Below them, the tarmac crawled sluggishly past, a river of sticky darkness that faded to gray-green in the distance where it met the sun-washed trees. The air between was clear and the sky shimmered in the early morning English sun glowing pink and aqua in the east and sending shards of light to reflect from the tile white wings. It warmed their faces through windows modified by science to let the two vampires feel the strength of its rays on their cheeks.
How dare it.
How dare the sun continue shining when they had failed so completely. A supersonic trip around the world, a terrifying trip at that, and still they went home empty handed. Home to Los Angeles, where the god damned sun would be shining when they arrived, blistering the day with its deadly fingers, unaware of its own audacity. Home to their shiny offices and bleached wood rooms, back to clean up the messes that followed them through the years like a faithful dog. Home to a world where a demon wore Fred's face like it had a right to it.
Why did demons do that? Think they could just take over, push all humanity, compassion, and pain out. Well not for these two men. They'd fought too long to regain their humanity to ignore the pain burning within them, coiling around them like a snake, squeezing out hope and whatever naivety they had carried to England the previous night as it constricted. The breath was choked from their bodies second by second as they waited on the tarmac for the short trip back to chaos and hurt, and a world where they hadn't saved the day at all.
They exchanged no words. There were none left to share. Hadn't been since they'd stumbled out into a fog-drenched night weighed down by their choice to allow Fred's destruction.
She could have been saved but every smiling face that greeted them, every laugh-filled conversation, reminded them of the price. Nothing was free. They both knew this. Knew it on a level that went beneath cognition and lodged in blood, bone and viscera. The only real question was, were they willing to pay it? In the end they had no real choice, no options they could live with, and now they went home to watch the aftermath unfold in technicolor.
"Please fasten your seatbelts, extinguish lighted cigarettes and switch off any electrical equipment, thank you. Take off will be in approximately five minutes."
Dutifully Angel tugged the two halves of his lap strap together and, after only a couple of minutes fiddling, managed to get them to snap together. From behind him, Spike's mumbled complaints rose to a brief crescendo along with the engines and then faltered, falling back into silence in the face of their roar. They ascended towards the heavens, both men clutching at their chairs until the jet smoothed itself and assumed a steady pace and was fully horizontal.
"Isn't there a stewardess or something?"
"We don't need a stewardess, Spike." Angel stared out the window, cursing the sun once more before pulling the blind down.
"You know, it doesn't do much good to leave the other twenty up, you git." Spike unbuckled the belt and stood up, warily walking through the spacious aisle seeking out the small cart bolted to the wall outside the cockpit.
"Would you sit down," Angel said nervously.
"Relax, just grabbing a few pints," Spike began, opening the refrigerated cart and pulling out several small bottles of whiskey, glaring at each one as he palmed them, "or whatever the fuck these are, isn't gonna crash the jet."
"You shouldn't, you know, rock it." Angel squirmed in his seat, running a hand over the cool metal of the buckle, ensuring that it was still latched.
"Want some?" Spike asked, dropping a handful of miniatures in Angel's lap as he made his way back to his seat. After a second he thought better of it and came back, flopping down across the aisle and fixing Angel with a hard glare.
Angel ignored him, and the bottles, turning his face to the blind and trying to focus on what they should do now, when they got back to LA and had to tell everyone how they had failed. How they - no, he - had decided that Fred's life was worth less than everyone else's.
Eyes burned into the back of his head and within seconds Angel felt his annoyance climbing.
"Shut up, Spike," he snapped eventually.
"Never said a word, mate."
There was no need for him to turn around and confirm it. From the tone of his voice Angel could guess the expression on Spike's face. The supercilious smirk, the dancing eyes, the I-know-better-than-you look that was guaranteed to work Angelus into a frenzy simply by existing. Why did he do that, when he knew the results? Why?
Without another word Angel twisted the top from one of the bottles and flung it at Spike.
"Hey!" Spike whined as the jagged metal edge raced across his cheekbone, leaving the faintest of scratches in its wake. "Pillock."
"Are we gonna brood or get pissed?" Spike asked as he opened his second bottle.
Angel turned to glare at his annoying sidekick. "I'm already pissed. What part of this trip has been enjoyable?"
"The flight over wasn't so bad. I mean it wasn't exactly hand jobs on the way to Tuscany fun, but once you get over the whole flying death thing it's a picnic."
"Do you ever stop talking?" Angel groaned, already knowing the answer.
"Only when my mouth's full," Spike said, casting a wicked grin in Angel's direction, smiling even wider as Angel downed his second bottle. "Like during that coach ride to Glasgow."
"How long is this flight?"
"Just long enough," Spike smirked as the click of another metal band breaking, followed by a slow gulp, hit his ears.
"Faster. Yeah, like that."
Now who was the talkative one, Spike thought as he took Angel's cock deep into the back of his throat for the umpteenth time. The only time the bastard was chatty was when he was fucking, that hadn't changed conspicuously in a century.
"Christ, Spike. I said don't stop!"
Swallowing a whimper along with dark whisky flavors that were all Angel, Spike upped the tempo again, ignoring his friction sore lips and the insistent ache in his groin. As he felt the muscles in Angel's thighs start to tighten under his hands, Spike moaned in delight; making others happy wasn't a big part of his M.O., but occasionally he thought that possessing the power to make another body beg and squirm at his touch was more a show of strength than killing had ever been.
"You..." Angel stammered, unable to form the compliment repeating over and over in his brain.
"I what?" came a mumbled reply, followed by a wide swirling of tongue over sensitive flesh.
"You're..." Angel started again, slamming the palms of his hands down on the arms of the captain's chair and throwing his head back against the pillow. His eyes flashed open when he realized that Spike's mouth had stopped moving. "Oh coome on," he begged.
"Say it," Spike said, removing his mouth completely. When Angel didn't answer, he blew a cool stream of air over the length of Angel's cock, making the small hairs on Angel's thighs rise. "Say it," he pressed.
Angel let an annoyed sigh fill the cabin. "Fine, you are the best."
"Okay," Angel hissed, leaning forward to whisper in Spike's ear. "You suck dick like a pro. I've spent the last century wishing we could make up just so I could feel your tongue on my cock. The only reason you are still alive is because I felt it would be an unpardonable sin to let such a talented mouth turn to dust. Now. Suck. My. Cock."
Angel leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes, and waited.
And waited some more.
Eventually he cracked open his eyelids and surreptitiously peered at the vampire between his legs. Spike hadn't moved, he was kneeling in the exact same position; one hand holding Angel's dick, the other resting on his left thigh for balance, his eyes were downcast and his mouth was opened slightly, showing a hint of pink tongue. Overall the effect was as sexy as hell, but marred by the concerned frown.
"Now what?" Angel snapped, sitting back up.
"Huh?" Spike blinked up at him, obviously dragged out of deep deliberations by the question and frowned again, gaze flicking between the cock in his hand and Angel's face. "Nothing. Well, yeah, obviously something-"
"I was just thinking…"
"Ha. Ha. No, it's just that all these years I thought you loved me for my tight little ass, and really you just loved my mouth."
"Love? More like it's you or the pilot. And I'd hate to distract the pilot."
Spike endeavored to put on another pout, but barely got his lip puckered out before Angel had him pinned on the floor, legs bent at awkward angles as the weight of Angel's body pressed over him. The friction of denim over his cock forced growls from Spike's throat and, as Angel raced his hands over buttons and zippers finally freeing him, Spike gasped aloud, taking Angel's mouth into his and sucking at his lover's tongue as it slid between his lips.
Angel kicked out of his own trousers, which had been pulled to his ankles while Spike practiced his art, and at the same time tried to get Spike naked. After struggling for a moment to rid them of their clothes with little success, he broke their kiss and stood up, smirking as Spike's wandering hands pawed at the suddenly empty air.
After shedding his own shirt with delicate efficiency, Angel yanked Spike's T up over his head, mussing his hair as the cotton upended gelled curls. Then, grabbing Spike by the ankles, Angel tugged off his boots, before sliding the worn jeans down his legs, leaving the vampire in a stark naked heap on the thin carpet.
"If you say so, mate," Spike replied, a little befuddled by the sudden loss of his clothing. He tried to sit up and straighten his hair, but was immediately bowled over by Angel's return. Squinting up at the smiling vampire sitting on his chest, Spike grinned and said, "How many of those little drinks did you have exactly?"
"Five, six." Angel cocked his head, his eyes darkening as they focused on Spike's mouth. "Couldn't have much. The captain said it was contra…contra…" His expression glazed over and Spike poked him gently in the stomach.
Snapping back to reality, Angel finished, "with the pills."
Oh, balls. The git was high.
Spike wondered just what sort of happy pills would be standard issue on a Wolfram and Hart jet. Who knew what sort of flavor of the week lawyers would have stashed away in the meal cart.
"So are we talking little blue men or extended pleasure here?"
"Huh?" Angel absently questioned, gaze locked on Spike's mouth once again.
"Great." Spike tried to sit up, ignoring the aching in his cock as the action forced Angel to sit back, naked flesh rubbing over his foreskin. "Didn't yer mum ever tell you 'don't do drugs'?"
The only reply was giddy laughter and more rocking against his cock.
"You realize you'll probably beat me to a pulp tomorrow for this," Spike commented, desperately hoping Angel would just roll him over and start with the fucking. Instead his lap full of vampire turned into cock balls-deep in vampire, followed by mind numbing grinding and lips so swollen Angelina Jolie would have felt inadequate.
"Holy shit!" Spike clung to the back of the chair as Angel pounded into him, rolling his forehead into the soft padding. The frame rattled under his hands and he hoped to god the cockpit was sound proofed otherwise the entire world was going to be privy to what was happening back here.
The trashed cabin, complete with come stains on the leather, bore testament to the efficacy of whatever the hell the pills were, and Spike had rapidly concluded that he very much wanted to meet the captain and shake him warmly by the hand - or possibly the throat, he hadn't decided yet.
Behind him - inside him - whichever, Angel was grunting like a demented bull, lost in a world of his own and riding the wave towards yet another orgasm. Spike risked letting go with one hand, aiming for his own leaking cock, Angel having long ago abandoned his efforts to get Spike off with him. He'd just managed to wrap his hand around himself, when Angel roared, shuddered and collapsed, his full weight landing on Spike's back and sending them tumbling to the floor.
"Fucking pillock," Spike cursed as his cock rose to attention again, just in time to watch Angel's eyes loll back in that post-coital slumber that ass-holes everywhere seemed destined to celebrate.
Turning to lean against the cabin wall, Spike lazily ran loose fingers over his body, tweaking his already sensitive nipples between his fingertips. He'd just do it himself, and be sure to pay attention to where he was aiming when he finally got off again.
By the time they'd reached American airspace Angel was coming to. The lingering effects of his ill-timed foray into drug use burning in his brain like mercury in paper cuts. Rubbing at his chest as he awoke his fingers were met with a gelatinous mess and upside down letters spelling out 'what' - no make that 'twat' - in ketchup.
Spike, now fully dressed and cleaned up, sat in farthest chair from Angel laughing like a hyena.
"What the hell happened?" Angel groaned, gazing down at himself and slowly assimilating ketchup, come, blood and - oh, look - no clothes.
"You, sunshine, should not take sweeties from strange men," Spike sniggered, sorting through his new collection of miniatures. "And by the way, the rest-room's in that direction."
Angel heaved himself to his feet, trying not to heave on his feet, and staggered in the direction indicted, snagging his clothing from the floor as he passed. His head was swimming, he felt like death warmed over, quite an achievement for someone who had shuffled off this mortal coil over two centuries ago. Splashing cold water over his face, Angel hesitated for a moment staring at the water swirling down the plug hole, the glimmer of an idea starting to form in his mind.
Outside, Spike waited until the door closed quietly before sinking deeper into his seat and unscrewing the top of his first bottle. Despite Angel being a poncy twat, it had been a good way to kill the time. Now, however, he had some serious drinking to catch up on.
"It's a play on perspective."
"Go on. What does it mean that she's gone."
"Well, in the world of men, a person dies they stay that way."
"Unless you're a vampire."
"Or a ghost of one that saved the world."
"Or Buffy. Death doesn't have to be the end, not in our world. Rules can be broken. All you have to do is push hard enough."
Below them, the tarmac raced past, a fast-track for their hopes, that shot towards the horizon where it collided with sun-drenched skyscrapers. The air between was laden with smog and hazy in the harsh California sunlight that reflected shards of light from the vast mirror-windowed buildings. Two faces pressed close to windows modified by science, feeling the strength of its rays on their dead cheeks and, with a fresh perspective, two hearts prayed they were in time to save her.
Two men convinced they could still save the day.