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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: Together Again for the First Time Author: femmenerd Pairing: B/S/A Rating:: NC-17 Summary: Set nebulously Post-NFA. It’s sick, in a way, how Spike rather enjoys an awkward moment. And this has been an awkward hour. For Buffy, because she’s been rollin’ about in her nasty little thoughts for weeks. And for Angel, well, because he’s Angel and he’s trying to do the right thing as is his way, and because the tosser really has no idea what’s swimming in that pretty blonde head of hers. Apparently, in Angel-land, the “right” thing to do in this particular situation is to make pleasant conversation and to flash the pretty, pretty smile that makes all the birds swoon. Bastard knows it, too. This one’s not quite the grin that floods the whole of that big, handsome mug of his from time to time. Call him sentimental, but that one’s Spike’s favorite. So, yeah, here they all are, sittin’ about in the parlor for Sunday tea. Actin’ like they’re old friends. Which, Spike muses, they are now, all three of them—old friends and sometime lovers who’ve each tried to kill one another at least once or twice. Ain’t life grand? Spike kicks his boots up on the coffee table, tucks his hands behind his head and sits back to enjoy the show. Just look at my girl, all nervous and fidgety. Nigh about blushing, all right. Must be real worked up—hasn’t said a thing remotely connected to dirty footwear and/or the sanctity of furniture. It’s so rare that he sees Buffy flustered these days that Spike’s feeling a wee bit nostalgic. Although this is utterly different than before, when he used to just get her flustered paired with murderous, or agitated with a side of irritation, and then there was always rattled put together with angry, hot, gonna-fuck-you-Spike but don’t you dare tell my sis or my pals. The good ol’ days be hanged—this is better. Spike cocks his head to one side, the better to size up his Grandsire as he exchanges pleasantries with Buffy about rebuilding his operation, cutting losses, and strengthening the team, or some such rot. (He rather misses being a part of that team.) But this is good work too—being the training vamp for the wee girlies. Not many who’re qualified for that gig. And then there’s Buffy… As it tends to do, the whisky calls his name. So Spike goes to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of Jack that is exactly what this occasion calls for. When he comes back, Buffy is looking up at him, pleading with her eyes for him to *do* something. Oh, how things switch about. But the waiting is good too, and Spike leans by the doorway and continues to watch them, taking glugs from the bottle as necessary. To say that Angel’s a pretty bloke is just about the platitude of all platitudes. But it’s true. And no one can ever say that the fellow isn’t brave. Apocalypses be damned—coming here to this flat has got to be the most civilized thing that Spike’s ever seen Angel do. Because the old man thinks that he lost the contest—that Buffy chose Spike and only Spike. But it isn’t a contest anymore, Peaches, can’t you see? Spike can almost smell the blood rushing to Buffy’s cheeks as she blushes. Her gaze is flitting over to his at an ever-increasing rate until she marches over, grabs the bottle indignantly from his willing hands, and sits back down across from Angel, taking a sip that’s far too large for her still nascent boozing capacities. It’s an action that causes her to make that adorable “euaargh” face of hers, and prompts a massive eyebrow lift from Angel, who stares at her with a look of utter confusion until he finally wrests his eyes away to meet Spike’s and asks point blank, “What the hell am I missing here, Spike? You two are acting even weirder than usual, and that’s saying a lot. Especially of you, William.” Spike cocks his head and grins. This is going to be good. “Well, y’see, mate, the long and the short of it is—the bint’s sopped her knickers thinking about you and me…together-like.” Both Angel and Buffy shoot Spike the requisite outraged glares. He loves it. The two people he gets the most fun out of irritating in one room together. Now that’s a party. And it feels good to be at a party that he’s welcome to—not as a crasher or hanger-on, but a bleedin’ invited guest; lord of the manor, even, so to speak. Spike ignores them both and reclaims the bottle from the now even more tomato-red Buffy. “So have a drink, mate, and think on how far you’re willing to go for the love of your unlife.” Before bringing the bottle to his lips once again, Spike graces Angel with an eyebrow lift of his own and concludes, “Cheers.” Angel first looks massively surprised and then slits his eyes, “I don’t drink.” “I seem to recall a time when you could knock ‘em back with the best of us.” “Things are different now.” “They bloody well are,” Spike insinuates meaningfully. Fuck this. If things are gonna get rolling around here, the old Poofter had better get socially lubricated. And that dirty pun just about makes Spike giggle out loud. When the other two catch him smiling—apparently spoiling their for-old-times-sake pensive air—Spike groans and thrusts the JD in Angel’s face. “Oh, just have at it, old man. You didn’t used to need to get sloshed to take a shine to my pretty arse, but I promise not to be insulted. It’s been awhile for you, I know.” Immediately after the last bit exits his lips, Spike feels sorry. Blast. Stupid mouth always gets the better of him and now the stupid soul makes him care. It’s just that he’s realizing now that he wants this as much as Buffy does, and that makes him feel the teensiest reminder of what it was like—hoping Daddy would love him back, and the bitter disappointment when he wouldn’t show it, no matter how hard poor William tried to win Angelus’ favor. So he watches as Angel takes a swig, and Buffy looks on nervously. Angel’s looking like they’ve just told him that pigs can fly, and it’s fucking hilarious, and rather sexy to boot. And now the whisky’s doing what it’s supposed to do—heating his tepid blood, making him brave. So Spike lopes deliberately over to where Angel is sitting on the couch, Armani-clad legs slightly apart and dumbstruck expression on his face. And that? Might be better than any possible arrangement of naked bodies they might end up with tonight. All the same, Spike kneels triumphantly in front of the motionless Angel and forcibly wrests his knees apart, turning to flash his girl a grin before he reaches for the big lug’s tailor-made fly. Angel’s protests are gone now, and he simply gulps and watches as Spike removes his cock from inside the posh trousers and cradles it with deadly white hands. It’s a rush like none other—how Angelus is letting him touch like this, how Spike owns this, and how he can feel Buffy’s eyes burning holes in his back and smell how her sweet, anxious cunny perfumes the air. Because—as with the soul—she may have spurred him to do it, but this is him—Spike, William—taking action. Sucking Angel’s cock is so familiar; he’s done it a thousand times, and it always made him hot, made him hard, but now it makes him feel powerful, wanted, useful. And just look at how Peaches is getting into it, even if he does keep sneaking looks at Buffy, perhaps to see if this is really all right with her. In that moment, Spike feels sorry for Angel, that he hasn’t gotten to experience it yet—what she’s like now that she’s all grown up. When he’s finished, Spike turns to a breathless Buffy and says, “C’mere, love.” It’s not right anymore, for her not to be a part of this. Because it is through her, because of her, that they’ve become better men—better able to love one another. She walks over to them, shaking, and god he loves her. Loves her all the more for giving this to him. Spike had thought he’d had enough of sharing—several lifetimes worth in point of fact. Being at the bottom rung of Angelus’ incestuous family ladder had been quite the initiation. And Dru? Well, he couldn’t blame her for loving Daddy best. (They all did.) But this is different. Because he isn’t quite the same bugger he used to be…and neither is Angel. And so it is all right, to supervise from behind while Angel’s cock slides into Buffy. To see her moan and shudder as his Grandsire fills her up. To know that only half of Angel’s guttural throat sounds are because of the way that Spike’s own cock is nestled inside of that greek-statue arse, and that the other half are because she is perfect for them. Spike feels a teensy bit magnanimous about “letting” Angel screw his Slayer (even though she is not really his—she is hers—and the idea of owning her finally seems archaic). Besides, he gets to fuck her every day. Yes, every day—because real heroes are like that, not just villains. And later, when they are all three lying naked and tangled and sticky on the carpeting, Angel turns to look at him with a shit-eating grin almost reminiscent of the carnal Angelus of yore (only with the viciousness parceled out) and says, “Why exactly was it that I came to London again?” Because we were waiting for you, you bleedin’ pillock. -End Feedback |