Title: When Grace Has Decayed
Author: Willa
Pairing: Angelus (the one, the only, the unsouled)/Spike
Rating: NC17; Smut Level 5 ~
Setting: AtS 5, Wolfram & Hart
* * * * *
From Sonnet #79...
The crowbar feels... good in his hands. He likes the long heavy weight of it, the sleek supple line of the thing, the sturdy grip of it. It's new. Still shiny. No doubt fresh off the supply rack this morning.
Someone left it by his desk. Probably one of the thousand drones who do nothing but go to and run fro all day for the sake of others. People who work until their knees and elbows are rough with calluses, and their hands hard and cracked from labor. All so that at the end of the day they can shove another peanut-butter sandwich in their kids' mouths and announce to the world: "I scrub toilets for a living so that my betters can take a piss in comfort."
Now there's a hell of a life for you. Makes him glad he's dead.
Someone's going to chew hell out of that nameless, faceless workman for leaving a new tool lying around. Especially in this office. Tsk, tsk. That could lead to all kinds of accidents on the job.
Angelus swings the long iron rod experimentally and smiles at the sound and feel of its heavy smack into his palm.
"Tough luck for the guy," he says mildly. Fan-fucking-tastic for him, though. "Hey. Sssh. Don't turn around."
He swings. Metal and flesh collide. It's a good sound.
*
Ohfuckinghellohgodohfuckoh-!
You ever been hit in the head with something like that and live to tell the tale? It hurts. Not like being hit by a car or breaking a limb. Can't anything on the earth compare to the power one master vampire can put behind the blow he deals to another, knowing that not only will they survive it, they'll likely stay awake and feel... every... second of the pain.
Spike rolls on the carpet, his head one burning blaze of agony. Christ, hell, did he fracture the bones? Are both his eyes still in place? Vision's gone all blurry and the carpet's turning red. This is worse than the chip ever...
He's not the sort who passes out. Not made for it, for one thing, and for another he's trained himself against that surcease. He doesn't, he can't, and he won't. Never would when he got zapped. Stubbornness. His body's long grown used to taking abuse with pride. Not giving in nor giving up.
Shaking hard, he draws his limbs together beneath him and levers up from the crimson-stained rug onto hands and knees. He's swaying, head drooping low. Liquid fingers of blood slide through his hair and dribble down to land in fat, scarlet drops.
He's been hit in the head enough times to know that this is bad. Were he back in Sunnydale, the Watcher might even insist on stitching this one; God knows he'd had his share of knocks to the noggin.
Trouble is, he's not in Sunnydale, now, is he? Place doesn't exist anymore. He's in LA, on the something-ieth floor of a demon-run building where a vampire can be a king. Under judgment in that devil's courtroom now.
Though for what, he's got no idea.
Bloody fucking existing? It would be his luck.
*
Annnnnnnd he's down. Think he'll stay there? Could be. Angelus swings the crowbar loosely in his grip as he walks a slow circle around the fallen vampire on his floor.
Fallen. That makes him smile. Oh, yes, fallen. Like they all were, and are, and evermore should be, but he – this thing, this creature, he went and raised himself a little above the angels. Got himself a soul. Oh, and he can talk all day about his reasons for it but Angelus knows the truth. It was a slap in the face for him. A knife meant to twist. Let "Angel" suffer a hundred years with the burden, but Spike can pick one up easy as a can of beans from the discount rack and swallow it down in a gulp.
Fucking prick.
He should have known better.
But he'll learn.
One expensive shoe comes back. Angel's legs are strong. He kicks Spike in the ribs and laughs to see him fall again, losing the balance he'd been struggling for. Watches him squirm in the mess of his own blood, coughing and choking on it. Silly vampire always forgets he doesn't have to breathe.
He'd better start remembering, because tonight's only just begun. He's shed that inner grain of sand, that thrice-damned soul, once again, and he's feeling a whole lot more... himself, this evening.
*
Stop it. Stop it. Lie still. Let it ride. Don't fight it. Gather your strength.
You'll need it.
Spike holds himself steady, fighting to remind his body that while this might hurt like hell, he'll not die of it. All right. He can do this; he's been here before. Plenty of times. Angelus in a rage is –
Damn it, still light-headed. That's not Angelus, that's sodding Angel. Defender of the right and all that blah, blah, blah. Protector of puppies and helpless little ladies of the night. Forevermore blathering on about needing to do some good in this world, and even – fine, he'll admit it - sometimes shifting his fat arse to get out there and accomplish.
Looks like the same bloke. Smell's identical. But there, the resemblance breaks down a bit.
It's been nearly seven years since...
He's used to harsh words from Angel. There's no love lost between the two of them, for certain. But a crowbar, for God's sake? What's he done to piss Angel off that badly? All he'd been after was sneaking in to see if he could nick a bottle of the good brandy kept behind his office bar. Hadn't even known the poof was there until he stepped out of the shadows with that bloody great iron rod in his hands.
Spike's not quite sure what he said when he saw that. He's muddled, and no wonder. He just remembers the impact. And thinking, as it came toward him: "Oh, fuck. Angelus."
But that's daft. Isn't it?
*
Yeah, Spike'll be rolling around down there for a while. Angelus can almost scent the curiosity rising off him in waves, and it amuses him to let it go on for a while. Besides, he's not had a chance to investigate his little castle here yet. To look at it through new eyes.
Idly letting the crowbar drop – looks like there's plenty of weapons ready to hand if he decides he needs, or wants one – he begins to drift around the office. Running his hands over this or that as the fancy strikes him. Filing away ideas for later. And in a place as richly appointed as this one, there's plenty of room for inspiration.
Last time he was himself, things weren't quite so... elegant.
How'd he get loose? Hell if he knows. Damned if he cares. All that matters is, he's out. And he won't be going back a third time. He'll snap that British mage's neck, he'll eat out the red witch's throat, whatever it takes. He won't go back into the cage.
He'll have to be clever. He learned, last time. Hide behind what they think they should see, and they'll never know the difference.
He pauses as he comes full circle and stands at Spike's head. Aside from the faintest shivers, you'd never think that anything but a corpse on the carpet. Well. This one knows. But when he'd seen the crowbar (he remembers another bar, not too long ago, that this creature dared -) and then that telltale hair glinting in the moonlight, well...
It isn't as if Spike matters. Or mattered, he should say. He is and always will be Angelus' own creature. Might need a bit of reminding, but hey...
Angelus strokes the slim neck of a wine bottle, lingering fingers trailing down to the base.
The night's young.
Wonder how long it'll take good old Spike to clue in?
*
The pain's receding at last. Finally. He's been calming himself by listening to the step-step-step of expensive shoes slipping around the executive suite. Regular as a metronome, it was, one foot tapping whenever he paused to examine something in more detail.
Yeah, still hurts. But he'll deal. He can handle this. And he's not so daft, either, even after a knock to the head that would've sent your average Joe to the hospital or the morgue. Looks like Angel, smells like Angel, sure as hell doesn't act like Angel. What have you got?
A newly-freed, more-than-probably-pissed-off demon, that's what you've got.
Angelus.
Spike lies very still, and tries not to move. Not until he's thought of a plan.
Bugger it. He's terrible at those. And Angelus is coming closer, yeah, like a hungry panther all in black except for his yellow eyes. Tiger, tiger, burning bright/ In the forests of the night/...
He knows Angelus knows he's awake. Knows he's waiting.
So he raises his head. Might be down, but not all the way out yet. "You." He spits. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Angelus smiles as sweetly as a child around a mouthful of jagged teeth. "William," he croons. "Now, is that any way to speak to your master?"
*
That's the thing, isn't it? What he forgot last time he was himself, and they two met. There's a certain way to discipline this secondhand offspring of his, and he'd mixed it up before. Treated him like the roustabout "Spike" he insisted on pretending to be, rather than the timid, heart-and-cap-in-hand William that he was deep inside and forever more would be.
He'll not be making that same mistake this time.
"On your knees, William," he says softly. "Up, or I'll drag you there by the scruff of your neck. And you're not wanting that, now are you?"
It – not him, this is an it glares at him through the runnels of blood on its face. "Didn't answer my question, git," it snarls. "What the hell are you-"
Bah! He's got no time for this. "Up, I said!"
His hand, he is pleased to see, can still engulf that slender white throat like the stalk of a lily, and it's easy as ever to pull the light creature up to sprawl on his knees. "There," he says softly. "That's ever so much better. Isn't it? You'll do as I tell you, William."
It dares to narrow its eyes, and assume the face that only an impure demon should have the right to wear. "It's Spike," the thing growls. "I haven't been William for-"
He deals it a casual backhand that nearly knocks it onto its side. "That's as may be. But you're William now, aren't you?"
Two fingers grip its chin and pull it back upright. Force it to look at him. "Say it after me, then. William. Come on. William."
*
He's fucked. He's completely and totally fucked. Think it was bad last time old Angelus came around for a visit? Think the old man was loony then? He's batshit insane now, anyone could tell it from that tiger-light in his eyes, and Spike's all alone with him. Late night at Wolfram & Hart where the humans are asleep and the devils don't care, and he's caught.
Oh, hell.
*
The thing refuses to acknowledge the name that belongs to it, but again, there's no time for every pleasantry just now. It will learn. It always was a bit slow, wretched creature.
Angelus pauses to consider it, on its knees before him with that pitiful show of defiance writ across its features. He can smell it now; the creature's back is up and it'll only just return violence with violence. You can break a horse that way, but it's never fit to ride again if you value your own hide.
Perhaps he should go back even further, if he's to bend this beast to his will again. Return to the earliest of methods. Aye, the crowbar was going a bit far then, and no mistake.
Surely had felt good, though.
Ah, well. What are regrets, but moments wasted?
"I'll not hurt you again," he murmurs, slipping his hand beneath the slickened chin. "Look at that pretty face. It'd be a crime for any ill fortune to befall those dainty lines. Lovely as a woman, you are. You always were."
It twists in his grip, but he's too strong for it to break free. With the other hand, he begins to pet the harsh, crisped hair burnt by stinging chemicals and glued down with tacky gel. "Now this is a shame," he says softly. "We'll have to be changing that back to the way it was. All soft brown ringlets that clung to my fingers. D'you remember that, William? You liked it. How you nearly purred when I caressed you thus."
He looks around himself. "A dirty thing like yourself wants a wash," he muses. "Tell me, William, is there a sink nearby? Shall we fill it up with hot or cold? Push your head beneath and wash away these sins?"
*
Oh, God, not the sink by the bar, don't let him remember seeing the sink by the bar. Spike knows he won't drown but the feel of being held underwater, it's something he's always feared, even the First knew that about him and surely if he knew then Angelus knows even better how that'll nearly break him and -
*
"Hush now, hush," Angelus soothes. "I can see you don't like the idea of that. We'll leave that be for now. Wash you off all gentle and sweet later on, when you've earned it."
He keeps his hands roving, petting through the crisped hair until it turns a little softer beneath his touch. The blood helps, as well. "So much gore on your pretty face," he murmurs. "On your hands. All going to waste."
Graceful as a lord, the way he learned at Darla's fair hand, he sinks to one knee. "I'll clean you off. Shall I?"
*
Spike's got time for one startled flinch before that mouth is on him. Softly, almost sweetly. Slightly raspy tongue, flickering at his cheekbones. Open lips pressing to his skin, sharp teeth all a-prickle.
And he remembers. How it was, back when he was William and this was the rarest treat that a day could bring forth, this loving care at the hands of his master. Cleansing wounds with his own mouth, as if he were a kitten.
And he remembers.
And he begins to shake.
*
It's trembling, now, beneath his hands. There's a good sign. "Easy, easy," he lifts away long enough to whisper. "I won't hurt you. Not anymore."
One hand slides down the length of William's throat, lingering on that one ever-so-sensitive spot where Drusilla's long-faded bite mark had lain. He rubs small circles over it, feeling the creature's gasp and jerk beneath his touch. "It's good, isn't it? No one but one of us can know, can they? What it's like to feel another hand here. Better than a fist wrapped around your cock, isn't it?" He presses down a little; feels the shivering increase. "Because right here is where it all began."
He dips gore-smeared lips to that crook of William's neck. Teases it with his teeth. "Shall I?" he murmurs. Flicks out once with his tongue. "Do you want to feel that good again?"
A groan is his only answer.
*
How could he... how long has it been since... oh, God, he's falling. He should move now. Act while Angelus is distracted, like. A fist to the balls; they're at the right level for him to strike.
But he's not moving. Why isn't he moving? Is it that mouth, those lips that know what to say even better than they know what to do? The wonders they're working on his body right now, ah! He hasn't felt the like since Drusilla left him. No, no, that's wrong, he hasn't felt this particular rush since Angelus last willingly touched him himself. A hundred years and change and it's like being hit by a train, the wash of need and want that hits him ever so hard with just one flicker of that tongue.
But he's not William. He's Spike. And he won't...
*
"That's a good boy." Angelus nuzzles into William's neck, nipping it lightly. Just hard enough for one tiny bead of blood to rise to the surface. But from the creature's hiss and harsh, involuntary buck of its hips forward, he knows he's won the day.
His tongue probes the meager wound as if it were the slit on the end of William's cock, and he gets the same kind of response, oh, yes, he does. The sad little fool's breathing again, quick and butterfly-fast, but Angelus doesn't mind. Makes him seem a bit more human. A little more fun to break.
He'll snap easy as a pine sliver between Angelus' fingers, then, when he does this:
*
Teeth are meeting in his neck and his entire body is on fire. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Spike would throw his head back and howl if he could, only Angelus is holding him fast by the shoulders. His hungry mouth draws on the bite. Spike can feel Angelus swallowing, vast ravenous gulps that jerk his throat where it's tucked against his shoulder.
And he knows what he's doing, the bastard. Knows this is going straight to Spike's cock faster than any ordinary sight or sound or caress could ever travel, filling it hard and tight and fast with all the blood that's not drizzling down Angelus's gullet.
Too much blood loss, too much sensation. Can't think. Not straight. Just want. Want. Want!
Somewhere deep inside he is ashamed as he mewls and bucks up against the darker vampire. Shameless as a cat in heat, and just as desperate. There's fangs in his neck and blood on his face and he's dizzy and he's once again William, William whose only thought is to make Angelus happy and to lap up the crumbs that fall from that broad Irish hand...
He whimpers aloud, trying to voice all of this and more. Can't make the words, quite. But Angelus understands.
He feels the laughter on his throat.
*
"There's a good lad," Angelus says quietly, though his smile is broad and red. "You know what to do, yes, you do..."
Slow and gentle, lapping at the raw tears on William's neck to keep them open and trickling for him, he maneuvers the creature back on its heels, then down to the soaking carpet. "Good lad," he murmurs, following each shift with the weight of his own body. "Such a good lad, he knows exactly how to please once he's been reminded."
He worries at the bite with one tooth, and feels how hard William is for him when he pushes blindly back up. "Yes, yes, soon," he soothes, slipping his hand between them. "Very soon. Good boys get good rewards, now, don't they? And I think you've earned one this night."
*
Spike has gone blind and deaf and dumb to anything but what's electrifying him through Angelus' touch. Somewhere deep inside, there's a part of him – the soul or the demon? – raging at the insult, the surrender – but it's so dim and far away that he can barely comprehend its call...
*
William's wearing those despised jeans, but they tear as would wet tissue in Angelus' hands, parting and falling away. Good lad, he's never taken to wearing anything beneath. Angelus wonders: does the creature he pretends to be admit that's part of his old training, or does he pass it off as – he snickers – cockiness?
Ah, but it doesn't matter, does it? Because once the denim's away that glorious uncut cock is free. So hard for him that the foreskin's already drawn back over a spongy purple head, leaking with the want of his touch.
He taps it with one finger and laughs a little at the way William's hips writhe with that. "Not just yet. If you please me, then perhaps. But we'll see first, won't we?"
He's a bit more careful with how he removes his own trousers. They're of a good quality, above tearing, so he merely undoes the zipper and slides them down his legs with a wriggle of the hips. His own boxers are torn away casually as William's jeans; they're only in the way.
William threshes beneath him. Drained so deeply that he's barely conscious as a man, he can still recognize the need to rut like the beast he is. He recognizes the smell of Angelus' own musk and knows what it means. And though weakened, he tries to draw his knees up.
Angelus rumbles deep inside his chest. The mind may forget, and the soul may cloud, but the body always remembers. William is his.
A few fingers-full of gelatinous blood anoint his cock, to protect it. He doesn't bother with aught for William. The boy's body recalls it – will want it – need it – rough as can be, plowing into him and breaking him open.
"Behave for me now," he murmurs, angling himself into place and pressing forward. "William, behave..."
*
The mindalteringbodysplitting push of that cock inside Spike is a flash of the sight of Heaven and Hell. He raises his head and screams in pleasurepain, again and again and again –
*
Someone will hear. Angelus is sure of it. And they'll come running to see, bent on the rescue.
But what they'll get an eyeful of is his own arse as he thrusts deep into the body of another vampire.
He can hear Fred's soft, disgusted cry now. Gunn's embarrassed yelp and quick retreat. Wesley's lingering as if he's already there, wanting to say something but... in the end... not quite daring... and retreating.
He'll have his way.
God, but his boy feels so good about him. It's been so long. Far too long.
Blood eases the passage as it always has. Blood makes everything easier – all the years and time and distance put between them.
Now, he still hates William, mind. But he's just cottoned on how to make him behave. Fill him up with spunk and milk him dry of blood. Offer him a sup when they're done.
He may fight. He may rise up to glare and hiss and spit like his old self. But he'll be beaten down in the end.
And beaten down, if not broken, will suit Angelus just fine.
He kisses the ragged wound on William's neck and fucks him harder, glorying in the rough gasps and wordless cries. "You'll see. It'll be like old time again, my boy. Just like old times, but in better circumstances..."
* * * * *
For those interested:
Sonnet #79
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.