A/N: An Important Word of Explanation About Tonight's Fic ***Please Read***:
OK - I am very, very stoned on pain pills from a return trip to the dentist, and have been all day long.
For those of you who have (and those who haven't) seen the brilliant movie "Memento", the action takes place in reverse order. The last scene of the movie is shown first, and they work backwards to the "beginning" from there. You find out what happened before finding out why it happened.
That's how this fic is written. You can scroll down to the bottom and work your way up, or read it understanding that what you're reading now happened after the section that comes next, not before it. (/ end PSA)
And In the End:
Spike's lying on his stomach, draped over bits over broken masonry and jagged bits of rock. That's painful enough, but as it happens he's face down on a patch of sweet-smelling grass. Nice stuff. Might just stay there a bit, rest up. The muscles in his calves and thighs are sore, as if they've been exercising in a way he's not accustomed to; arms as well, clear to the fingers.
Every time he shifts, he feels a pain in his gut, deep inside, where something's torn. The ache radiates out through his middle. Makes his stomach twist. As if he'd like to chuck up the blood he had for dinner earlier.
Face is alright - bit bruised, maybe, lips slightly cracked at the corners, but healing. Only a little pinkish smear around them remaining.
He doesn't care. He's not hurt in any way that matter. Really. He's a sodding vampire, he gets off on pain.
Concentrating, he can still feel the best pain of all if he shifts so much as an inch. So he does that - moves just a little, picturing the cock that's so recently plowed him deep, tearing him up from the inside again. His own prick is sticky from release after release, chafed raw and painful, and it hurts so good.
Cost him a bit, it did, but it was by God so very worth it that he's not one bit sorry, not now nor ever shall be.
He's not.
Feels a bit warmer out, now. Odd. Daylight's not for hours yet, is it?
Twitching, he settles his face in the grass, all the better to sleep. If the stupid poof wouldn't let him share the sheets, at least he'll not kick him off the grass, eh?
A pair of shadowed, emotionless brown eyes might or might not be watching him from within the mansion as day comes and a line of sunlight creeps near and ever nearer to his sprawling form. It's only when the white light touches his hand, and the unsavory pain jerks him from sleep with an abrupt yell, that the observer turns away.
Spike's not noticed either way. He's running back to the safety of his car, to burrow in the shadows of it's painted-over windows, to sozzle cheap whiskey over the wretched burns on his hand and to pour more down his throat. "Bloody hell," he snarls aloud, to no one in particular. Remembering. Seeing things different now that the night's past. "Fucking Angel!"
The goddamed bastard's done it to him again.
This is the Way the World Ends
He's getting dressed, a bit at a time, wobbling a little on his pins. He hurts all over, but such a good raw ache that he's savoring it. Fine wine poured on open wounds does you a world of good, and you might get a sip of the grape at the same time. Occurs to him he's not thinking so clearly, but what matter?
Angel's in the corner, dressed now, a black robe snugged so tightly about him that it might as well be a second skin. His arms are crossed one over the other, close to his chest. Inky eyes never leave Spike, not for one moment, nor does any sort of expression cross his stony face.
"Not even a smile, pet?" Spike throws at him, as a bone to a good dog. He leers at the vampire. "Just like old times, that was."
Angel's lips part briefly. Then: "Get dressed, Spike."
"Am doing. Haven't seen my socks, have you?" Bare-arsed naked, he plants his hands on his hips and twists about, this way and that, making sure Angel gets a good view of every little scratch and bite. And another look at the goodies, sore-looking, sore-feeling, the best kind of wounds.
Angel's lips move. Nothing else. "Your socks are in the corner, Spike."
"Be a love and fetch them for me, won't you?"
He's startled when Angel actually does it. Well, they're not far from him and all, but he does bend to pick them up, and tosses them Spike's way. "Please hurry," he says quietly.
"Can't rush perfection." Spike tsks at him while pulling the bits of fabric over long, pale toes and up his feet. "No underwear, don't usually have that anyhow."
"Jeans next please, Spike."
The blond vampire laughs at him. "Can't stand it, can you?"
"Just..." Angel passes a hand over his face. "Just put on the damned jeans, will you. They're next to the bed."
"Only for you, precious." Spike blows him a kiss. He makes putting on that denim the best show of his life - so far - that night, sliding the fabric up with both hands kissing the pale hairs on his skin, gliding over his thighs. Tucking himself away with a little squeeze to the pained skin, and hissing in pleasure as the zip goes up. Angel's begun to tremble, a little bit, by the time he's done. Funny sight, that, the big bloke quaking in his boots.
He snatches his shirts from the other side of the bed and yanks them on over his head, knowing how he's displaying muscles and gleaming skin enough to get a working heart going fast. Truth be told, Spike's taking a fair savage pleasure out of it. Angel pitying him, will he? Just have to see about that.
"Well, that was fun." He dusts himself off, and begins feeling through his pockets. "How much do I owe you, then?"
"Spike, for God's sake -"
"Doubt he cares very much for the likes of us. So you don't want any paying? What about me, then? Not even a copper penny for the good boy, mister?" Spike mimics a babyish lisp and opens his eyes wide, too wide, all ocean blue and crystal white. "We did our best for you, sir. Opened our mouths real wide for you to have at with your hungry mouth. It's all bleeding, see, sir? Where you chewed on us. And our bum's all sore." He wiggles our hips. "You done us proper, mister. Give us a penny or a kiss to us to see us on our way."
Angel quakes. "Get. Out," he says in level, measured tones like the swings of an axe thudding into wood. Sharp. Final.
Hurts.
Spike pretends indifference. "Just as you please, then. Have a good wank thinking about sniffing the Slayer's knickers for me as you drift off to dreamland, eh? Or better yet..." he inhales deeply.... "just smell this room. Reeks of sex in here, Angelus. Tasty."
"Out!"
"On my way, love, on my way. What's your hurry?"
"Just... out."
"Right, then. See you next time I'm in town." He lowers one eyelid in a lewd wink. "You can bet I'll be stopping by."
"You won't."
"And how're you knowing that, then?"
"Because." Back go the arms, round his chest. "Because. It would be perfect happiness if you did."
"Got a strange damned idea of happiness, mate." Spike shakes his head.
And the poof explodes. "Happiness, yes! Caring for you, Will? Taking you as hard as I can - and you loving it? I'm not stupid. I can see through your act. I've always been able to. If you came back - if you stay any longer - then I really will be Angelus again. Ready to suck the world into hell. Is that what you want?"
"It's all one to me, sweetheart." Spike blows a kiss at the older vampire. "Night-night, then."
He strolls out with a swing in his step - an undulation of the hips that ceases as he turns the corner. A grimace creases his face as he feels all his aches and pains at once. They're good, yeah, but intense - he needs some healing before he'll be able to have a whack at the Slayer.
It's insult to injury when he trips and falls, much where he did before. Flat on his face on the rocks and muck.
Might as well rest here for a while, he thinks sulkily. Not good enough to stay inside, oh, no. Just toss Spike out like the rest of the trash. S'all he is anyway, innit? He thumps his cheek against the soft grass, closes his eyes, and lets out a small breath. The last bit of Angel's kiss that he'd been holding deep inside.
Didn't need it - didn't want it - anyway, filling up his lungs. Rather have a cigarette.
Just gonna sleep a little first, that's all...
The last of the violent spasms shudder-shocks through Spike's muscles, wringing him tight and dry. Seems like he's shot a river of come out on Angel' chest, making a damned puddle of it. His hands are holding the older vampire's so tight he nearly thinks he'll have snapped a couple fingers. But Angel's holding on just as tight, his grip so fierce Spike can feel his bones grinding together. Forcing themselves against each other, one holding the other up, the other holding one down.
But with that over, he sags deeply, and Angel catches him as he falls. Lets him collapse against that broad, beautiful chest and lie in the proof of his spent passion.
After a moment, Spike feels a hand come up and begin to stroke his hair. So good, that is, he almost purrs. Yeah, this is how he remembers it. The rare good times when Angelus was gentle. Always better, somehow, than Dru's flighty, fluttering pats of pleasure when he'd performed to her taste.
Hesitating, he wraps his arms around Angel's chest and just hangs on. For a minute, he tells himself. No more. Can't let the old bastard think he's done something right. But he just wants to close his eyes and pretend for a bit. That's all.
One strong arm comes up to wrap round him, squeezing him tight. Spike's eyes shut. Have to keep it together now, don't get all ladylike and emotional. Careful, you. None of this matters to him.
That being the case, why can't he lift himself up and off, away from the cool body and back onto his feet, sneering as he'd best like?
Not sure. All he does know is he's being held and petted. Comforted. Will-he or never-so, it's happening. "Angel," he hears himself mutter, sounding broken. "Angelus-"
The hands still on his back and his head. He feels a fine tremor running through the old vampire's body. "Pet?" he asks, worried despite himself. "What's wrong, then?"
"Off." Angel begins to writhe under him, not in a good way, pushing him back and away. They slide wetly apart, the Irish vampire's cock half-hard yet as it slips out of him. "Get off! Off! Off of me!"
"All right, already!" Spike leaps nimbly back, landing on his feet as would a cat. "Hell! What's gotten into you?" he spits.
Angel's face is cold and white and miserable. "You," he says. "That's why you have to leave. Now."
It's a stunning blow, leaving Spike dazed. "Why I have to fucking what, now?"
"Out, Spike. Get out. Now."
Mouths fused together, he feels Angel's hand reach down - desperate, like - to fumble at Spike's zipper. It rubs him rough and hard, grinding the zipper into swollen flesh. Spike caterwauls into those parted lips and pushes down harder, until the skin begins to break and both of them scent the blood. Angel gives a small cry that Spike swallows. Together, fingers tangling in haste and need, they manage to get the zip undone and out of the way.
His cock smacks out into an eager hand, so hard it would be throbbing if he had a pulse, deeply rosy with borrowed blood, and smeared with droplets of red that run down to mix with the pulsing drops of pre-come oozing from the tip. Angel drags his fingers hard and heavy around the liquid and shoves them first into his mouth, then into Spike's. It's a heady taste, sending his mind a-spinning.
"Fuck me," he breathes.
"Planning on it." Angel's kissing him yet, sharp teeth tearing at soft skin. His hand slides down the abraded surface of Spike's prick, rough as hell but soothing in its rhythm; feels like a cat's fond licking of the rare sod it might tolerate. Hurts so good, especially when he doesn't stop. But hell, if he doesn't, Spike's going to come now, and he won't stand for that. Or lie down for it, whatever.
He tears his mouth away, gyrating hard against Angel's hand. His own clever fingers steal down to fondle the vampire's erection, like a bloody great snake pushing up inside his trousers. It jumps under his touch, bucking into it. "Sodding bastard, get on with it then!"
"In time."
"Fuck that, in time. Now. Want you in me now," Spike pants. He shoves hard, knowing it has to hurt, hoping that -
Yeah, yeah, that did it, now Angel's pissed and he's taken his hand off Spike's cock to shove his own loose-fitting workout pants down, and his underwear. Bleeding black-dyed Y-fronts, fucking tacky, but doesn't matter, 'cause he's out now, darker than Spike, straining from root to tip for a little action.
"Good," Spike murmurs, rocking just a little. "That's what Daddy likes to see."
Angel barks a humorless laugh. "You say that word one more time and I'll tear off both cock and balls and feed them to you, boy. Hear me?"
The delicious threat of abuse ripples through Spike. He can't stop himself grunting and shoving forward, heavy dick prodding at Angel's stomach. His eyes glitter, his teeth gleam: "Promise?"
Harsh hands reach down, fingers shoving into him like little knives, no slick, no nothing. He rolls with the pain like a sailor walking on the sea, releasing high little mewls of ecstasy and impatience. "Harder," he demands. "Go on, then! What're you afraid of?"
"More than you'll ever know," Angel snarls.
"And you think I care? Get," thrust, "on," roll, "with it!"
Those hands catch his hip and hold him against his will. "You tell me this is what you want? You swear it?"
Impatient, Spike wriggles. He can feel the tip of that cock pushing at his already-bruised entrance, and Angel wants to bandy words now? "Yes, I want it!" he snarls. "Want it. Want you!"
"Why?"
"Why the fuck d'you think?" He'd roll his eyes if they weren't already rolling back in his head at the greatness of the pleasurepain.
"The truth, Will, I'll have the truth, or you -" Angel pushes, just a little, hard enough that it hurts - "don't get any of this."
"Go to hell!"
"Been there. Done that. Why? Tell me why and -"
"'Cause I need you!" Spike bursts. "Just bloody take me out of myself for a little, will you? Let me forget for a bit!"
Angel smiles, and it's a savage, cruel smile, all tiger in the jungle. "Good answer."
And he thrusts up, hard, burying himself in one stroke. Their mingled howls raise the roof on that old place, echoing off the walls. You'd think they were slaughtering each other, and maybe they are.
Spike hauls himself up, blood slicking the way a bit now, and drives down hard again. Angel slaps at him, nails out, dragging scratches over his tender belly. "Mine," he snarls. "My fuck, my comfort, my show."
"Don't give a damn about that. Just move."
He does. Grasping Spike's hands in his, he guides his up and down movements, teaches him again - as if he didn't know, couldn't remember - how to ride that monstrous cock. He feels things rip and tear deep inside himself, sharp enough that tears spring to his eyes, and it's so good, it's just what he needed - wanted - burned for.
It's not gonna last, not for either of them. Feels too good, been too long - Spike knows it when Angel's balls draw up and tighten beneath him, 'cause his do too. They always were good at coming together, like they had some hidden charge between their bodies that kicked in at the proper time.
Oh, yeah, hell yeah, fuck yeah, and it's coming, it's coming, they're coming -
"Because I don't want your bleeding pity, Angel." Spike glowers at him. "And just where the fuck do you get off pulling that leg, anyway? Last time we met, you did me plenty of wrong, so don't go pitying me."
Angel puts down his book and picks up a workout towel, abandoned close by, and stretches it out between his hands. Bit like he'd enjoy forming it into a noose. But he's still calm, still steady when he asks: "Then why'd you come here?"
"Me? Had in mind a nice spot of torture, maiming and killing."
"Who?"
Spike bares his teeth. "You, s'matter of fact. Want to go for it, then? Want to get it on? Come on, baby, let's play."
Angel pauses, shakes his head. "Not this time around, Spike. You're drunk."
"Was drunk," he corrects. "Sobering way too fast for my taste, too. And I've left me spare booze in the car, so if I can just get on with kicking, and oh, yeah, staking your miserable arse, I'll be going back to get it. You and me, let's just -"
"I said no, Will."
"Don't you call me that!"
"I'll call you what I want to call you," Angel replies calmly.
"Yeah." Now there's a memory that stings nice and deep. "You're good at that, you."
"I should have apologized -"
"Don't want your apologies! Don't want your nancy-boy boo-hooing, neither, so if you'd just drop the act, Angel, we can get on with a bit of business here, eh?"
The stupid git actually looks puzzled - but oh, yeah, now he's getting irritated. Good. "What business could we possibly have, Spike?"
"Your arse, my foot. Connection. Gonna beat you down, mate." Spike moves in, starting to circle. "Don't think I won't hit you first."
"You're good at that." Angel fires back. "I wasn't myself, but I do remember that much."
"Felt bloody fantastic. Crack - crunch!" Spike mimics swinging a pipe at Angel's head. "Pity I didn't bring anything like that with me."
Angel's eyes darken. "Yeah. A real shame. So is this because of what Angelus did?"
"Angelus, Angel, who the hell cares? All the same body, just a matter of who's riding the stick. It's all your fault, you know," Spike spits at him. "Every last drop and dribble of it's because of you."
"What is, Will?"
"Don't - fucking - call me - Will!" he roars. "How many times -? It's because of you she left me!" He's not gonna cry, not gonna break down. "Dru's gone. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"
"Drusilla?" If he could, the big lug would be paling. "She's dust?"
"Might as well be. But no, last seen alive and having a good shag with a slimy, antlered chaos demon. And it's all your fault!" Spike can't take it any more, he lashes out with his best punch and lands it square to Angel's chin, knocking him on the floor.
The vampire gasps, stunned, and spits blood. When he looks up - ah, yeah, there's that look of rage Spike's been waiting for. "My fault?"
"Yours. She says," and Spike laughs, brokenly, "that she can see the Slayer dancin' all 'round my head. Says I taste like ashes. Won't believe me when I tell her that you're the one all hot to trot for her Buffyness. To her mind, Daddy's always faithful. No one else matters. I'm just a pet. And since my affections have strayed, off I go while she does the nasty with whatever takes her whim. Your fault!"
His voice cracks. "I heard you, every single time, while I was stuck in that damned chair. Enchanting her all over again, breaking her to your will. She hated me so for daring to lay a finger on you, even to save her life. You changed her. Made it so she thought as little of me as she'd done all those years ago, before you left us. Made it so easy for her to walk away from me."
Angel's struggling to his feet. "That's not my fault, Spike."
"The hell you say!"
"It wasn't me."
Spike spits at his feet. "Don't know about that metaphysical stuff; what's more, don't give a shit. You're the face and the body she's pining for while she takes it up the quim from Mr. Chaos, so yours is the one I'm after smashing to bits. You get me now?"
"I get you, Spike. I've always gotten you." Angel's circling with him, now, looking dangerous. "Can't fix it, so once it's broken you jump up and down on the pieces. How does that help anything?"
"Makes me feel a hell of a lot better, for one."
"Yeah?" Angel's hand flies out and shoves Spike back. Spike shakes off the blow and recoils back with a hard push of his own, cool hands on taut skin; makes a lovely 'pop' sound and he'll bet it hurts, too.
"Oh, yeah." He knows his eyes are crazed. "No pity from you, Angel. Just what I came here for. Bit of revenge."
Angel grabs Spike by the collar and pulls him in tight. "You want revenge? Or you want justice?"
"Want to fuck you over badly as you did me."
Angel's eyes narrow. "Is that a fact?"
Spike reaches up, tries to wrestle that hand free. "Fact."
"Go ahead, then," he's challenged. "Do it. Give me your best shot." That face lowers to his, lingers to meet his eyes unafraid. "Go ahead."
Desperate, a little afraid, Spike shoves hard as he can. But Angel's not let go of his hand, and down they tumble together, landing one atop the other. It's soft - they're on his low bed. The springs holler in protest as he makes a fist and slams it deep into the other vampire's solar plexus. "Damn you, Angel," he sobs. "Damn you for taking away all that was good in my life!"
Angel lies there and takes the blow. His eyes are heated, his voice shaking with rage. "You're a liar, Will."
Spike rears back. "What?"
"Liar. I know why you came back."
"The great and mighty Angel speaks!" Spike jeers. "Go on, then. Give it a go. Tell me why I'm really here."
"For comfort."
That shocks Spike speechless - but only for a moment. "Your been smoking something? Reading too much daft poetry? Since when have I come crying to you when I'm pissed?"
Angel reaches up and startles him again - badly - by running his fingers down Spike's neck, over a bite mark a bit below Drusilla's. "Since 1880."
Spike freezes. Can't speak, can't think, can't punch Angel as hard as he wants, hard enough to knock his teeth loose. How dare he - he has the gall -
"Since you came to me the first night she turned you away," Angel says softly. "Since you first came to me for soothing, and -" that hand catches him by the sensitive throat, pulls him lower -
"Since we first did this," he whispers, and puts his mouth on Spike's.
Spike whimpers - shudders - and he's lost.
Spike reels into that hated courtyard - never thought he'd come back here again, not willingly - clutching his bottle and swearing at the world to stay bloody still for a moment. Long enough for him to get his bearings.
He knows the poof's got to be in there. Stay-at-home bloke, drinks his meals out of tidy little bags and greasy butcher-shop cups. Probably doing more of that Tai Chi shit he had Drusilla going on about, thinking she was flying, a fairy princess -
He nearly sobs. Dru... his wicked queen, his beloved... and it's all his fault!
But hark, through yonder boarded-up door? His mouth widens into a wolfish grin. There's the bugger, pretty as you please. Reading. Stupid git. Got no idea what's lurking outside, does he?
Angel pauses for a minute, lost in thought, then shuts his book and gets up, walking away.
Spike makes a low, disgusted sound deep in his throat. "Yeah, you. You think I'm afraid of you?" He steps back, pausing for the atrium to stop spinning. He wants this over and done with. Drink don't last too long with a vamp's system, and he needs to be properly soaked to enjoy this. Giving Angel what's coming to him. For Dru's sake... Dru...
"We were happy! You brainwashed her. I could just..." He tilts his head back and guzzles deeply, sucking the last of his bottle to the dregs. When it's empty, he tosses it aside and listens to the satisfying crash. Oh, yeah, he likes the sound of things breaking. "Yeah, I'll show you who's a cool guy."
He creeps closer, ready to tear down those boards. Make lovely stakes, they will. "You're goin' down."
The world reels and tilts. Startled, Spike slips - loses his balance - and falls hard, face first, into a flowerbed.
"If you're here," a dry voice startles him, "then I'm already as low as I can get. Hello, Spike."
He spits out dirt and jumps to his feet fast as he can, wheeling on the figure backlit in a smaller, hidden doorway. "Same to you."
Angel leans against the frame. "Thought you were out of Sunnydale for good."
"Thought wrong," Spike snarls. "Come back for one thing."
"Your what, baseball card collection?"
Oh, he thinks he's funny. "I've come," he says hateful as he can, swaggering toward the darker vampire, "to collect what's been owing to me for a while now."
Angel steps back from the doorway. "And that would be?"
"Blood."
"I'm out."
Spike lashes at him with a fist and misses. "Not yet."
"I see." Angel steps back from the doorway. "Let's take this inside, Spike."
"Can bloody well do what I want to do out here!"
"But not what I want to do. You're drunk, Spike. You need to sober up."
"And you want a kick to the -"
"Get inside, Spike!" Angel seizes him by one arm and drags him in. Once in the light he shakes the smaller man and sets him on his feet. His face is open and guileless as he looks Spike over. "Do you even know what you're doing? God, you stink of alcohol."
"And?" Spike snarls. "Gonna shake your teetotalling finger at me, then?"
"No." Angel looks sad. "Going to do the same thing I have for a while now. Pity you."
* * * * *
For those interested:
Sonnet #41:
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,