a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Questions & Answers
Author: J
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: PG-13
Setting: S5 Ats



"What are you thinking about?"

When Spike comes into the office, Angel never has anything to do. No papers to sign, no contracts to check, no contacts to call. When Spike comes by, he's always having one of his rare breaks. And nothing turns up to help Angel get rid of him. It's never the same when anyone else visits on a mission to invade his space. When Gunn comes in to interrupt him with the latest criminal that needs their help, he's doing just that, interrupting. When Fred enters with paperwork explaining unexplainable figures, Angel has a thousand and one things to be getting on with. But not with Spike. When he came round there was never a real excuse to make him go away. It was as though the fates actually wanted them to talk. Most of the time, Angel flew in the face of fate.

Not today.

"What do you want Spike?"

Spike falls lazily into a chair near the window, the sun staring in through the window behind him and giving the effect of a halo that he well and truly didn't deserve. He tilts his head and looks deeply at Angel for a few moments, as though all his natural sarcasm didn't exist.

"Always have that look on your face and I can't read it. Drives me crazy."

"Good."

Angel scowls at him and Spike scowls back. Shifting in his chair, he asks again with sincerity never seen from him before.

"Look. I just want to understand you. What do you think about when you shut yourself off like that?"

Angel looks up at him and mulls his question over.

He thinks about how many people die every second. He thinks about yesterday's hockey match that he doesn't remember because even though he watched it, he was too busy thinking about how many people he let down during the day. He thinks about his hair. He thinks about his heart and how it felt when it would beat. He thinks about home and tries to remember what the Galway soil felt like underfoot.

He thinks about Connor.

He thinks about how easy it would be to pack the whole hero deal in, and go out on a murderous rampage. He thinks about the sweetness of Fred's blood and the sound of Gunn's neck as it snapped in his hands. He thinks about what kind of a fight Wesley would put up before finally giving into him, into death. He thinks about his soul, and why it eats away at him every moment he doesn't breathe. He thinks about how easily he could throw it all away. He thinks about how much he wants to take Spike down onto the floor of his office and fuck him hard, fast and raw until Spike forgets the question he had asked in the first place.

"Nothing much."

~*-*~

When Angel finds Spike, he's on his knees in front of the television, the console's controller firmly in his hands as if it were an extension of his being. Angel stands in the door frame for a bit, admiring and amusing himself. He wonders if Spike notices that he's there, as he seems so engrossed in his game. Spike's killing people. Angel is glad they're virtual. The demon inside yearns to be set free. Set free inside a virtual waste ground with enemies lurking behind every corner is the safer option for everyone.

Spike wouldn't be in Angel's bedroom at night, punching and tearing away because he had to get the violence out of his system. That was Angel's territory.

Spike is still sitting on the floor. Angel hasn't replaced the furniture he'd broken last time.

"Either come in and shut the door, or get out."

Angel had his question answered. Spike did know he was there. Angel leans uncomfortably against the wall, not knowing exactly what to do with himself. Spike notices, without turning around.

"Sorry about the lack of seating, but if I recall mate, that's your fault."

Angel breathes deeply, remembering crashing straight into the second-hand sofa and bringing it to the floor. Spike hadn't cared at the time, leaping upon him, worsening the already written off furniture. Spike had then attacked his neck, ripping his shirt and allowing his hands to roam as the back of the sofa collapsed.

Angel is brought out by an understated sound of glee from Spike. The screen reads "LEVEL COMPLETED" in large red letters and behind it stands a beefy skinhead figure with a rifle in his hand complete with a dead girl at his feet.

"You killed another Slayer."

"Wrong game Angel. It's too early for you to be drunk."

Spike takes out the memory card and hides it in a biscuit tin by the fridge. Angel watches for a moment, wondering what kind of paranoia would lead someone to believe that anyone breaking in would be stealing a memory card purely to write over it with a game at a lower level. Angel considers doing it whenever he gets a chance.

Spike returns with a couple of beers and turns off the console. Angel looks at the can before looking back at Spike's smirking face.

"We can work on the drunk part."

Angel doesn't drink at first. He watches Spike do it. Sitting next to him on the floor with their backs to the wall, he watches as Spike tilts his head back and allows the liquid to wander down his throat. He looks towards Spike's neck and watches his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows the golden nectar. Spike stops and looks at him.

"What *are* you staring at?"

Angel thinks over the game, thinks over Spike's tongue that was resting between his teeth.

"What did your slayers taste like?"

Spike frowns.

"Their blood, Spike. How did it taste to you?"

At the time, like the sweetest ambrosia. Like the beauty of death combined with the life it contained. As it rushed through his veins, the demon of the slayer and his own came to life and gave him the biggest rush he'd ever known. The blood danced on his tongue, coating his throat like a soothing elixir and was gone all too quickly.

Now it was bitter and sickening and remained there forever. The sharp coppery taste; a knife in his gut and his soul turning daily without respite.

"Slayer, Angel. Didn't drink the second one."

Angel pries further.

"And Buf-"

"I never tasted her."

Spike finishes his can, crushes it and grabs another. Spike inwardly growls at one more thing that Angel holds over him, and Angel is satisfied that there are some places he still owns that even Spike has not invaded.

Later, Spike drinks himself to an unnatural state where he attempts to take Angel on.

Spike loses, and Angel makes Spike take him on.

~*_*~

Angel enters the office, his eyes firmly attached to the folder in his hands.

"Demon, evil, feeds on the brain of Caucasian males. Normally we wouldn't care because we represent the demon, but it's working its way through Congress who we also represent and they're paying more, so Wes if you could... Where's Wes? You're not Wes."

Spike stands up from behind the desk, a cocky eyebrow raised and a mocking glare on his face.

"Wow. You're sharp! Guess it doesn't make you blind then eh?"

Angel ignores the insult, knowing the importance of stopping the evil killing more evil.

"What are you doing in his office?"

"Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, Head Boy, has been struck down by that awful menace, the common cold. He's at home all sniffles and tissues and the like."

Spike tosses off his formality with a wave of the hand, dismissing the illness as something he's long forgotten. Angel frowns, feeling like he let down Wesley again, completely forgetting that as strong and as powerful he is, there are some things that he can't fight.

"He's sick? I didn't know."

Spike steps around the desk, perching on the front with his arms crossed and his tongue sharp.

"You should be more attentive mate. Be a touch more caring. Take him some soup."

"What are you doing in here, Spike?"

Angel barked his name. It was familiar ground, a sign that Spike had hit the mark.

"Poor Wesley. Brought down in his prime."

"It's just a cold Spike, he'll get over it."

"Well, that's the pain of mortality isn't it? Who'd want it?"

Spike shudders. Angel pines.

"I would."

Spike looks at him again, trying to think of the benefits of being human. All he can remember was pain. It was nothing like the physical invincibility he enjoyed now. As a human he was pathetic. His death had liberated him. Unlike Angel. For Angel, death was his prison.

Angel can't remember being human, but he thinks he was happy doing it. It's been so long, that Angel has accepted that being human is better. He decides that since it's his reward, it must be something good. He never assumes that it is to be his punishment. He doesn't know who is in control.

Angel lives as a human, there is no question of that, and Spike doesn't understand it. Angel can see the sun when he stays in his office. He sleeps at night and works through the day. The rest, Spike doesn't want. Circulation, blood pressure. To him it led to heart attacks and strokes. There was nothing to be gained in being human. Angel wanted that pain. It was as though he wanted to suffer.

When you have caused so much pain to others, the only way to truly sympathise is to feel it yourself.

Then there was her. She would always be a reason.

"This shoe... shine malarkey..."

"Shanshu."

"Right, that. Why do you want it so much?"

"Because it's there."

~*_*~

Angel doesn't think twice anymore when he finds Spike near comatose in his bed in the morning. It is a regular occurrence; going to bed alone and waking up with a fully dressed leather-clad thing sprawled across the bottom of his bed. Angel figures that Spike, still vampiric in his sleeping hours, has spent all night drinking only to collapse at Angel's side. He's too drunk to get under the covers. This makes kicking Spike and watching him roll off the bed and crash into the floor Angel's new morning ritual. It's also the best way to wake him up.

Angel doesn't like to think about how easy it must be to penetrate security, if an entirely plastered vampire can make it into his room so often.

This time however, Angel comes to bed to find Spike slumped against a chair in his bedroom.

Angel mutters, wondering why Spike drinks as much as he does.

~*_*~

Spike wonders too. He wonders, even though he knows why.

To forget Buffy and everything she said to him.

To forget Buffy and everything he did to her.

Being here in Los Angeles did nothing to help. Seeing those valley girls each day, scampering around on the streets below. Seeing Angel, the living reminder of everything that stood between them. It was painful being in that city. But it would be painful anywhere, so Spike stayed.

And drank.

Sometimes he fucks to forget, but it leaves him with more questions the next day that he needs to forget again. Alcohol isn't as emotionally expensive.

When he drinks a little, he remembers where he is and how much Angel pisses him off. Enough to empty his wallet on whiskey each night. Enough to be stuck in this rat-infested dive down town, sitting next to 'Bud' who has whined to him every night this week about the children and wife he left somewhere north of Illinois.

He drinks a little more now that he's annoyed.

When he's drunk a little more, he remembers the reasons that Angel pisses him off. How he can be so condescending and criticise Spike's every word. How he can be so annoyingly perfect despite making every possible mistake in the book. The way he never asks, he just does. And how he looks so good when he's doing it.

Spike drinks some more, working up the courage to tell him exactly what he thinks.

He finds his way to Angel, only to forget entirely why he's there. That's when he falls asleep on his feet.

He wakes up with a bang on the floor.

~*_*~

Angel is tired, but knows it's the right thing to do. He picks Spike up and throws him into the bath. Spike curls up in one corner, wrapping his coat around him like a cocoon. Angel looks at him curled up innocently in the bath and doesn't want to disturb his angelic sleep.

He turns on the cold water anyway.

He ignores the gurgling from the bath and goes to fetch a towel. Spike's awake. He can tell from the slurred barrage of swearwords. Or at least one hopes that Spike can't string *those* insults together whilst asleep.

With the water off, Spike proceeds to clamber out of the bath. Handing him a towel, Angel can only stare in disbelief at his current state.

"Jesus, Spike. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

Still inebriated, Spike responds.

"Left."

~*_*~

"Connor."

Spike's voice disturbs the silence of Angel's bedroom. Angel looks down at him, checking that his ears have not been deceiving him.

"What did you say?"

He hears Connor's name everywhere that it isn't, but this time he wants to be sure.

"Connor!"

Spike reiterates. He is relieved that he remembered the name that had plagued his mind for days. Angel on the other hand is highly mystified, his face marred with confusion.

"Why would you say that?"

It's not only the situation but the randomness of it all that does him in.

"The name. Connor. Just came back to me. Wanted to ask you... Heard it a few times, bandied around. I... You... Cordelia..."

Angel watches his furrowing brow cautiously as Spike tries to gather his thoughts and pull them together, fighting a force pulling them apart.

"Angel, who's Connor?"

After a very lengthy and stagnant pause, Angel passes the name off as someone from Accounting on the third floor. Spike doesn't believe him, but he holds his tongue and lets it lie.

For now.

He doesn't want to disturb this moment.

They rest, tangled up in each other. They lie close, not knowing where each ends and begins because of the mix of their blood, sweat, salt and tears. Their gentle yet false breathing synchronises and they are a picture of peace.

It's a mask.

The fire behind their eyes is fuelled by the demon. Though they hide it well, death lies all around them.

There are no plants in Angel's bedroom.

The evil still remains with them and you can see the violence if you look hard enough. Spike's skin is bruised and Angel's arms are painted with scratch marks. The evidence of the struggle is there in the vivacity of their spirits broken by a century of pain and the serenity of the blue sheets broken by the bloodstains.

Lying awake, Angel holds Spike's right hand and traces the fading scars. Sinking into his touch, Spike feels the burning and pre-empts him.

"Just... don't ask."


-End


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