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FIC--Any Port In The Storm, Spangel

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 06:12:22 GMT

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.

FIC--The Pieces

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 06:17:45 GMT

Title: The Pieces
Rating: PG-13 (bad swears)
Spoilers: Season 5 of Angel
Pairing: Angel/Spike implied
Characters: Angel, Spike, Connor, Buffy
Summary: Mostly a character study—Buffy comes to the Hyperion following the big fight in the alley. I dedicate this one to rockstarpeach and shanmara. I know this isn’t the New Year’s fic I promised, but that one never got done and this one just kinda came out of nowhere. I hope it’s an ok substitute. No smut though—sorry.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Buffy stood outside the hotel for a good long while, studying the architecture that she thought would look more at place in Rome. She was gearing up to go inside, not even sure what she’d find. Although she’d heard that things had been bad, that’s why she was here after all, nothing could have prepared her for what she found upon arriving in the city. The few people she’d seen, most had gotten the Hell out of A by this point, looked like refugees from some war in Africa or something. Most were heavily armed and all peered out at her from behind windows. Outsiders were not to be trusted. The city had been shut down for almost a month now, and she had only gotten past the checkpoint by climbing the barricade and leaping to the other side. A clear swath had been cut on either side of the hotel, scorch marks ran down the street and the palm trees lining the block had been reduced to a couple of blackened stumps. The destruction had been centralized in this area. This was where the war went down after all, and yet, miraculously, the place still stood, an oasis in the middle of a minefield. She guessed magic was involved, but it was still an impressive sight.

She finally sucked up the courage and pulled open the door, entering the massive lobby. Angel did tend to have a taste for the grandiose. She craned her neck, taking it all in, startled when someone called out to her.

“Can I help you?”

She knew she was staring dumbly at the teenaged boy at the reception counter, but he just looked so...unexpected wasn’t even the word. Clean cut came to mind, and totally out of place in comparison to what she had seen outside. He twirled a pencil between his fingers, and looked like he had been reading some of the textbooks in front of him.

“Miss…are you ok?” He slid off of the chair and walked towards her, moving with a kind of ease that instantly put her Slayer sense on high alert. Her hand automatically flew to her back pocket, reaching for the stake she stashed there. He came to an abrupt halt, holding his hands out in a placating fashion. “Not a vamp. I swear.” He held his hand out to her, offering her his wrist. “Here. I have a pulse.”

She kept one hand curled around the stake but did reach out with the other to feel his heartbeat. Not a vamp, then. Something else, though. By the way he was staring he seemed just as curious about her as she was of him. His eyes slipped to the side and he took a sharp intake of breath. “You’re a Slayer.”

“How did you…” She could feel her heart beating wildly against her ribcage. What the hell?

He held his hands up again. “Easy…I’m not going to hurt you.” She must have looked like she didn’t believe him because he tilted his head down towards her. “Really. We’re here to help. That’s why you came here, right?”

Now that she had calmed down some she got a good look at his face. He wasn’t bad looking, but more Dawn’s type than hers, and definitely looked young. He had wide, blue eyes and looked like he smiled pretty easily. There was something vaguely familiar about him, maybe the way he moved or talked, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was still kind of freaked by the way he just knew she was a Slayer. She was staring again and he just stared back, quirking one eyebrow in question.

“No…um. I’m sorry. I…uh…I came looking for someone. Two someones, actually.” That little troll Andrew had finally spilled the beans about Spike right around the time Giles informed her of the big drag down Angel and Co. had sponsored. She wasn’t sure who she was more pissed at—Spike for not telling her he was alive, or Angel for not inviting her to the party. She guessed Spike, since Angel really didn’t have that option open to him after she basically told him she didn’t trust him when she told them to take Dana away. She wasn’t sure that she did trust him anymore. But Spike…well, she guessed the trust was gone there as well. She wondered for the billionth time if this was a good idea, her being here, but she had to know.

“Lemme guess—Angel and Spike?” He slid back onto his perch at the counter. “They’re sleeping.” He pointed to the bright light streaming in from the window. “Vampires.” He shrugged, then appraised her again. “You do know they’re vampires, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah. I know them both pretty well, actually. I think they’d want to see me, sleeping or not.” She looked up the staircase, wondering if she should just start knocking on doors.

“Uh…let me try and call Angel first, alright?” He flipped open his cell phone, cradling it between his ear and his shoulder. She dimly heard it ringing on the other end. “Hey.”

“Are you ok?” Angel sounded like someone who had been awakened in the middle of the night with bad news.

The boy smiled and rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “I’m fine. Look, there is some Slayer here to see you. Said you would want to see her. You and Spike.” He turned his head at that and she couldn’t hear Angel any longer, but she could make out the vague sounds of speech. The boy turned to her once more. “Um…miss? What’s your name?”

“Buffy”. At that, she heard a muffled shout and some loud noise coming from the other end, and the boy inexplicably blushed, quickly snapping shut the phone.

“They’ll um…they’ll be right down.” He pointed at the weird round couch in the middle of the lobby. “You can have a seat while you wait, if you want. Do you want something to drink?” He hopped off his chair and bent over at the waist, pulling open a small refrigerator. “We have a couple of sodas left, some of Spike’s beer. I’m guessing no to the blood though, huh?”

“No, I’m fine.” She was actually pretty thirsty, but figured it would be better if she waited until after they had come down. She could hear vague noises coming from upstairs, hurried sounds. She turned back to the boy. “You never told me your name.”

“Connor.” He gave her another smile. “And, I’m just realizing who you are. The Buffy. No wonder.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“No wonder, what?”

“I…well. I’m guessing you kinda took them by surprise, showing up here, is all.” He didn’t offer anything further, just sat back in his chair, a slightly amused and thoughtful look on his face.

“So…do you work here, or something?”

He grinned at her. “Or something.” He looked upwards towards the hallway, and a second later she heard their voices bouncing down from above. They were arguing about something. Connor just rolled his eyes, like he’d heard this before. She mused if he spent any time around the two of them, he probably had. The voices ended suddenly as they came into view.

The two vampires kind of looked at each other and nodded, some sort of silent missive between them, before descending the stairs. Something in the way that they did this, almost if asking permission from one another, made her insides feel funny, but she just chalked it up to the shock of seeing them again. She was struck by the beauty of the way they moved, seemingly in concert, a contrast in light and dark. She had forgotten how tall Angel was, he made Spike, who was still bigger than her, seem small in comparison. They had clearly just been roused from sleep and hastily thrown on clothes, Angel in his customary all black and Spike dressed very similarly, but with a red shirt on overtop. They came to a halt a few feet away from her, staring dumbly, clearly at a loss. She realized she was staring back, but now that they were in front of her, she hadn’t a clue what to say. Luckily, Spike, who was unable to remain quiet for any period of time, was the first to break the silence.

“So, that little weasel ratted me out, did he?” Buffy just gaped at him, the incongruity of what he had in greeting completely throwing her. Spike turned on Angel then, glowering at him. “And, don’t you say a sodding thing about it.”

Angel glared back and Buffy saw his hands had been balled into fists. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinkin’ about it.” He had spread his legs, getting into battle stance, preparing for the blow.

They seemed to be having some kind of Mexican standoff, and Buffy’s spidey sense careened up on high alert as she herself tensed for a fight. Unexpectedly, Angel suddenly relented, breaking eye contact and looking away as if considering something. He addressed the boy at the desk. “You wanna go patrolling?”

The boy, who seemed utterly unfazed by the display between the two vampires, eyed the window. “You thinking about getting a tan?”

Angel headed over towards the weapons cabinet, hefting a sword and testing its weight. “We’ll hit the sewers.” He pulled out a fighting ax as well, holding it out for the boy.

“Oh yay. I’ve been thinking we don’t spend enough quality time in the sewers.” He smirked at Angel. “You think your old ass can keep up?”

Angel frowned at him. “My ass is not old.” The boy and Spike shared a secret smile at that. “It’s not.” Buffy was struck by the easy way they interacted, and an irrational flare of jealousy flashed through her core. Things between her and Angel had never been easy. In fact, most of their interactions had been downright formal. She didn’t think she remembered Angel laughing more than a handful of times, but right now, his eyes were alight and crinkled at the corners. She almost didn’t recognize him. He gave her a tight smile and nodded at Spike who nodded in return, before placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, steering him towards the basement door. “We’ll be back,” he called as they descended.

Spike watched them go before hopping up onto the counter and lighting up a smoke. Buffy regarded him circumspectively. “That was… nice of Angel to give us some time to talk.”

The vampire shrugged his shoulders. “Tosser has his moments, I suppose.” She knew it was a big concession on his part to admit even that.

She took in a deep breath. “To answer your question, yes. Andrew did tell me about you.” She felt like her insides were roiling, and knew she was about to lose it at any moment. “Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice sounded very small.

He shrugged again. “I dunno.” He studied his cigarette for a bit, watching the smoke curl away, before looked back up at her, his eyes haunted. “Thought it might cheapen it, a bit, you know?”

“No. I don’t know. How could you not tell me?” Her eyes were welling and her throat felt tight.

He seemed to yield a bit then, his rigid posture softening. “Time just kind of got away from me.” She studied his face. He looked thinner than she remembered, and if possible, older. He was still beautiful, though. Always. Face cut in sharp lines and eyes that were very blue. “I was a ghost, at first. Then, once I got my body back, things just happened rather fast. Fred died, and then the cheerleader.” He nodded solemnly when her eyes widened in understanding. “That was the beginning of the end. For Angel at least. We all just followed his lead.”

She shook her head, not understanding in the least. “Why?”

He shrugged, shaking out another cigarette. “It was the right thing to do. ‘Sides, I hadn’t had a decent brawl in awhile.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The right thing to do? How many people did you lose?”

He hopped down from the counter, anger heating his features. “You know nothing about it, Slayer.” He glared menacingly down at her, and she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck raise in natural response to a predator. “You made it pretty clear that you didn’t trust us when you lot took away that batshit crazy Slayer who chopped my hands off.” He wiggled his fingers for emphasis, but she couldn’t even see a scar now. “And, your Watcher turned his back on us when we called him to help save Fred. I hold him partially responsible for her death. I know Peaches feels the same way.” At her look of confusion he clarified. “Angel.” She didn’t know that, actually, but she wasn’t surprised. Giles didn’t like the vampires during the best of times. He sighed wearily. “What are you doing here, Buffy?”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, I don’t know. Call me crazy, but when I heard that my ex, who last I heard had taken over an evil law firm, threw his very own apocalypse, fighting alongside my other ex, who, by the way, I thought was dead, I figured I’d come and have a look-see.” She was pacing in front of him and she felt him tracking her with his eyes.

“So you could judge us?” He was trying to act all big bad tough, but there was still enough of the guy she knew just near the surface that she could sense the vulnerability there.

Buffy sighed, slumping down on the round couch and running her hand tiredly over her face. Silently, she watched him, weighing different options of what to say. Finally she tried what she hoped would be the path of least resistance. “I’m not here to judge you. I came to see if I could help.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Better late than never, right?” She stood again, walking towards him and taking his hand which she used to pull him into a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Spike. I…I missed you.”

He remained stiff in her embrace, and after a long moment, he awkwardly patted her back a few times before stepping away, training his eyes on the ground. “You too, Slayer.” He nervously fidgeted in his pocket, pulling out another cigarette and lighting up.

“How about once more with feeling, Spike?” She took a step towards him but stopped immediately when he jerked back a step. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

His eyes flicked towards her face than abruptly back down again. “Nothing.” He licked his lips. “Everything.” He shrugged. “Big war and all, but I’d wager you heard about that.” He threw the unfinished cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his heel and kicking it to the side, out of sight. He walked around the counter, opening the fridge. “You want something to drink?” He pulled out a beer for himself, holding it up to show her.

“Do you have any soda?”

She heard Spike rummaging through the contents of the fridge. “Looks like Coke, Dr. Pepper, Sprite and,” he stood up, holding a can of Mountain Dew. “Har fucking har, Peaches,” he muttered under his breath, then at her confusion, sheepishly clarified, “Inside joke.” She just gaped at him, thrown that he and Angel would share anything, especially something as intimate as a private joke. He tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “So…any of that sound good?”

“Any diet?”

He bent over, shifting the contents once more. “Nope. Sorry. Turns out Slim’s a sugar addict.”

“I guess just a Coke then.” She popped the top, gulping the liquid greedily, discovering she was thirstier than she had thought. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “So, who is that boy, anyways?”

Spike froze, beer poised just above his lips. “You’d best ask Angel about that one.” As she moved to protest, he cut her off. “I’m serious, Slayer. That’s for the old man to tell.” She knew she could usually get Spike to give up the goods, most times without even resorting to violence, but she saw in his eyes that he was completely unyielding on this one. Something about the way he was protecting Angel, of all people, stirred up the vaguest beginnings of a suspicion in her mind, but she couldn’t get a bead on it just yet. Or, more likely, wasn’t ready to. Before she could think on this further, though, Spike spoke again. “So, you still love him?”

She crinkled her brow in confusion, thrown from her reverie. “Who? Renaldo?”

“Renaldo?” Spike laughed aloud. “You’ve got to be bloody joking. That wanker’s name is Renaldo?”

“What’s wrong with Renaldo?” She was very proud of the fact that she didn’t point out that his name was Spike, after all, but she had been defensive about being named Buffy since about the time she could talk, so she let it slide. “And, to answer your question, no, I don’t love him.”

He crinkled his brow with confusion. “Then why were you with him?”

He had crossed his arms across his chest, a defensive posture, and she could tell he felt raw and exposed, so she spoke gently. “That’s why I was with him.” She ducked her head, catching his eyes. “Do you understand?” He just gaped at her, eyes wounded and sad. He understood. “But, you weren’t asking about the Immortal, were you?” He flinched, but immediately tried to hide his wariness by lighting up another cigarette. “You were asking about Angel.” She could tell he was working very hard to keep his face blank, expressionless. “I still love him. Some part of me always will.” He had dropped his eyes, staring down the linoleum. She took a step forward. “But, some part of me will always love y…”

“Don’t you fucking say it, Slayer.” The anger was back and he was looming in front of her. “You didn’t mean it then, you sure as hell…”

“Why are you so sure of that?” She was in his face as well, her anger matching his. She had forgotten how frustratingly pig-headed Spike could be. She was more than a little surprised, not to mention hurt, that apparently he hadn’t believed her then, either.

“Oh please, Buffy. You expect me to believe you? That what we had was the same deal you had with Captain Forehead?”

She wanted to shake him. “Of course it wasn’t the same! You’re not the same person!” She sighed loudly, not hiding her irritation. He seemed to back down a bit, contrite. “I don’t want to argue about this or deal with any of your jealous vampire crap, ok? That’s not why I’m here. If I wanted that, I could have just conference-called you and let you bitch it out over the phone. “

He picked up his beer again, regarding her thoughtfully. “So, why are you here, Buffy?”

“Well, that’s actually a good question. Why are you here? Last time I saw the two of you together, you had drawn Angel’s face on your punching bag.” He chuckled openly at the memory. “What is going between the two of you?”

He gasped and took a step back, eyes wide. “What the fuck do you mean by that?” He was freaked, glancing at the door several times quickly, always keeping an escape route in sight. By the way he was acting, that vague suspicion that had been niggling her brain began fully forming into a confirmed fact. He clenched his teeth, trying to reign in control. “I hate the stupid plonker. Pretty damn sure the feeling’s mutual.”

She raised her hands, taking a step towards him. “Hey, hey.” She dropped her hands again, changing tactics, knowing she wouldn’t get anything more if she continued down that road. Was it even any of her business? She mused that hadn’t stopped them from snooping around her and the Immortal in Rome. “I guess I just don’t understand why you stayed.” She shook her head wearily. “I guess I don’t understand any of this, actually. Why’d he do it?” The little she had heard had been through the news, which had conveniently left out anything supernatural. Everything else she had gotten through Giles, and that was heavily filtered by his own prejudices.

“Well, again, that’s more for the bogtrotter to tell, but it was about taking them down from the inside, showing them that we could hurt them.” He was peeling the label from his beer bottle, not really looking at her.

She watched him work the wet paper off of the bottle, mesmerized. “Did it work?”

“After a fashion.” He gave her a wan smile. “We’re still here.”

She knew what it was like to win such a victory. That when the dust cleared, you might still be standing, but the price you paid was always too high. The doors to the hotel slammed open just then, admitting Angel and Connor. They were talking animatedly, in sharp contrast to the quiet conversation they had unknowingly interrupted.

“Dude, what did I tell you about showing off?” Dude? Did he just call Angel dude? He waggled a finger at the taller vampire, tsking at him.

“Me?” Angel’s eyes widened comically. “I don’t recall being the one who decided it was a good idea to do a back flip right as I went in for the kill. You almost took my head off.”

Spike chucked the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just a little sensitive about having to lug around such an enormous cranium every day.” Connor smiled in appreciation at the joke.

Although Angel had yet to acknowledge her presence, Buffy watched with a sort of detached fascination as he closely studied Spike, lines of worry marring his handsome face. The other vampire looked up at him, and although she didn’t see it, something passed between the two of them, causing Angel to relax. The moment didn’t last, though. Spike pulled out a cigarette, and Angel marched over, angrily snatching it from between the blonde’s lips. “What did I say about smoking inside?”

Spike shrugged, eyes alight. “Not to do it?” He promptly pulled out another one and lit it, and Angel slugged him, knocking the cigarette to the ground and the vampire back a few inches. Spike shoved him angrily back, and they locked arms, pushing against each other until their shoes were squeaking. Then, just as suddenly as it had stirred, the storm passed, and they simultaneously shoved away from one another. Connor just snickered and rolled his eyes at the display. Spike turned at the sound. “So, how ‘bout it, Slim? Up for going another round?”

Connor flipped the stake he had been playing with end for end, catching it perfectly. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure. Got nothing better to do.”

Buffy stepped in front of Angel. “Actually, I was thinking about going out myself—getting the lay of the land. You game?”

He finally glanced up at her, and she was taken aback by the resigned coldness of his gaze. “Sure.” He indicated his head towards the weapons cabinet. “You want to bring something? Never can be too careful these days.”

She pulled out the stake from her back pocket. “I always come prepared.”

He just nodded at her, then looked back at Spike and Connor. Angel and Spike did that staring thing for a moment again, but both seemed apparently satisfied by what they saw because they quickly blinked and looked away. He turned towards her. “Let’s go.” She began to lead the way out, but he turned around, walking backwards. “No more booze.” Spike just answered with a two fingered salute. “I’m serious. You’ll stunt his growth, or something. And, I’m fairly certain he’ll need his liver at some point.”

As they exited the hotel, she heard Spike and Connor trade more snarky comments for Angel’s benefit, the main themes centering around his need to get a life and how stupid his hair was, but he pointedly chose to ignore them. The sky had gone a dusky purple—she had been talking to Spike longer than she realized. They walked along in silence for a good long while, but she finally ended the stalemate. “So…how are you?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she actually thought maybe he wasn’t going to, but then he spoke. “What are you doing here, Buffy?”

She felt as if she had been slapped, and when she finally spoke, her voice sounded thick. “I don’t know.” She really didn’t. She glanced sideways at him, his face a determined mask, scanning the night. The sight of him still took her breath away, though. Pale and dark and deadly. He was so beautiful it made her heart ache. “I thought I could help.”

“Yeah. You could have.” So there it was. “But, you made it pretty damn clear that wasn’t a door I had open anymore.” His jaw was clenched tight, determined. He still hadn’t looked at her.

“If I had known what was going on, I could have…”

His eyes flashed with anger when he finally turned on her. “I’m sorry, Buffy. Didn’t you get my memo where I said that I was taking over my archenemy, who, incidentally, have made my life a living hell the past couple of years, just so that I could bust them open from the inside? Oh, and P.S.: Don’t tell anybody?” His voice was thick with derision, his tone mocking. He almost sounded like Angelus, but not quite giddy enough for the full effect.

She realized just how naïve she had been. She’d actually thought he’d be grateful to see her, that she’d finally come. But, she began to understand that she didn’t really know Angel all that well. She’d kept his memory, her first, perfect love, tucked away in this untouchable little box for so long that it had morphed into something that didn’t exist anymore. Maybe Spike had been right all of those years ago: she and Angel could be many things, but they would never be friends. She probably didn’t know him that well back then, but there didn’t seem to be a need for that, the knowing of him, when they were both swept away in the rushing vortex of love, and then hate. Now, as a woman, the knowing of one another seemed more important. Someone should know Angel. She supposed Spike did, which made a certain kind of sense. He really was the only one that could. She sighed. “So, is it over?”

He was watching her, probably trying to suss out what she was thinking. Blinking rapidly, he shrugged, defeated. “It’s never over.” To his non-answer he added. “But, to answer your question, no. Down but not out. They’re just regrouping. It’s only a matter of time.” He sounded so damn tired.

Buffy just shook her head, incredulous. “And then what? Armageddon all over again?” She spread her arms wide, taking in all of the destruction.

He just shrugged again, placing his hand over his heart. “They’re coming for us, Buffy.” His voice was flat. “They proved that the last time.” It was true—although the devastation was massive and the whole city pretty much burned, (early reports say the 6.4 scale earthquake which shook the L.A. basin last night caused the downed power lines, leading to the massive fires now burning throughout the city…), the human casualties were surprisingly low. The damage was centralized, and those who could get out, did. The monsters were only really focused on one target. The ones who stayed did so at their own peril. She wondered briefly if Angel got the irony of that fact that he is risking his life now for them, those who refused to leave. He probably feels like he deserves it. “I just hope the school year starts back up again before they come back.” The absurdity of what he said almost made her giggle. He looked at her strangely for a moment, and then ducked his head in understanding, giving a small smile. She knew it’s wasn't really for her, but it was the first one he’d granted in her direction, so she took it. “Connor’s in college. He’ll have to go back to school.”

She scrunched her nose, feeling like she was missing something big. “Why don’t you just tell him to leave?”

Angel shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Like he’d listen to me.” He kind of seemed amused by this thought, which was just…weird. She can tell by the forced tone of what he says next that he was trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. “I don’t think there is much else to see tonight. Let’s head back to the hotel.”

Not so fast. “Who is he?”

She could actually see the shutters closing down behind his eyes then, much in the way Spike’s had when she’d broached the subject earlier. “That’s not a story I’m ready to tell.”

She considered pushing, but knew that would lead to nowhere. Angel turned and walked a few paces ahead of her. The breach between them had never seemed so wide. She called out to his retreating back. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped, not turning around, but his shoulders relaxed fractionally. After a long beat, he finally spoke, his voice low and soft. “Me too. More than you could know.”

She briskly walked the few paces that separated them, catching up to him. They walked the rest of the way back to the hotel in silence. Just before walking in, he turned towards her, giving her a sad smile, and she just nodded, reaching out to squeeze his fingers before he opened the door.

The hotel was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the world outside. Spike and Connor were sprawled out on the couch watching “The Big Lebowski”, and empty beer bottles were strewn all over the coffee table. Angel picked one up and snorted derisively. “What did I say about drinking?”

“Stop being such a fucking wanker, and get out of the way.” Spike tossed a balled up beer label at him.

“Why do I even try?” Angel sighed as if totally put on, then just leaned back against the counter. Spike glanced quickly up at him, and Angel almost imperceptively nodded, clearly indicating that the situation was normal, all fucked up.

Buffy stood to the side, watching them, taking in the way Angel was trying to hide his enjoyment of Spike and Connor’s running movie commentary. They were such guys. She smiled to herself, startled when she realized Angel was smiling back. Ok, so maybe she was willing to finally admit it was a bit arrogant of her to assume she would be able to come here and help them pick up the pieces. She now knew that was an impossibility—her piece didn’t fit into this particular puzzle anymore. But that was ok.

As the Slayer, she had discovered that when things were at their worst, there were two truths that got you through: you couldn’t do it by yourself and you could always count on family. She felt the tightness in her chest that had been present since arriving in L.A. loosen the tiniest bit. They just might survive this yet.

FIC--Christmas Tradition

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 01:05:11 GMT

Title: Christmas Tradition
Rating: G
Spoilers: Season 5 of Angel
Pairing: None
Characters: Angel
Summary: Drabble for Blood Roses Advent Calendar--Angel musing about his Christmas at WRH, suppose it could be a tad B/A if you are really squinting
Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Angel sighed as the doors to the elevator slid shut, finally giving him the respite that he had been yearning for all night. His friends meant well, they always did, but he really wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit much these days. It had taken a great amount of willpower, and not a small amount of alcohol, to remain as long as he did. The party had been Lorne’s idea, of course, an “orphan’s” Christmas, which was a rather unfortunate choice of words in Angel’s opinion. It was just the men, as Fred had headed back to Texas to be with her actual family for the holidays, and her absence left quite a hole in the cheer department. Hence the copious amounts of booze. Even last year that wouldn’t have been necessary, they had all been easy with one another, a family, but a lot had happened in that time. Mind wipes, secrecy, running an evil organization without being seduced by the iniquity—these kinds of things tended to put a strain on relationships.

Angel walked into his darkened apartment, dropping the bag of gifts onto the coffee table. He headed straight towards the bar, unstopping the cut glass decanter and pouring himself a largish glass of single malt. He flicked his glance over towards the clock. 4:32. He had about an hour or so, give or take, so he decided to look over his gifts, sinking down onto his overstuffed sofa. He had received quite the mixed bag.

Wesley had given him a ceremonial dagger from what he thought was the Zhou Dynasty, if he wasn’t mistaken. He ran his finger lightly along the edge, appraising it. He would need to sharpen it a bit if he were ever to use it, but would probably just mount it on the wall of his office. Lorne had gotten him “Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits”. Angel opened the CD case and read the inside jacket, noting there were a couple of songs he didn’t recognize, and quickly scanned the mini biopic of Barry’s life before laying it back on the table. He reached back into the bag, scowling when he pulled out the envelope which held Spike’s present. A year’s subscription to Playboy. He flipped the envelope back down onto the table. He told himself he wasn’t canceling because it wouldn’t be polite, and also, he had heard that there were some really good articles. The fact that he had heard that from Spike didn’t bother him probably as much as it should. He pulled out Gunn’s present last. It was some kind of hand-held video game, apparently loaded with “NHL Hockey”. He frowned as he read over the instructions, not realizing until he was about halfway through that he was reading the French version. The thing seemed way too complicated and he had way too much alcohol in his system to operate the controls, but it did hold promise of being a good time waster at work in the days to come.

He had gone for the easy route with everyone else, giving them all hefty Christmas bonuses. No one seemed to mind. He had given one “real” present, although the recipient would never know who had sent it. He had agonized over what to give, having no idea what teenaged boys would like these days. Desperate, he finally broke down and turned to Harmony, and she told him the I-Pod was “like totally the ‘in’ thing this year”. Angel had no idea what the hell that was, and was deeply suspicious of anything with the word “pod” in it, but after a little internet research, it seemed to be harmless. Either that, or Apple was attempting world domination through tiny music players. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t all that far outside the realm of possibility. He had resisted writing “From Santa”, but only just, resigning to send the gift without any signature attached. He wished he could see Connor’s face when he opened it, but knew that wasn’t a possibility.

Angel sighed deeply and drained his glass, his slow glance taking in the both the time and the rosy fingers of sunlight just peeking over the horizon. His body felt the pull of dawn as well, his skin prickling just beneath the surface as a general feeling of lethargy settled in. It was time.

He stood, swaying a bit unsteadily, making his way over to his desk. He plopped himself into his chair, pulling his phone over. He fingered the small slip of paper he carried in his wallet, glad that he had maintained a covert connection with Willow. If not, he wouldn’t have been able to continue the tradition that had come to mean Christmas for him for the past five years. He tried to keep the deep brood at bay, to convince himself that she had been right, that he was a man worth saving. Somehow, this year that seemed more difficult to believe than most. He allowed himself to think back on that Christmas Eve, when all he wanted was to walk into the sun, ending it all. He thought about all of those who had been lost since then, who had been lost because of him. He wondered for the millionth time what if she hadn’t been there, what if it hadn’t snowed.

He closed his eyes, deciding not to dwell, and picked up the receiver, dialing the number on the slip of paper from memory. The phone rang four times before switching over to the answering machine. She was probably opening presents at Giles’ place, surrounded by family and friends. The recorded voice sounded tinny and cheerful, greeting the caller in both English and passable Italian. Angel dutifully waited for the beep before speaking, briefly wondering if he should say it in Italian this year, but decided at the last minute to stick with custom. He whispered “thank you” before gently laying the receiver back onto the cradle, staring off at the massive window that took up one whole wall of his office, waiting for the sun.

FIC--Something To Hold Onto, Spangel

Wed, 05 Dec 2007 05:07:58 GMT

Title: Something To Hold Onto
Rating: Hard R
Spoilers: Season 5 of Angel
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Characters: Ensemble AtS cast
Summary: nekid_spike Advent calendar challenge. Needed to have Spike and a Santa hat...check and check.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except a boatload of student loans.

Thanks: To the incomparable Ares for helping me out. This one needed a lot of work…

You hate Christmas. Okay, maybe that’s not completely true. Admittedly, you had celebrated a couple of nice Christmases over the years. Your son’s first Christmas was easily one of the best days of your life. Gunn had dressed up as Santa, and you would never forget the way Connor’s eyes lit up when you turned on the tree. You were all completely broke and had agreed to make each other a gift. Cordy had knitted you a lumpy, holey, three-inch thick, six-foot long scarf. Even though it was over 80 degrees in the shade, you wore that scarf everyday for the whole week following. It was probably the best gift that you had ever received. You still sleep with the ugly thing under your pillow, and one of your nighttime rituals is to touch it just to reassure yourself that it is still there. So, to amend, you really are only dreading this Christmas. Specifically, the office holiday party.

You had already suffered through the big Wolfram and Hart party, fake smile plastered on your face as you talked to clients, all the while imaging the different ways to dismember them with just a spoon. No, this is to be a smaller affair, just your inner circle of friends. It is bad enough that it is to be held in your apartment and that Fred, Harmony and Lorne left work early today to decorate. What is worse is the impending Secret Santa exchange of gifts. You know that this year the gifts would be a bit more extravagant than in years past. You found a rare vintage camel bone Moroccan Koummya that had been blessed by a shaman. It really is a pretty cool dagger, and you know it is the perfect gift for Wes. The problem is you exchanged names about two weeks ago, which has given you plenty of time to figure out who has whom. You have Wesley, Wesley has Harmony, Harmony has Gunn, Gunn has Lorne, Lorne has Fred, and Fred has Spike. Which means Spike has you. You can only imagine how he would use this as a chance to humiliate you in front of your friends. And, that is the best case scenario.

Everyone else has already drifted upstairs and you know you have to go up pretty soon, or else it would look like you are dallying. You sigh as you head towards the elevator, cringing when you set off the dancing Santa that had mysteriously appeared in your office a few weeks ago. It is motion-sensored and would turn on at the slightest of movements, blaring “Mele Kalikimaka” and gyrating its hips wildly. You think you hate the stupid little Hawaiian shirt most of all. No matter how many times you’ve turned it off, someone always turns it right back on. You suspect demons, and are pretty sure which demon is the culprit.

As the elevator reaches your penthouse, you hear the steady murmur of voices overlaid with what sounds like Burl Ives. You take a deep, unneeded breath before the doors slide open, bracing yourself for the Christmas explosion you are about to face. Wow. You expect a brash display of red and green, but the place actually looks really nice. Boughs of greenery hang from the ceilings, and a giant tree decorated with white lights and red ribbons dominates the center of the room. Candles cast everything with a warm glow, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon. Everyone turns towards you as you walk in, and Harmony runs up, Santa hat in hand. Apparently this is the uniform for the evening. There is no way in hell.

“Uh...no, thank you.”

“Oh come on, Angel.” Fred winds her arm around your elbow conspiratorially. “Don’t be such a Grinch.”

“I don’t do hats.” You notice that Spike escaped wearing one, and he smirks at you in a rare moment of vampire solidarity.

“Fine, Mr. Scroogypants. Let’s get this party started already.” Lorne is pouring what looks to be some pretty strong drinks. Thank God.

Harmony claps her hands together and squeals. “Yay! Presents!”

You make your way over towards Lorne, pouring yourself an extra shot of whiskey to go along with the two fingers you request. Lorne just snickers at you and shakes his head, chiding you softly under his breath. “Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that, Angelpuss.” No Lorne, it really is.

Wes becomes the general then, marshalling the troops to gather once the drinks are handed out. Someone had placed everyone’s gifts under the tree. You try to look in vain for your gift from Spike, preparing yourself for the worst, but you really can’t tell which one is which. Wes reaches under the tree and pulls out a tastefully wrapped present. He smiles, nodding towards Harmony. “Actually, Harmony, this is for you. From me.”

She lets out a little shriek and claps again. You see Spike roll his eyes, and you almost chuckle aloud in agreement. Wes bought her a very expensive make-up kit. “Oh, I love it, I LOVE IT!” She’s jumping up and down. “These so are totally my colors! This is the like the awesomest gift, ever!” She runs over and hugs Wes tightly, repeating thank you over and over. You kinda suspect Fred helped pick out this gift by the way she is slyly smiling.

“Um…Harmony…kind of need to breathe here.” Wesley sputters a bit but just keeps patting her on the back awkwardly.

“Oh, my bad!” Harmony lets him go, but keeps dancing around, proudly holding her present to her chest.

Wesley clears his throat. “Right. Moving on.” The next gift is from Gunn to Lorne, an album from an artist you haven’t heard of before. Lorne seems pretty impressed that Gunn had gotten Jay-Z to actually sign it.

“The ‘Black Album’s’ tight” Gunn nods proudly, and you guess that means it is pretty good.

Lorne gives Fred front row tickets with backstage passes to the Dixie Chicks. You’ve actually heard of them, but that is only because she has that big poster hanging in her lab. She seems pretty excited, and you smile as she warmly hugs Lorne in thanks. There really is no one quite like Fred.

Wes gives Spike his gift from Fred. She had wrapped it very prettily, and Spike actually tries hard not to rip the paper.

“Oh wow, Fred.” His voice is low, and you can tell from the tone that he is really shocked. She gave him a first-run vinyl of “The Ramones”. You don’t know who they are either. “This is…this is brilliant.”

She beams at him. “Oh, I hoped you would like it! I wasn’t sure, but Charles told me that you liked punk music and so I Wikipedia’d the punk revolution and found that ‘The Ramones’, although they did not enjoy great commercial success, actually were thought of as the first punk rock band. I do realize that Wikipedia is maybe not the most credible of sources, as accusations such as of providing information of uneven quality, systemic bias and inconsistencies abound…and…I’m babbling. ”

Everyone laughs. “It’s perfect, actually. Thank you, luv.” He looks a little shocked. Probably because he now realizes that he is going to make an ass out of himself when he gives you such a crappy present. Would serve him right.

Next, Wesley opens his gift from you. You grin at his reaction. He goes nuts, like you knew he would, and even tries a clumsy attempt at a hug before remembering himself. He is just so damn British.

Gunn’s turn is next, and he gets a very girly-looking present, with a pink bow on top. The gift looks kinda...soft. Makes sense considering it is a big, fluffy pillow. With a unicorn face. And a rainbow mane. Jesus. Poor, poor Gunn. “I thought this would be totally perfect, you know, for your office! You could put it right on your couch. That way, if you needed to pull an all-nighter, you already have a pillow!” Harmony is smiling so earnestly that you almost feel bad for her, too.

“Uh…yeah. Thanks.” Gunn is holding it by the corner, as if it is diseased. “It’s really…colorful.”

She kept nodding. “I know, right? Don’t you just love Isaac Mizrahi? I mean…they had all kinds of colors, but I totally couldn’t decide! So…I just went with all of them!” Spike is poorly stifling a laugh behind his hand, and everyone else looks like they are on the verge of losing it as well.

Wesley clears his throat, trying to refocus the group. Oh God. There is only one present left. He pulls out a small package wrapped in newspaper and hands it to you, explaining that it is from Spike. From the weight and feel it has to be a book. You glance over at him before opening it, and find he is eyeing you apprehensively, quickly shifting his gaze away as soon as your eyes meet. Great. This is probably a book full of dead baby jokes, or maybe the history of porn. It isn’t either of those. You almost drop it in shock.

“Good lord! That looks to be a first edition!” Wesley is fingering the spine of the book gingerly. He is right. It is a first edition. You know this because you stole the book when it had first been published. “Where did you find this?”

Spike just shrugs and leans back against the wall, shoving his hands into the pockets of his duster. You can tell he is trying to act nonchalant, but can feel him covertly studying you. “Just had it lying about.”

He did? That would mean… You part your lips in surprise, and look up at him. He shakes his head fractionally.

“You happen to have a first edition of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal just lying about?”

Spike straightens, taking a defensive posture. “What of it, Percy? Can’t a bloke just enjoy some poetry?”

You can tell by the way that Wesley rushes to apologize that Spike said the right thing to stop the flow of questions. To be honest, you are kind of relieved. You really don’t want to explain to the group the reason that Spike had the book in his possession is that you had given it to him more than 100 years ago. You might dampen their Christmas spirit if they knew that you had threatened to remove a piece of skin for every line that he missed. This book was the last thing you gave him before the soul. You can’t even begin to fathom why he even held on to the damn thing. “Thank you.” He just nods at you and leans back against the wall.

You know everyone is closely watching the exchange between you and Spike, and so you are inordinately thankful when Lorne steps in, giving you a reprieve. “Alright, kiddies. Now that the gift exchange is out of the way, let’s say we move on to some games.” Things just keep getting better and better.

You hate to admit it, but you actually end up having fun. Maybe it is the faces Wesley makes during charades or the way Harmony and Fred manhandle Spike and Gunn into dancing to “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” or the copious amounts of alcohol, but everyone seems happy and relaxed for the first time in…well, pretty much as long as you can remember. The party lasts late into the night, but eventually people start to drift away in ones and twos. You are startled when you realize the last one left is Spike.

He drains his cup, and then turns towards where you are sitting on the couch. “Well, I’d best be off. Never would have expected it, but you actually throw a pretty good shindig for a Bogtrotter.”

You scrunch your forehead. “Wait? Aren’t the Irish known for being big partiers? As you are so apt to point out over and over again?”

“Well, of course you lot are a bunch of lushes, but that doesn’t mean anyone would want to share drink with a wanker like you.”

You just shake your head, unwilling to rise to the bait, and then narrow your eyes. “Spike…” You pick up the book from where you left it on the coffee table.

He sighs, and then splays his hands open. “Look--not all of us have six-figure salaries.”

You widen your eyes in surprise. “No…it’s not…” You sigh and set the book down before standing and heading to the bar. You pour two drinks, handing one to Spike. He seems to hesitate a moment before accepting. You sit back down on the couch, and he joins you, sitting on the far end. “I just don’t…” You look at him. “Why do you still even have this?”

He just shrugs and downs his drink in one go, grimacing a bit. He stands and goes over to the bar, bringing the bottle back with him. “I dunno. I guess I used to think some of his bits were funny.” He drops back down to the couch, dangling his hands between his knees. “If rape and poison, dagger and burning, Have still not embroidered their pleasant designs on the banal canvas of our pitiable destinies, It’s because our souls, alas, are not bold enough!” He shivers a bit before draining his glass again. “He really was a sick bastard, wasn’t he?”

“I used to think he was a genius.”

“Well, you used to be quite the sick bastard yourself.” Spike nods knowingly at you. You have to admit that he does have a point.

You glance over at him again. You know you should drop it, but you really want to know. “I still don’t get why you held onto it, though.”

Spike sighs loudly then leans back, settling into the couch. “I just did, alright?” He runs a hand over his face. “Let it go, Angel.”

“But why?”

He shifts but doesn’t answer, just keeps staring straight ahead.

“Spike?”

He put his hands on his thighs, almost about to stand, but then seems to reconsider. He stays this way for a long minute before leaning back again. He shrugs, not looking at you, and when he finally speaks, his voice sounds strained. “It was something to hold onto.” Your mouth falls open as the implication of what he said sinks in. You just continue to stare at him. “’Sides, not all of the memories were bad ones.” He flicks his glance towards you then quickly looks away again.

You are instantly flooded with sense memory as you suddenly remember the exact circumstances that you and he had read from this book, and you can’t stop your body’s immediate reaction. You can tell Spike is aware of your arousal as well by the way he quirks one eyebrow at you, the ghost of a smile on his lips. You catch his arousal, too, which causes you to shift nervously. What the hell is he playing at here? Is this why he gave you the book? Not that this is anything new, as this shit has been going on since he had recorporealized, and probably even before, but you thought you had both agreed to ignore it. Okay, so maybe you never actually had that particular conversation, but you kinda thought it was understood. He allows you to squirm for a bit before smirking at you. “Relax. Not looking to reenact the past.” You just keep staring at him, until he adds in a much lower voice. “That is, unless you wanted to.”

Oh God. Is he really suggesting this? He must be way drunker than you thought. Or is it more drunk? “Uh…” Oh. Maybe you’re pretty drunk, too.

He chuckles and reaches over, snagging the book from the table, the whole process causing him to slide a bit closer to you on the couch. “Why don’t we just try reading from this?” He flips through the pages, looking for something. “How ‘bout: The Vampire’s Metamorphosis?”

You blink at him a few more times, frozen in indecision. You’re not really sure what you are agreeing to here, but you do know that is the last poem you ever read together. You shake your head and take the book back from him. You stare down at the pages for a bit longer, still unsure, before clearing your throat. “Why don’t we try something new?” You finally look up at him, catching the mixed look of relief and hesitancy that he still can’t hide even after all of these years.

He just stares at you a bit longer before giving you a tiny smile. He scoots closer, and then he holds his drink up to you in a toast. “To something new.”

You clink your glass against his, and then look back down at the book. Did he really just want to read poetry? His hand on your upper thigh is probably a good indication that he has something else on his mind. He reaches over and plucks your glass from your fingers, then grabs up the book and flops it onto the coffee table. He leans in towards you, capturing your lips in a kiss. It feels completely new and yet strangely familiar at the same time. You let it go on for a while, opening your mouth and sucking his tongue. You pull him closer to you, running your hands up his back, ending by cradling his head with one hand. After a long moment, you finally stop, placing one hand on his chest and pushing him gently backwards. “What…” his hand on your thigh distracts you for a second. “What…are we doing here?”

Spike smiles at you, and leans back in. “You really do need a roadmap to tie your shoes, don’t you?”

You push him back again. “No. I ,mean…we hate each other.” You catch Spike’s wounded look, which he quickly tries to hide under bravado, leaning back in and grinning at you lasciviously. You lean back away. “Spike…”

He seems to deflate then, and takes a deep sigh. He swallows and looks down at his hand on your thigh, and after a long beat he gives you a little squeeze. “It’s something to hold onto, yeah?”

You feel the loneliness coming off of him in waves, and something inside of you gives just a little bit. You reach over and place a finger underneath his chin, meeting his eyes with your own. “Yeah”. You have to agree. Sometimes it is better to have something to hold onto than to have nothing at all.