Title: When Hours Have Drained
Author: Willa
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angel/Spike, ref. to Angelus/William
Summary: Season Two of BtVS, Faded pages remind Spike of William, and sets a plan in motion.
Notes: #63 in the SLashed Sonnets Series.

Right, so Spike's sitting at the long table trying to have a moment's peace. Seemed a quiet enough time for it, with most everyone asleep, to drag out a long, battered book he's kept by him for decades on decades now and lay it on the table. This is the sort of book that wants his full attention, and he's of a mind to give it. After seeing Angelus - no, pardon us, Angel, the other night, he's got an itch to remind himself of a few things.

And to do it right, he needs peace. Quiet. Loose clothing, for favorite.

Only it doesn't work out so well, does it? 'Cause first, like someone popped a cork, there's minions scattering all about the place, waking up too early and wanting something to do. That daft Dalton begs his pardon in and out of the room as he translates a word here, a phrase there, each time knowing exactly how pissed-off Spike is getting but still - he - comes!

And then, to top it, there's Drusilla, cat-walking into the room and purring 'round his ankles.

He gives up. Mostly. "Are you a kitten today, Princess?" he asks softly, dropping his hand to stroke through the dark hair. Ringlets of it twine 'round his fingers, cling to his palm. She butts her cheek against his ankle, hard, 'till he does it again.

Well, if it makes her happy...

But eventually she tires of that game, as she always does, and then it's up and away to find some new amusement. Spike watches her go with a little regret. Nice, it was, to see his lady playing a bit again. Good she found the strength. Now, if they can only finish figuring this damned spell, he'll have her back as good as ever. Then he'll have his lovely wildcat back in his bed, as well as mewing at his feet. Not where she belongs, that.

With her gone, he tries to return to his book. He frowns a little at one particular page, turning it this way and that. Shaking his head with a small tsk, he flips over to the next leaf, and ah, that's more to his liking. That one's nice enough that he runs a finger across the lines, tracing the ancient print - once black, now faded to gray. "Remember that, I do," he murmurs to himself. "Not likely to forget. Reckon he has, though."

And that thought disgusts him enough that he tosses the book down - though he marks the page with a twist of rubbish from the floor - and calls for a snack. The words bring Drusilla, not-quite kitty-creeping with big, big eyes and hopeful pawing hands, and fortunately, a minion with a nice bit of coed in tow.

Spike sits back and observes her. She's a fine one, she is, plump breasts and hips just broad enough to enjoy in bed and out of it. Looks healthy, too - no drugs for this one, with her shining hair and white teeth. He expects the eyes would be shining, if she weren't such a fighter that Dru had to put her under thrall when first caught. Well, whatever she's seeing now, it's enough to put a smile on her face. That's a fine sight; it pleases him.

"Can I have some, Spikey?" Drusilla's pleading piteously, nudging her head into the crook of his shoulder. "Just a little bit, please?"

"Course you can, darkling." He presses a kiss to her cheek and nods at the minion. He'd rather fancied sinking his teeth into that one, but Dru's too weak for biting just now and he'll spare her dignity.

"As you wish, Master Spike." And aren't those words that he just loves to hear? Makes up - almost - for the lost pleasure of the stretchy spring-snap-crunch of his fangs in flesh as two goblets of hot, red and liquid are drained out, one for himself and one for his lady darkly fair.

"Now, either sip it down proper or go and play, then, Dru," he chides her as she takes it and tries to lap instead of drink. "I'm busy, aren't I?"

With a little pout, she swallows properly, and he's sorry for her moue but he likes to see the faint flush spread over her as the blood goes down nice and easy. Loves to see her demon face come out at pleasure in the taste of it. "Can't I stay here, then?" She sways, pressing a finger to her crimson lips. "I promise to be ever so quiet."

And if there was ever a vow broken before it was sworn... but he can deny her nothing, so he just runs a hand down the length of her thigh, ending with a squeeze, and nods. "Come along, then."

She squeals in delight, patting her hands - goblet still in one of them. He's got to guard his long book against utter destruction as small vermilion droplets go spraying everywhere. "Dru!"

"I'm sorry." A finger creeps to her mouth. "I'll be a good girl, now."

"Go and get your toys, then, and sit down!" Spike's irritable now, and he lets it show. Minions, Dalton, that coed swaying in the grip of whatever happy-place she's gone to, Dru... he'll never have a moment's rest, will he?

"You're cross, now, aren't you?" Drusilla swoops down to buss his cheek, leaving a smear of blood behind. "But I'll behave properly. You'll see."

And by Satan's left nut, if she doesn't do just that. Fetches Miss Edith and a deck of tarot cards and sits down like a proper lady, humming softly to herself as she reads out fortunes to the doll.

Finally. Spike shakes his head and returns to his book. He'll be glad when all this is over. Back to his book, then, and to that one page that caught his eye and mind earlier...

He eases back in his chair, looking to his heart's content. Times that were... times that will never be again, eh? Probably daft for keeping this about so long, but there you have it. He likes to bring it out once in a while, have a real good look through. Remind himself of how things used to be. A proper sentimental type, him.

Yeah, right. He snorts. More like a horny pouf who's not gotten any in months, not gonna do a minion, and reduced to looking at naughty etchings like the Victorian he used to be. 'Cause this isn't any ordinary book, see, it's a sketchbook. One that belonged to Angelus. And it's not just a plain book of pictures that he used to like to draw - a corpse here, some carnage there - it's the record of his training as a vampire. Angelus' own vampire. Good at the mayhem, better in bed.

His mouth twists up into what's not even close to a smile as he remembers how Angelus took that hesitant, stammering Victorian who'd never even kissed a lady properly, and made him into a wanton thing who'd pull his own thighs back with his hands, begging to be slammed into. Showed him how fine it could be between a lady and a man by permitting his times with Drusilla, then showed him it could be better when there were two cocks instead of one. What it felt like to be the one plundering, instead of plundered.

He'd never gotten to top, of course, but somehow he didn't think about that when those brawny arms were pinning him fast and they were doing things fit to make the vicars faint, eh?

And this book... well, see, Angelus had a fancy for drawing pictures of how he imagined they looked together. That, and sketches of William, laid out - trussed up - free and willing - tied and loathing - every position, suffering every degree of horniness that a man could have brought upon him. Thinking on it makes his cock rise and fill even now, until he's got to adjust himself in his jeans.

Drusilla giggles. "Spikey's being naughty," she singsongs. "He doesn't have his Princess to make him better anymore."

Spike frowns. "Hush, now. I'm not keen on talk like that in front of the minions, and Dalton, what the fucking hell do you want now?" He throws the book down in irritation. It lands face-up, and he takes a perverse pleasure in the way the vampire's eyes widen just a little. When it comes time for Dalton to dust, he wants to do it himself. What a pleasure that'll be, eh?

Verb conjugated, Dalton on his way, Spike sighs heavily and shoves his hands through his hair. He's ready to speak to Drusilla, to distract himself, but she's laying out an upside-down Celtic cross and giggling to herself. "Daddy was a mad, bad man," she says softly. "Dangerous to know. Delicious-dangerous."

"He was at that." Spike's hand steals out, all unaware, to stroke the one picture - a sketch of himself between Angelus' spread thighs, his mouth bulging from the cock shoved into it, lips gripping at the thing while he sucked. His own prick hard and wet, flush against his stomach.

She gives him a pitiful look. "I miss him. Want him back."

"Yeah." Spike rubs his thumb against the drawing. "Don't reckon that'll happen, lovely."

"Can too. Will, if you want to."

Her smile is so naughty that Spike's drawn into it, caught by it. "You've got something in mind, then?"

"Oooh, yes." She turns over three cards and laughs in delight. "Angel doesn't like Spike, but Angelus loved William."

Spike frowns. "And?"

"Be William." She leans forward, eyes sparkling. "Be William for him, and draw him into your net. Snap, snap, snap! All caught and tied up in the pretty little strings you can pull tight around his neck. Into your parlor like the spider and the fly." She hisses and rattles, shaking her head on her slim neck. "See? Run and catch, run and catch, the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch. And Daddy will be back for me, and for you, too."

She pauses, blinks, and the look in her eyes shifts from the devil's own delight in mischief to that of a lost little girl. "Spike? We're out of tea, and I'm thirsty."

"Then we'll find you more," he says soothingly, gesturing for another goblet to be drained from the paling coed. But his mind's not on it, is it? No, he's thinking on what Drusilla's said, and he's wondering... what if... what if...

Would it be worth it? Could be. Might be damned bad idea, too. Might be dangerous...

Ah, what the hell.

He claps his hands together hard. "Right, all of you, in here, now!" The minions are daft but they've got some sense of self-preservation; from everywhere they come scurrying in. "I want these things," he says, scribbling down a list on a flyleaf torn from the book, "and I want them by tonight. No later. D'you understand?"

Drusilla chortles and turns over a new card.

Spike slams the flat of his hand down on the table. "Never mind her. Tonight! Or you're dust, and you know I can bloody well do it, too."

They hesitate, and he rolls his eyes. "Off with you then." Then, when they don't budge - damned sheep - he grits out in exaggerated patience: "Go!"

Fucking finally, they move again, even the one propping their snack up and draining, even Dalton. The room's clear in an eyeblink save for himself and Drusilla, humming over her cards.

Slowly, slowly, Spike picks the book back up. It falls open to a page showing Angelus covering him. His own legs are over the other vampire's shoulders, and you can just seeing that battering ram he called a prick sliding in and out of his hole.

"He even drew the blood in," Spike murmurs, tickling the picture where they're joined. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember the blazing pain and pleasure. Feel the hair flopping over his forehead, still loose and curly back then. The weight of the glasses at the end of his nose - back before he'd grown too vain to wear them anymore.

Could be Drusilla's wrong. Maybe he won't be wanting William, after all this time. Could be it's the wrong bait altogether. But he never was able to resist the lure of his body, the tight sucking pull of his hole as that cock shoved its way inside.

It's worth a try.

He reaches over and squeezes Drusilla's hand. "You've had a lovely idea, pet," he murmurs to her.

She looks up at him and chirps, birdlike. Spike sighs. Yeah, he hopes this little move gets Angel back on their side. Much as he adores his dark queen, a bit of proper conversation wouldn't go amiss at least.

*

You'd not believe how hard it is to find straw in a southern California town. One minion finally has the bright idea to search out the school's old drama storeroom, where they find a few bales, likely left over from a production of Oklahoma! or some such shit.

The minion who found them is so proud, and dares to chuckle to Spike as if they're equals over his luck.

Spike dusts him. He's starting to get nervous now, he is, and he doesn't like this. Laughs might just jinx it all, and he. Won't. Have. That.

They get the rest of the supplies for him in utter silence. Just the way he likes it.

*

He showers by himself. Always has liked his creature comforts, he has, and he made sure long since that there was at least one working stall in the factory. Dru would have liked to be in there with him, paddling happily about in the soapsuds - likely fully dressed and sopping from tip to tail - but he wants to be alone. There's a tight knot gathering at the pit of his stomach.

Not easy, going back to something you hate so much. But it's to gain something he wants either more. It's a paradox, that's what it is, and he fucking hates those things.

Just... if it gets Angel... back on their side... back in his bed... he can feel the burn in his thighs, the way he used to lift them above his head for better access to what he wanted. And he trembles a bit, burning with pure wanting. His cock's hard already, jutting out from the nest of curls that are still his - William's - color.

Slowly, he reaches one soapy hand down to grip himself. It's not the same - never is - but with the pictures in that book burned fresh in his brain, and what he's hoping will come this night, it's enough to get him just a bit of relief.

A little to tide him over...

*

He's gone and gotten determined now, especially after jacking himself dry to the pictures in his mind during his shower. He's gonna do this.

So he lets his hair dry loose and natural, no gel at all. Gets Dalton to loan him a suit - it's a poor fit, but William never was the latest pink of fashion. And from the bottom of a small box, the same one he's kept that book in, he retrieves a fragile bit of metal and wire... a pair of glasses, a hundred years plus old, and slides them onto his nose for the first time in a century.

He wishes he had a mirror. Just to see - to know. But it'll have to do.

They've already sent a minion to go and find Angelus - no, Angel.

Better get into place, then.

Curtain's about to go up.

*

Goes down just like they'd hoped, for the first part. He's sprawled out across the straw, just as he was so many years ago. His legs parted. Drusilla suckling at his neck, sipping slowly at his blood and teasing the flesh of his neck with her tongue. Good girl, to play along so well. She's even slowly kneading at his balls and cock, achingly hard. Half of him wishes they could just see this through to the finish, but then... ah, then... he hears familiar steps outside, and knows that they'll be seeing out the play.

"Get away from him, Drusilla."

Dru hisses as she turns about, blood dribbling down her chin. "Shan't! I found him. I want to play with him."

Angel steps in, white and determined. There's a stake in his hand (and oops, well, that's different; just have to hope he doesn't... and he doesn't). "I said, let him go."

"Want him," Dru whines. "Look, Daddy. So pretty he is. See?"

She draws back just far enough that Angel can get a proper look at William/Spike, on his back in the hay. Though his eyes are half-closed, he sees the older vampire freeze - hears his indrawn breath. "Dru..." he says slowly.

"Just like old times," she whispers, drawing back. "Look, Daddy. Look what I found in the midden tonight."

He can't resist it. Spike knew he wouldn't be able to. "Stay back," Angel orders roughly, and good girl! she does, just as she did so long ago. Probably on account of it's Daddy's orders, but that's all right.

He feels Angel draw close. Go down on one knee before him, staring at the blood soaking his neck and spoiling his not-so-crisp collar. Knows he's remembering that night so long ago, recreated best as they can, here. Knows he's wondering - such a sweet little doubt - is this Spike, or is some poor look-alike?

And as he'd hoped, Angel draws close enough to see and smell if there's breath coming from his lips. Just close enough to...

Spike lunges up, snagging Angel around the waist with one long arm, and catching the vampire's mouth in a hungry kiss.

Angel freezes, but Spike doesn't let go - and he makes the kiss everything that they once had. Dirty, nasty, his tongue everywhere that he can force it into, sharpened teeth biting at lips until he tastes the blood. There's a gasp into his open mouth - ah, remembering, are you? - and then, with a sudden surge of desperation, he's being kissed back.

It worked. It bloody well worked.

Spike's exultant. Can't believe if. Buggered if he's not taking advantage of it, though... using all his strength, he drags Angel down on top of him and pushes up, letting him feel the swollen size and dampness of his cock through the washed-thin trousers. Angel's in jeans, but he knows it can be felt. There's another gasp, and then arms are around him, too, clutching with all their strength.

He bucks hard, sliding his hands down to grasp at the globes of Angel's arse. Come on, come on, you prat... get it up for me. Just like you used to do for William.

"Sir," he makes himself murmur into their devouring kisses. "Sir, I don't understand. Why do you do these things? It's not-" here he has to gasp, as Angel bites down hard enough to break the skin on his mouth - "it's not seemly. Not what gentlemen do together. I beg of you, sir, do let me go-"

Angel groans and pulls him tighter still. Hands are fumbling at the snap and zip of his trousers, groping at what lies beneath. Spike shudders in anticipation. Any second now, oh yes, any second now, and he'll have what he's been aching for...

A large hand closes around his cock. He's shaking hard, no need to pretend. "Angelus," he whispers. "What you make me feel..."

"William," a voice rumbles back. "Dear God, William..."

"Sir," he groans as Angel moves down his neck, gnawing at him with sharp silver kisses. "You make me want you... is this right? It must be, since you are my master. But ah! Sir! Tell me. Tell me you want me, tell me you want this... please, I beg you..."

"Want," Angel is growling, mouth hovering over Drusilla's bite. "Want so much."

"Then take," Drusilla's soft voice echoes behind them. "Take, and make him yours. My new lover, my new brother. Be Daddy to both of us."

And Angel -

He freezes.

Stops cold and dead as the corpse he is.

No!

Frantic, William/Spike surges back up into the kiss. "Please, sir, please," he starts to babble. He's almost forgotten who is he, how far he's come. All he can feel is every drop of urgency that he once knew in Angel's arms. "Have me, take me, do what you will with me; only please, end this torment!"

"Oh, God," Angel whispers against Spike's skin. He drops him and stumbles back, leaving him naked and exposed, bloody and wet with pre-come, on the straw.

Spike struggles up onto his elbows. "Don't stop!" he hisses. "Take what you want. And what you want's me, isn't it? You know it's true. Tell me - take me - and do it now!"

"No!" Angel's wiping at his mouth with one hand. "I can't - William - Spike - I won't -"

Drusilla stamps one foot. "But you have to!"

"Stay out of this, Dru!" Spike snarls. He gets to his feet. Holds his cock, dripping and angry purple, in his hand, making sure Angel can see. "Remember this? All the times you pushed me to the ground and drove your own prick inside me? Every time I was on my knees, sucking you off?" He jacks himself, hard enough to hurt. "It's yours if you want it, Angel. And you want it. I know you do. I know you."

But Angel's shaking his head, even though his eyes are fixed on the leaking organ in Spike's hand. "I know," he whispers. "That's why I can't. Buffy -"

"The fucking Slayer!" Spike shouts. "Forget about her! Can't you see how wrong -"

Angel makes a choking sound. "I can. And I can't - not to her - behind her back -"

"Fuck her." Spike starts to slide his hand up and down his cock, desperate now. "Little virgin girl, never opened her knees to anyone. That's not what you want. You've hungered for another taste of this for a hundred years. Come and bloody well take it!"

"No." Angel backs away, towards the door. "This is cruel even for you, Spike."

"Doesn't have to be."

"But it is." His voice is stronger now. "I can't come back to you. I'm not who I -"

"Bloody soul!"

"Not just the soul." Angel puts a hand on his chest. "My heart, too."

"When your cock's hard as this, what's either of those matter?" Spike drops down on the straw and spreads his legs wide, obscene. "Come and take what you want."

Angel shudders hard. "I can't. Forgive me, Spike - I can't."

"But Daddy-!" Dru's keen is lost as the older vampire turns and runs - runs! - away from Spike and what he offers. She stamps her foot hard, wailing after him. "Daddy, Daddy! Come back!"

"Shut up, Dru!" Spike's face is pinched and white with anger. "And come here. Here, I say!"

She stares at him. "But Daddy's gone."

"I know he is." Anger makes him cruel. "You get to finish what he started."

She's easily distracted as a child. Sinking down on her knees before him, she eyes his erection hungrily. "Can I suck on the lolly, Spike?"

He grits his teeth. "Damned well better, woman."

"Ohhhh," she breathes. "Can I bite? Please, Spikey?"

"Yeah." Her cool mouth sinks over him. "Bite. Be rough as you like, kitten," he groans, sinking back hard into the straw. "Go hard on me. Make me bleed."

And she does. But he's imagining a different mouth there as she suckles and pierces him, making him writhe and shout. He's seeing the pictures that were in that book, and he's living each and every one of them over again.

Clumsy and fumbling, he reaches up to pluck the glasses from his nose. He holds them for one long moment, then with a squeeze, crumbles them in his grasp. Fuck Angel, then. Fuck him!

He'll have him back. In pleasure or in pain. He can't stay away forever; Spike knows that. And as he shudders and growls with the force of a disappointing, pallid release in his Dru's mouth, he swears it on all that he holds sacred.

Maybe this didn't work. But make no mistake, Angel will be his again.

He's only got to find another way to get him back where he belongs...

* * * * * * *

For those interested:

Sonnet #63

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.