"Knight to Bishop-2," Spike exclaimed, setting the piece down with a bang. He settled back against the couch cushions, anticipating another of Angel's prolonged examinations of the board.
Angel, looking like a strategist out of Henry V's legion, brow furrowed, lost in concentration, leaned foward and studied his options. For a moment, he reached out one hand and almost placed it on a pawn, but then drew back. He did this several times, until Spike sighed in exasperation.
"Move it along, mate," Spike complained. "Haven't got all day. Well, you have, but I've got victims to mug, drinks to swill. The usual." Spike still had not taken his duster off, and Angel thought he should be sweating by now, if vampires did that sort of thing. Spike pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and began searching for his lighter.
"Oh, no you don't," Angel warned.
"What?" Spike gave a dry laugh. "Not like you're allergic now, is it? "
"No, but that brand makes me nauseous. Smells like pot or something. Besides, it gets in the furniture."
Spike gave a big laugh, holding his stomach. When he could speak again, he said, wiping at his eyes, "That's rich. Timothy bloody Leary over here. You never even got within five hundred yards of the stuff."
"You forget," Angel said, scowling, "I was at Woodstock."
Spike was laughing again. "What, as the bloody riot police?"
Angel's scowl had darkened into a glare. "As I recall, Angelus really liked his hallucinogens. Made the killing all the more colorful."
"Yeh," Spike said, slapping his thigh, "but Angel wouldn't touch anything stronger than a sodding pint, as I remember it."
"Look," Angel growled, looking all eyebrows, "are you going to play, or ridicule me all day?"
Spike made a show of acting conflicted, weighing his options. "Hm, so many decisions, so little time. Look, mate, if you'd just make your bloody move already." Spike leaned back, deliberately making a big deal out of lighting his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then blew a smoke ring at his sire. "Two more moves, and you're in check, mate," he smirked.
One thing Angel never worried about was Spike's surpassing him in brilliance. Smugly, Angel said, "Unless we have a sudden earthquake, that's highly unlikely. Considering, " he finished, picking up a bishop and capturing Spike's aforementioned knight, "you haven't played in half a century."
"Bollocks!" Spike cried, leaping up from the couch.
Angel gave a slow, lethal smile reminiscent of Angelus. "Never con a conman, Spike."
Spike whirled around, eyes blazing. "See, you can't even swear properly! It's bullshit a bullshit artist, you prat! What bloody planet are you on?"
"Oh, I don't know," Angel said menacingly, rising from his chair and approaching Spike. "Maybe the same planet I'm about to throw you off of--"
Wes burst into the office, exclaiming, "Gentlemen, your voices carry all the way out into the lobby." Angel and Spike stopped mid-fight, as Spike had just raised his fist to strike.
"Where's the fire, mate?" Spike smirked, eyeing Wes up and down.
Wes gave him a puzzled frown. "Sorry?"
Spike and Angel took in the sight of a very dishevelled rogue demon hunter, shirt buttons all wrong, tie askew, hair rumpled, cheeks flushed. He appeared thoroughly debauched.
"Leave my head scientist alone, Wes, I just put her on an important project," Angel quipped, eyes sparkling.
Wes gave a shy grin. "It's that obvious?" he asked softly.
"As a sore dick," Spike laughed, blowing smoke in Wes's face. He and Angel eyed each other mischievously.
"Um," Wes said intelligently, "I came in to stop you two from killing each other. So if you don't need me--"
"A certain fetching bird needs you more, mate. Go on, then." Spike licked his lips suggestively.
"O-okay," Wes murmured, backing out of the office. He almost stumbled over an ottoman. "Angel, I'll be in my office if you need me." And he was gone.
Their anger dissipated, Angel and Spike took one look at each other and began laughing. They collapsed on each other, howling, pantomiming Wes's agile exit. They went on like this for a good five minutes, faces reddening, until they coughed and sputtered. When they finally caught their breath, Spike said, "Been wondering when they would do it. It was like watching a bloody volcano that refused to erupt."
"I feel like that sometimes."
"What?" Spike cried, frozen with astonishment. The cigarette fell from his hand, nearly burning the carpet. He stomped on it quickly.
"With you. I feel like that sometimes." Angel's eyes were glowing.
There was a long silence. The two shuffled their feet, refusing to look at each other. Angel strode over to the window and gazed out at the smoggy daylight, gripping the windowsill. Spike cleared his throat, then shook his head. He slumped his body down on the couch, sprawling his legs on the coffee table. He felt like a ragdoll, all the fight gone out of him.
"Mind telling me where that came from?" Spike asked, a hint of not-disinterest in his voice.
Angel turned slowly toward him. His face was tinged with orange from the fading sun. Almost too softly even for Spike's preternatural hearing, he sighed, "It's been almost a century, Will. Don't you miss it?"
Ponce, Spike thought. He would swallow a jug of holy water before he would answer. And it had not been a century. It had been three years, ever since Angel had entered Buffy's pearly gates and regained his demon. But then, it had been a brutal assault, not the tender reunion Angel was talking about.
Despite this memory, Spike's erection began to strain against his jeans. He squirmed uncomfortably, wanting to rip them open and free himself. Wanting Angel to come to him, kneel down, and bend that black head toward his cock. Needing Angel's cool tongue to brush the underside of the head, then slide down and tease him mercilessly. God, he wanted that so much.
He was panting now despite himself. He was shocked to see Angel following his silent command, turning from the window and coming to his knees beside Spike's outstretched body. Slowly unfastening Spike's black jeans, pulling down the zipper and freeing the almost-vertical cock from its sheath of denim. Angel sighed as he took him in hand, stroking him. Spike gave a cry and arched his body off the couch. His brain was swimming, he was sure he would lose consciousness.
"You like that, don't you, William?" Angel whispered, his words laced with a hint of his old brogue. Angel made his touch so light and gradual that Spike was forced to buck up against the pressure.
Spike closed his eyes. "Liam," he groaned, hips thrusting against Angel's fingers.
"Yes, William, I know," Angel murmured, running his tongue over dry lips. His own cock was straining deliciously against his zipper. He gasped as Spike's hand closed over it, caressing it through the fabric.
"Come upstairs with me," Angel pleaded. "I want you in my bed."
The two fell on each other, kissing and clawing at each other's clothes. They blindly stumbled to the elevator, letting shirts and coats and shoes fly to the floor. Angel fumbled for the penthouse button, punched it, and returned to devouring Spike's mouth. When the doors opened, they literally fell into the elevator, hitting the floor as the doors closed behind them.
"Fuck me, right here," Spike moaned, feeling along the wall for the button to keep the doors shut.
"No," Angel breathed, hands buried in Spike's short hair, "I want to be in bed with you, to do this properly." His eyes searched Spike's, mouth watering for him.
The love Spike saw there bewildered him. He whispered, "Angel, my Angel," and kissed his sire with all his passion, tangling their arms and legs together. Only Angel was allowed to see him like this, dazed and vulnerable.
"You love me, don't you?" Angel murmured, brown eyes shining. He bent his head to kiss Spike's throat, biting it gently with his human teeth.
"Y-yes," Spike sighed, loving even the sensual burr of Angel's voice against his skin. He was so hard now he could have come.
"Please, Angel," Spike begged, eyes a brilliant cerulean. "Take me in your mouth."
"In time," Angel teased, flashing an infuriating smile.
"There won't be any time, if you keep taunting me," Spike whined, beside himself.
"You never were one for patience, love," Angel said. Yet his fingers were already stroking his lover, and he couldn't deny him. "Alright," he said, "just this," and bent down to take Spike in his mouth.
"Ah!" Spike had not expected this, and his brain was molten. The feathery slide along his shaft was so fluid, so practiced, it felt like floating.
"I thought you hated me," Spike breathed.
Angel withdrew his mouth, making Spike shiver. He glanced up at his childe. "Hated you? You annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but I never hate you. Never." He kissed Spike's full lips for emphasis.
"But--"
"Don't," Angel soothed, running his mouth down Spike's pale body. Before his unruly childe could speak again, Angel was sucking him, taking all of him in.
Spike had never experienced Angel's desire to please him before. He had expected to submit, but not like this. It stunned him into uncharacteristic silence.
Angel kept his finger on the button to keep the doors closed. Spike loved how Angel chose to lose himself this way, ministering to him with rapt attention. It almost hurt to be the object of such worship. His eyes began to water.
Wanker, he chided himself.
Spike bit into his lower lip, forcing himself to bleed. He would not, dared not, let Angel see him cry.
Angel felt Spike's body stiffen, his cries of pleasure cut short. He stopped and glanced up at his childe. "What, did I hurt you?"
He smelled the blood before he saw it. He had not fed in two days. Before he could think, he pounced on Spike, licking the blood from the cut on his mouth. It was like a kiss, but more like an invasion. Spike tried to push him off, recognizing instantly what was wrong, but Angel was fastened to him. He knew Angel's face would turn if he did not stop.
"Get off," Spike shouted, trying to shove him away. This time, it worked. Angel looked up at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Angel choked out, feeling the ravenous hollow in every chamber of his heart. "I haven't fed. Let's drink first, then we can concentrate on other things."
Spike nodded. Angel took his finger off the door button, and the two shook off the intensity of the last few moments. Angel rose unsteadily to his feet, extending his hand for Spike to join him. The doors opened. The two staggered into the penthouse, staying separate for the time being.
Angel left him for a moment to go into the kitchen. He heated two wine glasses of blood in the microwave, and brought them out to Spike. "Here," he offered, "I know you haven't fed enough. You never do."
Spike managed a bit of his usual snark, "damn lot you know." But he accepted the drink anyway, his hands trembling slightly.
Angel watched as Spike's face suffused with blood, cheeks flushing crimson as they lost their pallor. His lips warmed to scarlet, and he sighed contentedly.
"Beautiful," Angel said, in spite of himself. He frowned adorably.
"Prat," Spike grinned, running a very pink tongue over his lips. He approached his sire, lifting the now-empty glass from Angel's hand. He placed it on a table behind Angel, using the proximity to lean in and kiss him.
"Did you mean it, before?" Angel asked when they drew back from each other.
"Christ," Spike grumbled, "do you have to spoil everything? You'd overanalyze 'Fun with Dick and Jane,' as if it were bloody Hamlet."
"At least I've read Hamlet. You haven't gotten past the Superman first edition, let alone any work of classic literature!"
Spike reared back, looking as if to strike. "You ponce! I read at World Literature before you turned me! Wrote poetry, too, in case you'd forgotten. Tosser."
"Bloody awful, too" Angel murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, I remember, Will. I liked it, mostly. Especially that one about me."
Spike froze. "What are you on about?" he cried, voice barely a squeak.
"The one you published. You recited it on a trip to Budapest. You were piss-drunk on laudanum at the time. I think it went something like, 'I would not be lying yonder,/Where thou, beloved, art lying,/
Though the nations should crown me living,/ And murmur my praises dying.'*"
"You sod. That's Robert Buchanan! You wouldn't know my work from Barry Manilow! Why do I bloody bother?" And Spike was at the elevator doors, punching the button to the lobby.
"Fine," Angel said to his retreating back, "just said I liked it to humor you. Wouldn't read it if you paid me!"
Spike whirled around, eyes blazing. "You evil prick!"
"And what were you when I met you? A dipper in the West End. You frisked me so clumsily, I caught you, and you tried to talk your way out of it. It was more than pathetic."
"Pathetic? If you hadn't been such a flat toff, and on the piss, I'd have left you alone."
"But you didn't, did you?" Angel purred, dark eyes lit from within. He approached Spike as he talked, looking ominously like Angelus. "You had to act like a prostitute looking for a mark. Just to throw me off. But it only drew me to you, made me want that tight little body of yours, the way those muscles shifted under your clothes. I wanted to fuck you right there, in that alley in Knightsbridge, against that cold stone wall, until you begged for mercy. And I should have." Angel punctuated this by backing Spike against the apartment wall, grinding his body into him. "Just like I'm going to now."
Spike yelled as Angel bit into him, blunt teeth sharpening to fangs that stung his flesh. He felt aroused but also furious, and, if he admitted it to himself, more than a little afraid. God, had he triggered that perfect happiness thing? He knew he was good, but not that good. Now Angel was tearing off his jeans, turning him to face the marble wall. Angel had removed his own pants, and was roughly shoving an angry erection into the cleft of Spike's ass as he drained him. Spike's fingers were splayed against the unyielding wall, and he shuddered at this fresh attack. Despite his best attempt at control, hot tears spilled down his cheeks.
A few must have showered Angel's hand, because he stopped, withdrawing his body from Spike's. He staggered back, fingering the blood oozing from his mouth. "Get out," he growled, shocked at his own ferocity.
When Spike faced him, Angel was no longer in gameface. He was covered in blood, and looked beyond contrite.
"Why do we always do this?" Spike whispered, touching the ragged puncture wounds he had abstained from making for years.
"I don't want to take you in anger," Angel said, shamed. "I want us to both be ready, to be as loving as we can. In bed. Properly. I want to worship you, partake of you. I want to love you." Angel bowed his head, looking ready to cry.
"Except, you don't," Spike finished for him. His heart went cold.
"I want to. Believe me. But all I can think of when I see you is violence. I want to violate you. And I don't know how to soften it."
Spike's usual grin spread across his lips. "Oh, well. Don't have to, mate. We're blokes. Not supposed to be soft. Unless you like your usual nancyboy dawdling, which is what you've been doing now for over an hour."
Angel let out a hoarse, shy laugh that was more than sexy. He passed one strong hand down his body, shivering. His cock had subsided, but it stirred as he glanced up to meet Spike's eyes.
"Now," Spike said, taking Angel in his arms, "let me show you how it's done."
They shared a long, slow kiss. Then, Spike led Angel by the hand into the bedroom, drawing the covers back and laying him on silken sheets. He covered Angel's body with his own, and drew his tongue down the larger man's form. He followed this with soft kisses, until Angel was trembling. "You see," Spike murmured, entranced by the adoring look in his sire's eyes, "I've learned a bit from Xander, and he likes it gentle, the ponce."
"Then fuck me," Angel heard himself say, before he could stop himself.
Spike was laughing, kissing him and laughing. "Oh, that's lovely," he snorted, leaning his head against Angel's shoulder and shaking with amusement. "Picture that."
"Oh well, if you're going to laugh..."
"Honestly, how can I not?"
"If it's that unappealing..." Angel's liquid brown eyes registered hurt, and embarrassment. It was such an unexpected sight, Spike stopped laughing.
"No, it's not. I just--" The words died in his throat when Angel reached into the nightstand and handed him some lube.
"Then do it," he softly growled.
Without another word, Spike slicked his fingers. He inserted one, then two fingers inside his lover, gasping at the constricting warmth. He leaned down and gave Angel small, lustful kisses, moaning into his mouth as his fingers worked inside him. "You feel so good," Spike groaned, feeling ready to burst. "I can't wait to come inside you."
Angel's hips thrust up to meet the probing fingers. Fire blazed somewhere behind his eyes with every nudge toward his pleasure spot. "Oh," he moaned, returning Spike's kisses with zeal. He had not realized how deeply he had needed this. He could almost feel the echo of his heartbeat between his ribs. He missed that, too, more than he could articulate.
"So fucking hot," Spike murmured. Suddenly, without warning, he removed his fingers and inserted his cock. Angel started in fear, but Spike shushed him and kissed him hard. "No, relax," he said between kisses, drunk with this new-found hold over his sire. "I love you. I won't hurt you. Promise."
"Oh, shit," Angel groaned, entranced with his body's full-fledged surrender. "Take your time, Spike. I want to feel all of you inside me. Slowly. Please."
Spike stopped his movements and gave a shuddering sigh. "Are we begging, now?"
"Yes, god--" Angel choked out, desperate for Spike to move again. "I'll do anything. Just, please--"
"Stop talking like that, or I'll come," Spike cried, willing himself to hold back. Angel's body was sheathed around his cock like a glove, teasing the pleasure out of him. It was more than maddening.
"Say it," he panted, staring wildly into Angel's eyes.
"What?" Angel gasped, barely able to speak the words.
"Say you love me. Say it." Spike's jaw clenched, he was so close now.
"Ah, William, I love you. I do. Now please, please--" and that was all it took. Spike tumbled over the edge, coming so hard he felt alive. Head back, he shouted his pleasure, relentlessly pumping into Angel until his spasms diminished.
"Don't move," Angel groaned, taking himself in his slender fingers. It was not long before he was spurting over his hand and stomach, grinding out Spike's name between his teeth.
Unable to resist, Spike leaned down and lapped up his lover's cum, staring up at Angel with the most infuriating triumph. He then planted a kiss on Angel's mouth, darting his cum-laden tongue between Angel's lips. Angel moaned, dizzy with this new sensation, of tasting himself on his beloved's tongue, of giving himself up to this mind-altering ecstacy. Of saying I love you. To anyone. At least not since murmuring the words to his golden girl.
"Oh, god," Angel exclaimed, sitting up abruptly.
"You don't have to call me God," Spike smirked, trying to ease him back down.
"No, that's it. That's--you're her."
"Sorry?" Spike rolled his eyes as if to say, "What now?" He lay on his stomach and tucked a pillow between his forearms and his chin, gazing up at Angel from under thick lashes. The lamplight lent him an aura of fire.
"Buffy. She was...the substitute. Your double."
"Well, thank you bloody Dr. Freud," Spike scoffed, wishing dearly for a fag. Oh, wait, he was in America, he'd already gotten his wish... he cringed as he realized Angelus would stake him for such a joke.
"No, I mean," Angel said, draping himself across Spike's back, showering his childe with kisses, "I want Buffy, I crave her, but--"
"Not doing the old ego a great service, Liam," Spike sighed, burying his face in the pillow.
"No, I mean, it's sexual, with her, but it's not love. It's not...this. This love/hate thing we have. I couldn't live without it. Without you."
"Yeh, well," Spike murmured, wishing he were dressed, "I for one could do without the hate part."
"It's not really hate. It's just--we're married. We drive each other crazy." He turned Spike over so he was lying on his back, looking up at him. "I want us to bother the piss out of each other every day, forever, in this world and the next."
Spike grinned. "Be still my heart."
"I mean it," Angel cried, unusually loquacious now. "I want us to claim each other, to make it official. I would give up the Prophecy for you, and you know how much I want that. Let's do the claiming ritual. I want that more than anything I've ever wanted in the world. Please, Liam. Do that for me."
If Spike had needed oxygen, he would have been deprived of it now. His poet's soul soared with the implications. Goddamn poofy tear-ducts. Lumbering nuisance. No help he shed red tears. Anne Rice had at least gotten that right.
"Can't we just shag again?" Spike laughed, hastily wiping at his eyes.
"I love you, Liam. I'm not afraid to say it now. I love you, I--"
"Got it. You love me," Spike beamed, silencing Angel with kisses. "Christ, what was in that drink, mate?" He almost preferred Angelus to this. Almost.
The hell he did.
Angel could turn blue with the saying of it, Spike's head was in the clouds. But if someone--Willow--had cast a spell on his sire, he would strangle the bitch. Because this had to be real. He would fry himself in daylight if this was some bint's sick attempt at humor. Or revenge.
"You bloody yammer too much," Spike said lovingly, smoothing Angel's hair from his forehead. But he was hard again. He never thought sentimentality would turn him on.
(To be continued...)
* From "A Poem to David" by Robert Buchanan
