Itís not that he doesnít think about it. God, he thinks about it all the time. Nights spent hungry and willing, a million little deaths waiting for those hands to touch him again. He breaks into a sweat just thinking of the first time smooth hands ran over his thighs, hands unfettered by calluses or any sign of honest living, pulling and bending him into the curvature of his body. His nights are filled with dreams of warm blood dancing over his tongue, fresh from his loverís neck, mixed with all manner of evidence of their lechery. Spike misses that taste, salt on salt, thin mingled with thick, satisfying mixed with necessary.
Thatís what sex with Angelus was; a dozen emotions rolled into one act. Wedding and funeral, birth and death. Always many things save one.
That was never part of the equation. So yes, he thinks on it all the time. Maybe a thousand times a day he pictures a naked man greeting him at the doorway, taking him hard and fast, pressing buttons he has long since ignored. But thatís all they are now. Pictures, snapshots of two people who have been lost to antiquity like evidence of Herculesí labors. They are shadows now, immortal yes, but the spark that made those moments full of life is somewhat dulled by experience.
Spike still yearns for that touch each night when it is his hand alone that creeps under the covers, aching to satisfy some need he isnít sure he wants taking over his mind. He sneaks into Angelís apartment a dozen times a month, waiting for the invitation that never comes, and wondering if heís the only one thinking about two men parading through Victorian London with no more shame than a naked baby, arm in arm, kiss to throat, brush of hair covering lips full with lust, quick rut in the nearest alleyway, pre-show of the night to come.
Angel never answers his questions with words, but every now and then, he speaks volumes with his eyes. Wet eyes that cannot hold Spikeís body in their path for more than a minute without looking away, anywhere but on the one person who knows all they have seen.
So Spike waits for Angel to find those words he spoke so easily a century before to return to his lips.
ďCome to me tonight Will, youíll not be sorry.Ē