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Title: When Spike Got Home
Author: Mer
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Setting: Post NFA, choose your own.


When Spike got home, Angel was fucking someone else.

The door opened and the scent of it hit him in the face: an aroused Angel, as heady and familiar as bread or blood, and the estuary salt tang of pussy. From behind Angel's bedroom door, tiny whimpers and a tumultuous heartbeat that sounded far louder to Spike's predator's ears: she was human.

And a stranger. Even before he failed to recognize the scent, because Angel, semi-suicidal or no, knew better than to take Buffy to his bed and leave the door unlocked.

Spike wondered if he should close the door again, go down to the next-seediest neighborhood dive and sink a few balls and a few beers until Angel was done sinking something of his own. But Spike knew from first hand – and other parts – experience that Angel with his blood up was a goer: he could be at it all night. And Spike didn't much fancy slouching around LA with his hands in his pockets until the small hours, wondering if it was safe to go back yet. Nocturnal, yes; pathetic, no.

Plus there was that unlocked door. They hadn't had the classic "towel on the doorknob" conversation yet, because in the couple of weeks since Spike had come back they'd scarcely been apart long enough to have the need. To pick the least embarrassing reason among many, because Spike didn't have a key (or a car) of his own. Angel hadn't offered, and Spike sure as fuck wasn't going to ask. But Angel knew precisely how far vampire hearing carried and, presumably, that he'd brought in takeaway: if he didn't want Spike to come in, he'd had a simple solution to hand, and Spike might have the preternatural strength, but he also had his pride. If he wasn't wanted, there was no fucking way he'd break the lock.

So, assume Angel wanted him here, or at least, didn't mind. Unless, of course, this was some kind of obscure revenge for Spike's going out hunting with Gunn. Spike couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility – Angelus in a snit could be amazingly petty – but if that were the case, it would mean Angel still wanted him there, just for different reasons. He'd find out soon enough.

At this point Spike remembered the existence of the spare room where he'd spent his first, awkward night in this place. He shut the door behind him and padded off there to toss his duster over the chair, lending the vacant space – he hoped – an instant air of habitation. If Angel's new friend decided to go exploring, Spike would simply be his roommate, the aspiring actor who kept odd hours. Could there be a more boring, believable story?

But in spite of best intentions, Spike couldn't quite bring himself to lie down on the – perfectly comfortable, if a thought narrow – bed. All those years dossing down rough wherever was out of the sun, and Spike had to pick now to get persnickety?

Spike knew it wasn't quite that. It wasn't jealousy either – in the dim light from the hallway, with no one to see him, Spike risked an honest examination and found that his only regret about Angel fucking some bint was that he wasn't allowed to watch. Angel in the throws was an incredible sight, and Spike never got tired of it – the thought of watching those arms flex and that arse pump from an angle other than beneath, for the first time since Sunnydale, was making Spike's cock hang heavy in his jeans.

But not sleeping in Angel's bed, that was something else again. Spike was – he admitted to himself – quite absurdly touched that Angel had taken him in and kept him there; had never, to all appearances, considered kicking him out once the evening's entertainment were over. Ceding that to some chippy felt like an admission of defeat.

So, he wouldn't. Simple as that. Satisfied, Spike wandered out to stretch out on the couch in the meantime – where, not coincidentally, he could hear the sounds from Angel's bedroom a hell of a lot better. Angel was giving those low, guttural grunts that Spike knew meant he was holding her hips and thrusting in sudden and hard enough to hurt. With a gulp and tiny whimper of his own, Spike undid his zip and wrapped his fingers around his own cock. A drop of pre-cum already trembled at the tip. Spike wondered if Angel were too far gone to know he was there, listening. He wondered if, just maybe, he could hear the soft slap of Spike jerking off to the sounds of Angel fucking someone else, and if it turned him on.

Spike came without permission for the first time since the first time, when Angel had said "Don't come", and a switch he'd forgotten flipped on, somewhere in the back of Spike's head. He didn't think Angel had quite put the pieces together yet; hadn't quite realized that the times he went all domly dom on Spike's rebellious arse and the times Spike surprised the fuck out of him by begging at the last moment added up to 100 percent. And of course, he had no way of knowing that Spike's occasional solo wanks had stopped short of completion.

That was all right. Spike would just as soon not have to make the embarrassing admission that yes, he was all grown up now, a real boy, an equal and an independent agent, and he'd thank Angel not to forget it – except for the few – well, not that few -- excitable inches of his cock and balls, which were apparently still Angel's to do with as he liked.

Not that he thought Angel would have the grace to even pretend to be surprised.

But this was different, Spike convinced himself. Not like he could go knock on the door and ask 'mother may I' at the moment. And besides, if Angel could get himself a little something on the side, Spike was entitled to the same in return, even if it was only at his own hand. If Angel gave him attitude about it, Spike would just have to set him straight.

Okay, if Angel gave him attitude about it, Spike would goad him until Angel took it out of his hide and then have glorious angry sex, and then suck Angel off until he saw supernovas. And then set him straight.

Maybe even out loud.

Spike was getting half-hard again when he heard the bedroom door open. Thank fuck for vampire reflexes – he was tucked away, buttoned up and had his hands folded nonchalantly behind his head by the time an attractively tousled honey-blond wearing one of Angel's ginormous shirts as a dress came out, and Angel followed.

Not that it would fool Angel, of course. The scent of Spike's come would be as bright as a traffic cone to a vampire (Spike hoped the crumpled tissues were wedged deep enough in the cushions not to show.) But the girl didn't seem to notice anything amiss. Then again, she was too busy jumping and blushing to be paying attention to the finer points.

"I didn't know anyone was here," she explained.

Spike gave her a smile of great sleepy charm; he'd copied it from Angel, in fact, but damned if he was going to give the big lug a swelled head by saying so.

"Sorry, pet," he said. "Afraid I must have fallen asleep on the couch."

Some of the blood ebbed from her cheeks at the implication that he hadn't overheard anything embarrassing. Above her head, Angel's lips quirked. Spike ignored him, stood up, caught her hand in his left – not proper, that, but the right was a bit sticky still – and kissed it. Her blush this time was all for him.

"I'm Spike," he said, making sure to look at her face and keep his own neutral, as if he chatted with women wearing only a dress shirt every day. Her expression was grateful.

"I didn't realize Angel had a…" she trailed off, clearly not completely sure whether roommate or boyfriend was the appropriate word, and hoping for the former.

"I work nights," he said with complete if misleading truthfulness. "Got home early. I was just thinking of having a midnight snack."

And that wasn't a lie, either, although he didn't think she'd care for him going down on Angel right there in the living room – unless, of course, she was that sort, but Spike didn't think Angel would thank him for chancing it.

He watched her decide that no boyfriend could possibly be so blasé about a cheating partner and the set of her shoulders relaxed a little more. Spike managed to pass off their bare pantry as endearing bachelor helplessness – which no doubt helped on the illusion of hetero life even further. She said yes to chocolate chip pancakes, so Spike had a good excuse to finally wash his hands.

Angel even took one, which surprised the hell out of Spike, since he generally wasn't much on solids. He wondered if he was trying to fool the girl – he wouldn't think you could fuck a vampire without noticing the lack of heavy breathing, or indeed breathing at all, but maybe he'd kept her distracted and taken her from behind – or send some kind of message to Spike. If the latter, Spike had not a bleeding clue what it could be. Thanks for playing along? Stop hitting on my new girlfriend? It's fun to watch you forget how to talk when I lick chocolate off my lips?

The girl – her name was Sara – announced that she had to go home, so Spike decided to play the gentleman and wandered off to "bed" in the spare room till she'd found her clothes, kissed Angel, and gone.

He'd meant to go out, then, and punch Angel gently in the stomach and tease him gently about his new conquest and then wrap his arms about Angel's waist and pull him back to bed, even if Angel was too worn out to do more than drape an arm over him and go to sleep.

But after the thunk of the door closing, the sounds of the shower began, and Spike had too much time to think. About whether, if she'd wanted to stay, Angel would have let her. About whether Angel wished she had. About whether Angel wished Spike would move back into this bedroom for real, or out of the apartment. About whether Angel was falling in love again, and if so, what place was there left for Spike in his life at all?

By the time the shower stopped, Spike had convinced himself that it was better just to turn out the light and pretend to be asleep. They could deal with all this bullshit – or better yet, totally avoid dealing with it – in the morning.

It was a great plan, till the door opened. Angel stood backlit in the doorway, a great hulking dark silhouette like an iPod commercial with a towel wrapped around its waist.

"You're not asleep," Angel said.

"How the fuck do you know?"

"You're dressed."

Okay, fair point.

Angel mumbled something indistinguishable even to vampire ears.

Spike sat up and turned on the light. Maybe he could read lips. "What?"

"I – she – there was a thing."

Which was hard to argue with.

"O-kay," Spike said cautiously. "Did you kill it? Was it bigger than a breadbox?"

Angel laughed, and came in and perched on the edge of the bed next to Spike, just a little too far for their knees to naturally touch. "No – I just. She smiled. It had been a long time."

About seven hours and sixteen minutes, but Spike was gonna go out on a limb and assume Angel meant, since he'd been with a girl. Or possibly with a human, or someone who didn't know him all too well already.

Belatedly it occurred to Spike that Angel was explaining. To him. Like Spike had a right to know, a right to care what Angel did and who and where he did it with.

Spike looked down at Angel's bare feet so Angel wouldn't see him smiling.

"Are you pissed?" Angel asked, finally, when the silence had stretched.

Spike knew all the stuff he should be saying – about sauce for the gander being sauce for the other gander and did Spike actually live here and could he bring someone home to that same bed or what? And did it matter if the someone was a bloke? But he couldn't, not yet, maybe not ever. And it didn't matter, because he would make it not matter. He was here, now, that was enough.

"That depends," he said.

"On?" Angel asked, his tone somewhere between prickly-alpha-challenging and worried.

Spike looked up and let him see the smile. "Have you got enough left in you for one more go?"

"Asshole," Angel muttered, and then Spike was flat on his back with his wrists pinned to the pillows, and spontaneously untucking towels were one of gravity's best gifts.

"One thing," Spike managed to say while a frustrated Angel hunted for lube in the nightstand and came up empty. "You don't have to shower next time."

Angel stopped and looked down at Spike.

"It's you," he explained, which didn't make a lot of literal sense, but he knew Angel would understand. He'd been bloody well raised on Angel and Darla, Angel and Dru, Angel and the victim of the moment. That the soul came with manners was all well and good, that this second chance apparently came with giving a shit what Spike felt was bloody well brilliant. But the smell and taste of Angel fucking a pretty girl was one of Spike's oldest, strongest sense memories. It was nothing he wanted to be protected from, or to forget.

Angel grinned down at him. "In that case…" he picked Spike up and slung him over his shoulder – which was good, because the other way was too bridal for words – and carried him back to their bedroom. "I didn't change the sheets."


-End


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