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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: To Let Go Author: Criss Moody Pairing: Loosely Angel/Buffy/Spike Rating: PG-13. Setting: 'I Will Remember You' It's strange, funny even, the things that you remember about a person after even a few hundred years. Their names and the large things they did become less important; it's the tiny, seemingly inconsequential things that stick with a person. Even after more than a hundred years, Angel could still remember the way his childe slept. Spike had never been quiet or calm in the arms of Morpheus. No, his pale body had so often twisted the sheets and kicked at any objects in its path that it resembled a tiny tornado as it slumbered. The pale, whipcord lean body would restlessly shift in the sheets, be they silk or cotton, two blankets or a piece of animal skin. On the other hand, however, Spike had slept deeply at all times. At one point during travels in Germany, a mob had almost overcome them whilst Drusilla had attempted to rose a still dozy Spike at sundown. He had slept like the dead, pun intended. His sleep had never been restless really, no, it was his mind that could never stop firing synapses, thus driving his body into constant motion. Or perhaps the blonde vampire's frenetic activity had been set into a pace long ago and not even time could break the husk of flesh from its habits. Angel leaned back in his desk chair, his eyelids sliding down to half-cover his warm, liquid chocolate irises, as he remembered the good things about his childe. Ah, his loving, impetuous, impatient, maddening, child-like, passionate child. All those things had drawn the soul-less Angelus to that dark, handsome young lad he'd found in London all those years ago. It had usually been Angelus' experience that the more innocent and sweet the mortal, the more supremely vicious the vampire. But in Spike's case, his theory had proved beautifully untrue. His William had emerged from the change as a startlingly lovely butterfly emerged from a silken cocoon. He had been stronger, faster, and had lacked a pesky conscious, but in all other ways he had remained the same. The sweaty tang of humanity had clung tenaciously to William, soon to be Spike, and that scent had given rise to a mighty possessive streak in Angelus. The vampire had created minions before, but never a childe, never anything that ever had a hope of being his equal. And it was that slight whiff of humanity that had done that poor demon in. He should have known then and there that humanity would be his downfall, but Angelus, for all his clever games, had never been all that sharp when it came to matters of his own fallibility. Spike had usually favored his stomach over any other sleeping position. He would stretch his arms out wide under the pillow, or the body as the case may have been, and root around until he became comfortable. His delicately ridged shoulder blades would stand out, begging for someone to caress them with fingertips, to fastidiously clean them with a tongue. So, while his childe slept, and the minions were out 'cold' for the night, the big, evil, nasty Master vampire would make love to the arched wings of his childe's back. His wet appendage would glide down one arched ridge, smirking at Spike's sleepy moans, then up the opposing ridge, settling in a wet swirl at the top of his Childe's spine. It wasn't a very well-kept secret, but William had a very sensitive back. He had nerves in his back that produced the most exquisite reactions from the younger vampire. Laving the area and then sinking his fangs in deep had long been Angelus' favorite way of waking the his cocky childe. The one morning he was blessed enough to spend with his love, with Buffy, he had unconsciously woken her up the same way. Maybe he had done so because her mannerisms during sleep echoed his estranged childe's. Or maybe he had done it because his time with Spike was the last time before Buffy that he could remember being happy. During that lost morning, he leaned over the tanned expanse of Buffy's back, possessively sweeping hand down to the gentle curve of her ass, thinking "mine." Then, he had delicately tongued her spine, licking around the bumps of her spine 'till he reached the top bump. The second his tongue had met her warm flesh, her still sleeping body had squirmed, and a soft whimper had slid out of her mouth. His teeth had creased her flesh, biting gently but not breaking the skin. Angel's last thought before Buffy had turned over to capture his lips in a sweet, hot kiss had been a shocking epiphany. Buffy Summers didn't have an individual place in his heart; she shared it with his childe. He had loved two people in his life. One had been nothing less than perfect, a brief, intense moment of sunshine in his endless existence. The other had, quite simply, been his heart. If Angelus' soul had not been forcibly returned, Buffy would have never succumbed to loving the vampire. But when the soul had first returned, fate ripped his childe from his arms. In losing Spike, he had gained Buffy, but a vicious destiny had also removed her from his life. For a brief moment, he mourned the loss of his manic childe, as he lost himself in the feel of this love's mouth that had miraculously been returned to him. All too soon, he had realized that for him, love was never meant to last. So, now, as he reclined in the leather-bound desk chair, his booted feet propped up on the desk, Angel thanked the Powers That Be for tiny blessings. Though these mates of his, bound to him by blood and passion, would never again be his to awaken, he would always hold the bittersweet memories of their supple bodies, lost in sleep, close to his soul. Those memories were the only sacrifice Angel would never be willing to make. -End Feedback |