Author:
For: romanyg
Pairing: Angel/Spike.
Rating: NC17.
Setting: Pre-"You're Welcome."
Words: 409.
Request: Angel/Spike.
Summary: Angel searches for Spike on nights like this.
Stale beer, smoke, and loosened ties filled the room. These were the places that Spike frequented. The ones that Angel searches on nights like this: when he arrives to find the pretty girl dead in her little black dress. She's cold.
He smells Spike before he sees him. There's something about family. It's what he dreams of when he closes his eyes at night. When Connor's eyes remind him more of Spike than Darla and when he hears Drusilla call him, daddy.
Spike, sitting in a dark corner and sipping on a beer, plants a dollar in a woman's g-string. Angel doesn't miss her blonde hair or big eyes. He doubts she's even legal. Spike's back straightens, and Angel knows he's seen him.
They never talk. Angel's made it clear with threats and choking. But Spike still follows him out into the alley. I was killed in an alley, Angel doesn't say as he throws Spike against the wall.
Spike's skin tastes sharp and bitter, and he smells like Angel's own shampoo. He always uses Angel's leftovers.
Angel undoes Spike's jeans with precision. He can almost hear himself saying, belt buckle, button, zipper, pull. And he covers Spike's mouth with his own. The ash from Spike's still burning cigarette falls to the ground.
When Angel thinks he can taste all the people Spike's killed, he pulls back and shakes his head. Spike gives him a brief, annoyed look, until Angel's hands turn him to face the wall. There's a familiar clink as Angel frees his erection.
There's a fluency of Angel's slick cock thrusting into Spike, like sinking his fangs into a victim or buying Drusilla dolls. He grabs a handful of Spike's short, crunchy hair. Spike always touches himself.
Angel groans. His head buried in the curve of Spike's neck and shoulder, but he doesn't bite. And maybe when Angel comes, the stars sing or maybe the woman he didn't save tonight dies all over again.
Angel never asks if Spike's done, doesn't sniff the air to smell his come on the brick wall. For that moment, they look like any other human couple, a typical post-coital alley fuck facial expression of shame as they tuck themselves into their pants.
They stay silent. Spike lights another cigarette and walks away. The smoke lingers like the guilt Angel wishes to rid himself of. But the woman's still on a mortician's table and Angel still has a company to run.