, Spike! Where in the name
of Jesus Christ have you been for fifteen goddamned days?"

Spike turns sullen, and his mouth tightens. "You ain't my keeper, Angelus."

Angel's initial relief turns to fury, white and hot. The demon comes to the
fore with a snarl. "You're fucking insolent," he bites out.

"And you're fucking pathetic," Spike shoots back, pushing away from the
prison of Angel's body blocking him against the wall. "Wha'd you do while I
was gone, Angel, sit and brood? I'm shocked outta my knickers that you even
noticed."

"I looked for you, William," Angel says in a dangerously low voice. "I looked
all over this damn city for you. I looked for two weeks."

"Well now," Spike says with a grin, "ya found me. Am I in trouble?"

Angel is nonplussed. He has expected an explanation, even an apology. He has
not been prepared for casual, indifferent Spike.

This disturbs Angel on a level that he does not care to examine.

But Spike is home. He is whole, intact. He is solid, standing before Angel
with his hands on his hips, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

The fury abates into relief once more, and to the surprise of them both,
Angel reaches out and pulls Spike into a hard embrace.

Spike stands still momentarily, arms at his sides, while Angel nuzzles his
hair and pushes his nose into the hollow below his ear. Then when it seems
that there is no immediate danger, Spike raises his hands to Angel's waist
and rests them lightly on his hips, unconsciously tilting his head the
slightest bit to allow Angel greater access to the smooth flesh of his neck.

"Wasn't gone that long," Spike murmurs, his voice a bare whisper in the dark.

Angel does not answer him, he is reveling in the feel of the flesh under his
fingers, willing his worry away and tamping down the panic that has been
choking him for a fortnight. Spike is home.

A tug on his shirt, and then Spike is bare-chested before him. Angel looks.
Examines. His gaze skates over Spike's sculpted abdomen, searching for
wounds, looking for signs that he has been injured while out of Angel's sight.

There are none. Spike is unaltered, his appearance exactly the same as when
he casually walked out the door fourteen nights ago, except for the fact that
he appears slightly thinner. But the rakish grin is still the same, the
dancing blue eyes are not dimmed in their mocking. The corner of his mouth
still curls in an disrespectful sneer.

It suddenly becomes less important to Angel to find out where Spike has been
than to ensure that he never does it again.

Angel stares down at his boy, who either by will or by choice is not cowed
and does not look away. "I was worried," Angel says succinctly.

Something flashes behind Spike's eyes and is gone. "You want me to say sorry?
I ain't gonna."

No, Angel realizes, he won't apologize. It is foreign to his nature. Angel is
sure that in Spike's own convoluted way, he thinks that Angel should be the
one to apologize for whatever imagined slight has occurred.

Instead, Angel just leans in and brushes a kiss across those hard lips,
putting his hands on either side of the sculpted face and waiting for Spike's
mouth to soften into the embrace.

It takes perhaps three seconds for Spike to melt into the kiss, fitting his
lips to Angel's and darting a soft pink tongue out to swipe over the
indentation in Angel's upper lip. Then Spike's mouth is open and wet and
cool, and his hands are fisting in Angel's hair and Angel indulges in the
tiny, sharp pains that are caused by the tight grip on his scalp.

There is a slow, erotic descent to the floor, marked by many kisses and low
growls and tiny drops of blood welling up from small nips to the skin. The
light from the doorway shows smears of Spike's blood across his chest, and
Angel knows there are identical smears on his own cheeks where he has kissed
and licked at his childe.

Spike's recently donned clothing is discarded, and Angel somehow kicks away
his own pants and shirt so that they lay naked together, small dots of blood
still marking both of their white skin, one or two cuts deep enough for the
blood to form a little trail down Spike's chest.

It is manna to Angel, and he can't stop licking at it, can't stop from
swallowing his childe's thick blood and listening to the resulting purr.
Angel coats his tongue with it, rolls the coppery ginger taste around the
inside of his mouth, and then slides down Spike's body to engulf his
straining cock.

Only once, twice, three times does he bob his head over the engorged shaft,
barely hearing the grunt Spike emits, and then raises himself up on his
forearms. Spike opens heavy-lidded eyes and glances down at his own
glistening erection, understanding at once what Angel is asking him to do.

Angel is asking Spike to fuck him and has prepared him to do such. Angel
knows that Spike would not take the initiative on his own and so he has
nudged him in the direction of dominance, wondering even as he does it why he
feels the need to have his power taken away, if only momentarily.

It doesn't matter. Spike is home, and Angel can only feel relief.

Putting two hands on the small of Angel's back, Spike rises up and out of
Angel's line of sight, and suddenly it is wrong, all wrong.

Spike becomes faceless, nameless, almost as if he is not there at all, and
Angel feels the panic returning when he thought that it had left for good.

"No," he says, and it does not come out loudly enough because Spike still has
not reappeared in his vision, so he says it again.

"No!"

Then Spike is leaning down over his shoulder, his strong, hard frame pressed
to Angel's back. Angel can feel his beautiful thick length pressing into the
crack of his buttocks. "No, what?"

Angel begins to breathe through his nose, a sure sign of impending hysteria,
and he reaches back to grab  hold of something solid. His grip connects with
Spike's neck and before Spike can even let out a startled "Hey!", Angel has
flipped him over his shoulder to once again land on the ground in front of
him.

Annoyed blue eyes meet frenzied brown. "What's that all about?"

"Can't see you," Angel says, and thinks it sounds rather insane even to his
own ears.

"But I'm right there," Spike says slowly. "You gone daft or somethin'?"

But Angel takes Spike's hardness into his hand and begins a slow, steady
rhythm, that shortly has Spike forgetting about Angel's momentary foray into
terror. Angel watches his childe as he pumps him, using the slick lifeblood
that marks them both, and before long Spike is arching his back and groaning
without reserve.

Angel's own cock throbs, and he realizes he has almost forgotten about his
own desire in his brief moment of fear.

Almost.

Without embarrassment he reaches down and places one of Spike's capable hands
on his own cock, knowing that Spike will unselfishly comply with Angel's
wishes.

Spike doesn't disappoint. Angel sees him smile, his whiter than white teeth
glinting in the light from the doorway, and he grips Angel's cock and starts
to stroke.

Is it shameful or a miracle that sex brings them together? Angel thinks, his
nostrils flaring with each sure pump of his childe's hand. Why does it always
come to this, the two of them in the darkness, pushing away whatever
misunderstanding led them down this path to begin with?

Shameful ... or a miracle?

But Angel doesn't want to think any more, his brain is hurting from all the
thinking the last two weeks have caused, and he only wants to concentrate on
Spike.

Bringing his other hand to Spike's cock, Angel grips the head between his
thumb and forefinger while holding the shaft the same way with his free hand.
Spike begins to arch in anticipation, knowing that Angel's technique is fast
and hard and the surest way to pleasure, and some of Angel's inner hurt is
soothed at the sight of his childe lying spread before him, trusting and open
and waiting for his pleasure, one of his own hands still holding Angel's dick.

Angel rubs, and Spike nearly rises off the blanket beneath them, a whispered,
"holyjesusangel" the only sound he makes.

Again, Angel rubs with two hands, sliding the thin foreskin back and forth,
watching as Spike's cock becomes even heavier and more infused with blood,
and then he stops.

Spike pants and swallows once but does not open his eyes, waiting.

Again, Angel rubs, and Spike jerks with the force of it, his buttocks
tightening and his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth.

He never relinquishes his hold on Angel's cock.

A third time, Angel rubs Spike's aching erection with two hands, and this
time he doesn't stop. Again and again and again, stroking the foreskin over
and back, and finally the silence in the room is broken by Spike's guttural
growl when he comes in thick spurts, the lifeless semen spattering on Angel's
hand and chest.

He still holds Angel's throbbing dick in his hand, and now Angel is tense
with his hunger for orgasm. He knows Spike has not recovered but he can not
help pushing into his childe's hand the slightest bit, seeking pressure and
friction and release.

Spike reacts instantly, tightening his fingers around Angel, and leaning up
on an elbow for better positioning. He is fast and thorough, using the semen
that coats Angel's chest for lubrication, and Angel suddenly finds himself on
his back with his childe straddling his hips.

Angel lets go.

There is only Spike and this room and his impending climax, and finally all
the worry over Spike's disappearance has taken a back seat to something else,
and Angel finds his release with a roar, his head thrashing on the blanket
beneath him and his body shuddering helplessly under his childe's talented
touch.

Spike is the one to retreat to the bed some time later, yanking the blanket
out from under Angel's sleep-heavy body.

Angel willingly follows.

He lies next to Spike, both of them awake and wide-eyed in the dark.

"Tijuana."

Angel turns his head in silent question.

"That's where I went. Down to TJ for a few days." Spike shrugs, as if this
explanation makes things right.

Angel ponders any number of answers he could give, none of them calm. He
decides to focus his gaze again on the ceiling.

He feels rather than sees Spike's frown.

"You're really that jacked up about it?" Spike asks, after another long
silence.

Angel turns to face him once more. "Yes," he says carefully, "I'm really that
jacked up about it." And then Angel gets up and leaves the room.

Down the wide staircase, unmindful of his nudity, into the darkened lobby
where he finds a comfortable chair and sinks into it.

Night glides into dawn.

At daybreak, there is soft padding of feet behind him.

"Umm ... Angel?" Tentative question, not typical of his boy. His boy is
usually brash and tactless.

"Yes?"

"Ya ... ya shouldn'tve worried."

Angel keeps staring straight ahead. "It isn't something I can turn on and
off," he says shortly.

Spike is very close now, Angel can feel him standing directly behind his
chair. He hears Spike take a deep breath of courage.

"Sorry, man. Didn't know you'd get your shorts in a knot over me ... it."

Then Spike is gone, back up the stairs.

Angel watches the dawn stretch pink fingers across the floor.
 

~End


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