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23 January 2008 @ 11:21 pm
FIC--Any Port In The Storm, Spangel  

Title: Any Port In The Storm
Rating: Hard R
Spoilers: Season 4 of AtS, immediately following “Deep Down”
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Characters: Angel, Spike
Summary: OK—so I know this premise has been done to death, so I guess this one is a bit of personal indulgence—wanted to try my hand at it. Spike shows up at the Hyperion en route to Sunnydale after getting his soul. 
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

 

You wake with a start, hearing something down in the lobby. Actually, you aren’t 100% sure you hear anything—things have been a bit…weird since you came back. You still hear and see things that your rational mind knew couldn’t be real, and yet, you sometimes have a hard time distinguishing. Nights are the worst. Things are getting…better. The hallucinations are less, but you haven’t been able to shake them completely. Nearly starving to death at the bottom of the ocean apparently has some side effects. It’s not like there is a manual or anything you can consult, and you don’t want to worry what’s left of your crew, so you suffer in silence. You just have to wait it out. You hear another sound, and figuring everyone else is still sleeping, or missing, you won’t embarrass yourself. Like you did yesterday when you attacked the planter that looked like a Karfnar demon. You grab the sword stashed under the bed and throw on a wife beater overtop of your pajama pants, and then silently make your way out into the hallway.

 

It’s the smell that hits you first, ripe and rich. Like death. You tamp down a gag as your stomach does a little flip. Great. You have a hard time keeping blood down these days as it is. The lobby is darkened, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust to the gloom. Then you see him, a pale lump huddled in the corner by the far stairs. That low noise apparently is coming from him, muttered nonsense to someone who isn’t there. He sounds like Dru. Great. You so don’t need this shit right now. You point your sword at him. “What the fuck are you doing here, Spike?”

 

He flicks his eyes up towards you, and you almost gasp when you finally get a look at him. He looks so…broken doesn’t even come close. His glance skitters quickly away, and he speaks harshly to someone you can’t see. “I had to come, didn’t I?” He’s a mess—his clothes dirty and torn and his hair, which he always kept in such a careful platinum helmet, has grown out into crazy curls, his dark roots showing through. He’s wrapped his arms around himself and is rocking back in forth, humming something tunelessly.

 

You sigh and then squat down in front of him. Jesus. How can he stand his own smell? You blink your eyes rapidly a few times to clear them and reach out a tentative hand. “Spike?” Just before you can make contact, he scoots back away from you, almost as if he is trying to crawl inside the stairwell.  You try again. “Hey…take it easy.” He is shaking his head back and forth, repeating “no” like it was a mantra. You finally grab onto his arm, amazed at how thin he’s gotten. God.  At least he doesn’t seem to be hurt. The  blood you smell on him dried awhile ago. You give his arm a shake. “Hey.”

 

He finally stops squirming away from you. He looks startled, like maybe he’s just realizing that you are there. “Angel?”

 

You sigh and try to keep your tone gentle, but that is asking a bit much since this is Spike. Lest you forget the last time he dropped in for a house call, he brought a buddy who had a hard on for hot pokers and Boy Scouts. “What are you doing here?” His face suddenly does this thing where he looks completely open and vulnerable, almost as if he’s about to cry. What. The. Fuck? You grab his arm again, jostling him with more force. “What did you do?”

 

His eyes slide away from yours to the ground, and he suddenly erupts into this eerie sounding laughter. You’re so incredibly freaked out at this moment you can hardly think, but then something occurs to you that makes your insides clench up, so you drop his arm and run to the reception desk as fast as you can. You dial her number frantically from memory, but, just before the first ring goes through, he shoves you away, hanging up the phone. He is in your face. “Not her! I’m not ready for her to see it yet.”

 

You just shake your head back and forth and back slowly away from him.  Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What did you do?” He’s doing that head shaking/babbling bit again, and he just kinda slides down the reception desk, folding himself in half onto the floor. Shit. You stand there watching him for a long moment, hands on your hips, before you crouch down in front of him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Spike. What. Did. You. Do?”

 

He peers up at you, eyes huge. “I had to get the spark. It’s what she wanted.” Now, he’s nodding. O…kay. Somebody’s crazy train ticket has been punched a few times. He looks behind you, nodding sagely. “It’s what you wanted.” You turn around even though you know the space would be empty.  When you turn back to face him, he tilts his head at you. “Isn’t it?”

 

You just close your eyes and sigh. As if you didn’t have enough on your mind right now. You have only been back for a couple of days since your forced vacation under the sea, and things aren’t anywhere approaching normal. You still aren’t at your full strength, you don’t have a bead on where to find Cordy and your son is God-knows-where. This is the time the universe decided to send you Spike so he could come and be all insane on your lobby floor? You knew it. The Powers That Be really do hate you. You sigh again. “Spike—did you hurt somebody?” He begins that creepy laughter again, so you take him by the shoulders and shake him harshly.

He stops laughing abruptly and actually looks like maybe he might cry again, but then he grasps your forearms and pleads with you in a thick voice. “I had to get it, don’t you understand?”

 

You really don’t. What you do understand, however, is that whatever happened to him, he apparently hasn’t seen the business end of a bar of soap in quite awhile.  You stand, tugging him along with you, and he follows, almost as if an automaton. “Come on. You need to get cleaned up.”  You lead him upstairs, silently praying that you don’t run into Gunn or Fred. This would be a bit…awkward to try and explain.

 

You pick a clean room, one that you know has hot water, stopping quickly to grab a clean towel, some soap and shampoo from your bathroom. Spike passively allows you to lead him the whole way, remaining disturbingly mute. You show him the shower, even go so far as to turn the taps on, letting the room fill with billows of steam. You nod to him. “I’ll try and find you some clean clothes.” You figure he’s about Connor’s size—you should be able to find something that would fit him. You hand him the towel, and he holds out his hand obligingly, but he doesn’t make any indication that he understood anything else that you’ve said. You nod once more, too tired and weirded out to try communicating with him further, and then head out.

 

You find a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt in Connor’s old room. You sink onto the edge of his bed, holding the cotton up to your nose, allowing yourself to wallow in regret for a bit. You are quickly brought out of your musings, however, when you hear a rhythmic banging sound emanating from where you left Spike. Shit. You rush towards the sound, praying that the humans didn’t hear anything.

 

Apparently, he was trying to bash his head open by whacking it repeatedly against the shower tiles. You jump into the shower fully dressed which is oddly fitting considering he’s got all of his clothes on as well. “What the hell are you doing?” You snake a hand in between his head and the wall to prevent further damage, but he stopped the moment you knelt in front of him.  “Spike?” He is staring straight ahead, like you’re not even there. “Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with you?” You huff disgustedly, then pull him towards yourself, stripping him of the sodden mess that is his clothes. When you try to get him out of his shirt, he begins feebly resisting, so you grab his hands in one of yours while managing to open the buttons with the other. You discover the source of the dried blood you smelled before, an odd series of scratch marks criss-crossing his chest. “What the…” Holy fuck. You can actually hear the tumblers in your brain clicking into place as you finally realize exactly what happened to Spike. The walls suddenly seem to close in, like you are back in the box. And, abruptly, you are, and the shower water is rain and the vampire’s hand you hold in yours is Darla about to give birth to your son. Reality rushes back in, however, and it’s just you kneeling on the shower floor in front of Spike, staring at the marks he made when he tried to claw his soul out of his chest with his bare hands.  You stare at him for a very long time before finding your voice. “How…” The shower water just keeps pounding down on your strange tableau.

 

“I had to.” He looks down and away, embarrassed. Not like you haven’t seen this before. Not like you haven’t been this before.

 

You blink slowly, watching him. “You did this to yourself?” He glances down at the scratches on his chest, but you’re pretty sure he knows you’re talking about the soul.

 

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.” His jaw twitches, like he wants to say something more, but can’t find the words.

 

His eyes go away to the far away place again, leaving you alone. You sigh and heft him to standing to finish removing his clothes. He is ragdoll limp in your arms, and basically you have to hold him up against your chest as you wash him. God. He is so freaking skinny you can see the individual bones of his spine. He is pressing against you, almost as if trying to get inside you, and you curse your body’s reaction to this. You try to will down your arousal by thinking of innocuous things. Baseball. Being kneecapped. James Earl Jones naked. Not working. Truth was, your body had been reacting the moment you were in close proximity of him, sensing his weakness. You are such a sick fuck.

 

He turns around suddenly, squirming against you, trying to kiss you, touch you. You hold his hands still by his side, look into his eyes. This isn’t the time or the place. You would be taking advantage. You know why he’s doing this, though, having been there yourself. That desperate need to just to have someone touch you. You relent and pull him into a loose embrace, and he sighs, settling his head on your shoulder. You continue cleaning him up, ignoring the way his own aroused self is rubbing against your very wet pj bottoms. When you decide he is clean enough, you slap ff the taps, then brusquely rub him down with a towel. He follows you silently into the bedroom, accepting the clothing you give him and sitting on the edge of the bed. When you try to leave and get some dry clothes for yourself, he looks up at you kinda desperately, his voice rough. “You’ll be back, yeah?”  

 

“Yeah.” When you come back in, he is sitting in exactly the same spot, staring down at the clothes like they were some kind of alien life form. You sigh and pull him to standing, helping him into your son’s clothing, not really missing the irony there. Great. Like you need more fucked up Freudian shit in your life. You lead him to the side of the bed and pull back the covers and he climbs in. He looks so small and pale against the sheets. “Get some sleep.”  You nod at him and flick off the light.

 

You are almost to the door when he calls to you. “Angel?” You pause but don’t turn around, hand on the doorknob, weighing the pros and cons of staying. After an internal battle of wills, you slump your shoulders in defeat and walk back over to the bed, sliding in behind him. You pull him flush against your chest, marveling a bit at the way your two bodies still fit so naturally together after all this time. Well, at least he doesn’t stink anymore, so chalk one up in the “pros” column. After a long while, during which time you actually thought he has fallen asleep, he speaks again. “Are you going to tell me it’s going to get better?”

 

“Is that what you want to hear?”

 

He hesitates, and you know he’s mulling this over. “I want the truth.”

 

You don’t hesitate. “No. It doesn’t.” Every single day you have to ignore the monster rattling his cage when one of your friends is hurt, or sick, or scared. It never gets any easier—you just learned how to deal with it better.  And it has taken you a very long time to get to where you are, to trust yourself around other humans, to let them in.

 

He seems to accept this, nodding to himself, and then drops his head back onto your shoulder. From your vantage point, you can see the knobby protrusions of his shoulder blades, and wonder again when was the last time he ate. You shift into game face almost without thought, opening a vein on your wrist and offering it to him. He latches on immediately, like a limpet, kneading the flesh of your arm with eager hands. That’s not all that was eager. Dammit. He seems to notice, too, rubbing himself against you. Your free hand seems to have a mind of its own, skirting its way down Spike’s chest and finally wending its way past the elastic waistband and wrapping around his very erect cock. Spike arches into your touch and sighs around your wrist. Stupid evil hand! You’re starting to feel a little dizzy now, but you continue pumping him, knocking his hand away when he tries to do the same to you. You’re not the one who needs release right now. You are, however, seconds away from pushing him off of your arm—you are getting to that scary place where you feel like you’ll shake apart, but then he suddenly releases you, riding out his orgasm with a quiet moan. You think about going to get some blood but that just seems so damn far away, so you burrow your head into Spike’s back and surrender to an oddly dreamless sleep.

 

You wake the next morning alone. The only evidence he was even there was the pounding headache you had from the blood loss and Connor’s neatly folded clothes on the edge of the bed. You briefly consider tracking him down, but Fred’s knock on your door, bringing you news of Wesley’s whereabouts, reminds you that you have bigger things to deal with than coddling a newly ensouled vampire. You feel a pang of regret, a very small part of you almost wishing that you could be there for him in a way that no one was for you. You hope he takes comfort in the fact that you left the door open, which is more than you ever had. You sigh and shake your head, trying to clear it. You really need some blood before heading off to find Wesley. Please, please, Wesley. Please know where Cordy is. Maybe The Powers will finally cut you a break this time.

 
 
Current Mood: contentcontent
Current Music: jericho season finale
 
 
( 14 comments — Leave a comment )
ash_carpenter: Spangel Angstash_carpenter on January 24th, 2008 10:05 am (UTC)
I really enjoyed your variation on the theme, honey; it was nice to see it from Angel's point of view. I particularly liked the way that he hated his body's reaction to Spike and the parallels drawn between Spike and Connor were painful and beautiful. I almost cried at the image of Angel scenting Connor's clothes.

As usual, there was some subtle humour in here, which always elevates fiction so much IMHO, even if it is dark. Especially if it's dark. The stupid evil hand made me smile too.

Also loved the reminder of what Angel is and how he fights his nature every single day. Wonderful.

Just one very minor thing - and I'm not sure whether it was deliberate - that interrupted the flow of the narrative for me (and this just might be a personal thing). Occasionally, particularly in the first paragraph, I felt as though the tense used either changed or wasn't quite right. Like, "things had been a bit weird" implies that they're not any more, whereas I get the impression that they are. *shrugs* Feel free to ignore my ramblings, I'm probably just being weird. You know I absolutely adore your writing.

Anyway, enough babbling from me! Adored it. I was so excited to see a fic from you on my flist this morning and had to read it immediately! Work be damned!

*hugs*
Adjoviadjovi on January 25th, 2008 12:19 am (UTC)
and I'm not sure whether it was deliberate

heh. nope. just me being too antsy to wait around for my friend to send her edits. bad, bad girl was i. i re-posted a cleaner version.

thank you so much for your kind words--i'm so glad you enjoyed! :) your comments always make me smile.
Mabel: Spike - Sensitiveamavel_bel on January 24th, 2008 06:15 pm (UTC)
Great fic, darling. It sounds so logic that Spike would go to Angel after getting the soul. The characterization is very spot on and all the angtsy made my heart ache.

Always love your writing ;-).
Adjoviadjovi on January 25th, 2008 12:14 am (UTC)
Aw...thanks, honey. :) So glad you enjoyed!
dancing till the world ends: spangel harder by londonbadasslynnenne on January 25th, 2008 03:29 am (UTC)
You sigh and pull him to standing, helping him into your son’s clothing, not really missing the irony there. Great. Like you need more fucked up Freudian shit in your life.

Heeeeeeeee. Angel's life is nothing but fucked up Freudian shit.
Adjoviadjovi on January 25th, 2008 03:43 am (UTC)
Word. Pauvre Angel. He never does catch a break, does he?
darkspace99darkspace99 on January 25th, 2008 05:51 am (UTC)
Beautiful. I'm really glad Angel was there for Spike, even if it was only one night. It makes sense that Spike would go to see him, to try to make some sense of the soul.
Adjoviadjovi on January 26th, 2008 12:35 am (UTC)
Aw...thanks, honey. So glad you enjoyed. I think Angel is pretty much the only one qualified to help him with that.
ares132006: bathares132006 on January 25th, 2008 05:57 am (UTC)
Hey Sweetie,

I, too, love this moment.

You find a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt in Connor’s old room. You sink onto the edge of his bed, holding the cotton up to your nose, allowing yourself to wallow in regret for a bit.

Awww...poor Angel.

And your sense of humour tickles me.

Stupid evil hand.

And this -
You feel a pang of regret, a very small part of you almost wishing that you could be there for him in a way that no one was for you. You hope he takes comfort in the fact that you left the door open, which is more than you ever had.

This was sad. No one was there for Angel no matter what Cordelia said. Where was she in the last century?

Thank you for a lovely read.

Hugs
Adjoviadjovi on January 26th, 2008 12:37 am (UTC)
Aw...hugs you back.

This was sad. No one was there for Angel no matter what Cordelia said. Where was she in the last century?

ITA--while his friends help him through some stuff, I think for the whole getting his soul stuff he was pretty much on his own.
acacia5: spike face and bodyacacia5 on January 25th, 2008 12:20 pm (UTC)
This is lovely. I like the way you have written it so that we know what a difficult place Angel was in at this time, as well as Spike. He had his own issues, but tried to help as much as he could. It's sad, but I liked the little touches of humour you put in.
I think I spotted one little continuity problem. I don't think Spike has his duster at this time. He left it behind when he attacked Buffy, Xander picks it up, and we don't see him wearing it again until ep 15 of season 7, when he tells Robin Wood that he got it in New York. I might be wrong about this and feel free to ignore it.
Anyway, I really enjoyed this, thanks.
Adjoviadjovi on January 26th, 2008 12:37 am (UTC)
Thank you for the lovely comment. I'm so glad you enjoyed. I changed the part about the duster--I hadn't caught that, so thank you. :)
Pecos: hellooopecos on August 11th, 2008 03:57 am (UTC)
Hello, new friend! Thank you for adding me, and I jhope you don't mind that I've reciprocated. I look forward to getting to know you a bit better! Cheers, Pecos from Colorado.
Adjoviadjovi on August 11th, 2008 02:37 pm (UTC)
hey there! thanks for stopping by! i really have been enjoying "fading" and wanted to make sure i caught updates. greetings from muggy d.c.!
( 14 comments — Leave a comment )