Title: Absence
Author: Violethamster
Pairing: Spike/Angelus
Rating: teen (violence, profanity and mild sexual content)
Spoilers: BtVS season 2
Summary: Couple of soulless vampires doing their hangy thing

Odd how a house could start to feel like it had been uninhabited for years, before they'd even finished killing the family.

Course, having a bloodstained corpse sprawled over the coffee table could add a bit of gloom to even the blandest, beigest Sunnydale split-level, Spike mused, pointlessly rummaging through the entertainment center for CDs even though he knew there wasn't a chance in hell they'd have anything worth nicking. Could almost feel her eyes boring into his back. Enough to make you wonder, if you were a fanciful sort, whether their ghosts hung about afterwards, whether you might turn around and she'd be shuffling toward you all jerky and broken, gore-spattered and vacant, wanting vengeance.

Refusing to glance around when the hairs on the back of his neck rose, prickling, he continued to flip through the neatly arranged rows of easy listening crap until the end before he let himself reach down to maneuver the wheelchair back and around. The dead babysitter was still slumped, unmoving, open eyes flat and blank. He rolled forward, raised his boot and gave the body a vicious shove so that it flopped over and fell into the gap in front of the sofa.

"I'm still the fuckin' monster here," Spike hissed under his breath. He eyed her outstretched hand, lying pale and disembodied against the carpet.

Something clattered in the bedroom at the far end of the hallway, and Spike jerked his head up at the noise.

"Get in here and take a look at this, would ya?" Angelus' voice echoed down the hall.

The hallway was narrow, his progress halting as the wheels or his knuckles scraped against the walls. Spike gave Angelus a sour look as he edged the chair through the doorway and waited for the usual quip at his expense. Angelus merely threw him a quick, knowing glance, then returned his attention to posing the child on the bed, his movements bearing an uncanny resemblance to arranging flowers in a vase as he fussed over the positioning of the arms. A tiny hand flopped nervelessly at the end of the arm clenched in Angelus' big fist, before he tucked it in and stepped back to admire his work.

"I like the teddy bear - gives it a nice effect," he said lightly, crossing his arms and tapping a finger against his chin, considering. There was a touch of the used car salesman in his voice, had been ever since his return, as though he could hardly be bothered to summon up the shade of the genuine zest for the kill he'd had in the old days.

Illuminated by the feeble glow of a single night light amidst the darkness of the room, the pose of the child's body was reminiscent of one of those dreadfully mawkish photographs of the recently deceased that had been the custom a hundred years ago. Wouldn't fool anyone for long, not that it had to. Spike slumped down further in his seat, already bored. "It's a bit trite."

"Huh." Angelus tilted his head and frowned for a moment, then shrugged. "I think it's kinda poignant."

"Yeah, great," Spike closed his eyes briefly, biting back the impulse to say exactly what he thought, his honest opinion of Angelus and all his works. "Are we done?"

"C'mon, Spike, you know better." Angelus turned away from the bed and stalked closer, bending down and grasping the arms of the wheelchair to steer it away from the doorway, pushing it back into the nearest dark corner where it was almost hidden in the shadows.

He'd forgotten how fucking tedious it was waiting for the parents to get home. He jerked awake when the mother cried out, just in time to look up blearily, blinking, and see Angelus tossing the dad in his direction.

The guy landed heavily on him, propelling the chair back into the wall with a metallic clash; Spike grabbed onto him by reflex, awkwardly, and winced when he felt an elbow dig into his gut. Slamming the guy's head against the arm of the wheelchair a couple of times seemed to subdue him, and Spike hauled him up to give him a good view of whatever horrors Angelus had in store for the wife.

"Gonna fight me?" Spike murmured into the human's ear, grinning at the smell of fear, the pounding heartbeat. "C'mon, struggle a bit, makes it more - bloody hell!" Pain like a vise gripped his hand, the man's teeth biting down and holding on with all the strength of desperation.

The steady stream of expletives that followed was punctuated by the repeated thudding of the human's skull against the wheelchair arm, until the metal was bent and slick with blood and the white-hot fury of Spike's temper calmed enough for him to notice that the heartbeat had stopped.

He let the body slump heavily to the floor, and looked up. Angelus had his gaze fixed on the ceiling, seemingly oblivious to the woman he held by the hair, her face pressed against his shirt to muffle the hysterical screaming.

"Always gotta have things your own fucking way, don't you, Spike?" he said, and pushed the woman down. She scrabbled at the carpet, trying to get away, breathing in loud, rasping, heaving sobs. She didn't get far in the space it took for Angelus to walk a few steps away, slide a baseball bat out of the neat little rack against the wall, walk back and swing it down hard.

Each upward arc painted the ceiling in scattered sprays of droplets that looked black in the dim light. The bat shattered on the last stroke with a loud crack, leaving a long, jagged point.

Angelus parried and thrust through the air, swirling decreasing circles with the tip, moving forward until it landed with a jab against Spike's chest. The pressure increased, Angelus' weight bearing it downward. Spike swallowed, every muscle in his body tensing in preparation to strike back and escape, imagining for a moment before the pressure let up that he could smell his own dust.

"You really need to watch your step," Angelus said quietly.

On the way out, Spike managed to snag a couple of bottles of Jack Daniel's from the liquor cabinet. They rattled against each other in his lap as he tried to clutch at them with one hand while holding himself in the chair with the other, and his teeth rattled almost as loudly as Angelus grabbed the handles and let the wheels bounce roughly over the porch steps.

"Guess we better hurry before the entire neighborhood decides to check out what all the screaming was about," Angelus said mildly, seeming to be in a better mood as they headed down the driveway. "Course, I could have just left you stranded there for them to find. Hope you appreciate it," he added, patting Spike's shoulder, then leaning forward to steal one of his bottles. Spike didn't entirely manage to suppress a small sound of derision.

Angelus amused himself by giving the wheelchair a hard push whenever he happened to catch up to it, sending it careening down the street. Spike lounged casually in his seat, concentrating on swallowing his whiskey without spilling too much of it; now and then shouting obscenities at the cars that swerved, blaring their horns, around him.

His reflexes were starting to get a little wonky by the time he lobbed the empty bottle into the air, watching the way the fragments of shattered glass bounced over the pavement; his chair veered slightly so that a wheel caught the curb, sending him tumbling into the grass at the side of the road.

It was confusing but surprisingly quite nice to find himself suddenly looking up at the trees waving in the wind, hiding and revealing the stars. Gave him the oddest notion that he was looking through Dru's eyes, seeing what she saw. A feeling of warmth spread through his insides and he was more certain than ever that she'd soon realize that they were meant for each other.

Darkness blotted out the stars, then settled into the grass beside him.

"You must be almost healed by now," Angelus whispered close to his ear, and it occurred to Spike that he was lucky in his befuddled state that he hadn't instinctively leapt to his feet when he'd fallen. Wouldn't do to let the charade go on much longer.

"Not if you keep throwing me about like a bleedin' rag doll," he said gruffly.

A mocking little chuckle came out of the dark, and something crept over Spike's crotch. His spine stiffened, and didn't relax when the touch became more insistent, tracing the contours beneath the denim. It was an enormous relief when his flesh didn't betray him, remaining unresponsive; and if he had any memory of love, hatred was balanced against it so perfectly that it was easy to persuade himself that he felt nothing at all.