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Author's name: Shayla
E-mail address: wisheyemay@yahoo.com
Spoiler warnings: If you know Spike's in the school
basement, you're safe
Disclaimer: I own many things, none of which include
the characters in this story.
Summary: Xander's POV on seeing a broken Spike in the
school basement. Big ball of guilt.
Pairing: S/X
Rating: PG-13, for a naughty word or two.
A/N: Really just pre-slash.
Feedback: Yes, please. My first fic so go easy on
me.



“Xander, this isn’t a nice basement. It’s not
friendly-like. Not like the other, you know.”

Yes, I know.

“I thought you were here. I could smell you here. I
couldn’t find the chair. Where do I sleep?”

Who could leave him here like this? How could *she*?

“You can’t be here. They won’t like it. I can’t have
people over. There’s no room.”

I can’t breath. He was one of us. We’ve all made
huge mistakes. All had our violent tendencies. And I
know, just fucking know, that Angel wouldn’t be left
here alone. And he killed one of us.

“Not fit for company. It’s all a shame. Xander, it’s
a shame, don’t you think?”

I look at him. A damn shame. We should *all* be
deeply shamed.

“I’ve always thought we should've been friends here.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

This is so very wrong. I thought we were the good
guys.

“I shouldn’t have left. There isn’t even a chair
here. Or a lamp. Something’s happened.”

I may see things in black and white, but I *do* know
the difference between the two.

“Xander, *please*. I won’t be any trouble. Just show
me where my chair is. Please.”

God, Spike, just please shut up. I can’t breathe.

“A good man. I can be. I used to be good. I thought
the hurt would make me good again. It wasn't enough."

Maybe we aren’t the good guys. We can't even use the
excuse that he's soulless.

"Never good enough to have someone, no. Touch, but
not have.”

Who’s inhuman now? The answer's still the same, yeah,
but painfully less evident.

“Xander, the chair, it’s just gone. I was afraid to
say anything. I didn’t want to bring it up, but there
is no chair.”

I'll bring you the fucking chair, Spike! Just *stop*.
This is too hard.

“Now there is no touch even. I took too many, got too
greedy. All wasted touching with no touching in
return."

And just like that, my fingers are itching to touch
him. To brush some of that hurt from his skin. Would
I want that, if I were him?

"No more touching for me. Never where it counts."

Maybe.

“Sometimes, though, I think that this isn’t even the
same basement. Something feels off.”

I've got to get you away from here, or we are never
going to get you back.

“Your scent is here, but the bad is all wrong. The
bad, it’s below. Not above, like before. And there’s
too much. I don’t think you would like to be here with
me.”

The itch is in my arms now. Wanting to wrap around
him, wring out the pain, like water from a sponge.

“Xander, are you listening? I didn’t bloody take it.
Why would I? Now I’ve got no place. It all came down
to a chair, and it’s gone.”

The itch is full body now. Wanting to offer healing
warmth. Wanting my feet to get the itch so I can
finally just go. To. Him.

“We’re all going to die here. What's lurking down
here, it doesn’t give up. I’ll be first to go.
Proximity.”

Sometimes what's right and what's wrong isn’t so easy
to discern.

“Where are we? Please, can’t we just go home? I
practice the quiet for hours.”

Sometimes it’s pretty damn obvious.

“I can’t fix it. I’ll never fix it. Please, can
you....”

Some things can’t be fixed. Won’t stop me from
trying.
Maybe that will be enough.

"Xander?"

I can't help it. I need to hold him like I need to
breathe. Except that maybe I'm the sponge, soaking up
the hurt and the cold and the tears that are dotting
the arm of my shirt.

"God, Spike, just... Yeah, let's go home."

Title: Cleaner
Author's name: Shayla
E-mail address: wisheyemay@yahoo.com
Spoiler warnings: Season 7, episode 2. As in a
souled Spike in the school basement. I don't know
much more than that myself.
Disclaimer: I own many things, none of which include
the characters in this story.
Summary: Everything is cleaner in the rain.
Pairing: S/X
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please.
A/N: Still pre-slash. Sequel to Basement. This is
for all of you who sent lovely feedback asking for
more. Thank you.





Okay, now when I said home, I meant somewhere a little
more near my actual home than the school parking lot.
But there’s rain, and with Spike’s face tilted up
towards mine, I can almost pretend the wetness on his
cheeks was rain all along.

The key word here being almost.

“God, I’m sorry. Please. You don’t have to do this.
Don’t.”

Frantic words whispered softly into my ear as if *I*
were the one in need of coddling.

“Xander, dry up. Let’s... It can be like before,
happy, yeah?”

How do I explain rain to someone who keeps brushing
the drops furiously from my face?

“No need for tears. Who am I that tears should be
shed?”

Someone who thinks I am crying for him. I wonder if
anyone’s ever cared enough to cry for him.

“Knew it. Knew this would happen, I did. Shouldn’t
have touched me. Hurts to touch, remember?”

This weird twisting in my gut, and yes, indeed, it
hurts to touch.

“That’s why it’s never done. See? Now see what I
did? With the tears. You have them all over.”

So the rain never gets explained. I can’t speak,
can’t break this spell. Here in this place is
something Spike can actually fix because nothing is
broken. However false these rain-tears are, yes. I
can do this. In this place, I can be broken instead
of him. *For* him.

I just lean against my car, soaking wet, as he stands
in front of me quivering. Maybe I’m quivering, too,
because this almost child-like display of comfort is
about to rip me apart. Cool, thin fingers scrub at my
face, in a futile attempt to dry it. His hands
flutter around me like a pair of white birds trying to
find a place to land, touching down on my arms and
shoulders, back to my face.

“Come, now. Let’s see a smile, hey?”

And suddenly it’s just too absurd. I do smile, laugh
even, but it’s raw and painful and I cut it short. It
sounds ugly, and there is already too much of that.

Spike’s hands fly up to cover my mouth. A pretty
frown and I guess he thought it was ugly too. Thank
God the rain is letting up some. I gently take
Spike’s wrists and pull them away.

"Right, sorry then. Forgot myself."

Ghost my hands up his arms and they come to rest on
his shoulders. Try to catch his eye. "Hey. See,
don't mind the touching. It's okay."

Also not minding what can only be described as a
nuzzle to the area just above my collarbone. In an
instant it's over and I wouldn't swear in a court of
law that it actually happened.

As Spike abruptly squats down in front of me, a thrill
worms up my spine, and aren’t I just a sick bastard.
Snatch my hands from his shoulders.

I’m not that guy.

But he is threading his fingers through a shallow
puddle.

For a while that’s all there is. Me watching Spike
watching his hand as it moves through oily water. And
maybe I’m insane too because I know what he is
thinking.

“Where did they all come from? I hear them up there.
Crying on me for what I’ve done.”

So it would seem that I am, in fact, insane. I can
taste the salty residue from the rain on my lips, and
God, how many people died to create this deluge of
grief?

“So many lives to mourn, with so many tears. Come
back to drown me, haven’t they? Should do the trick,
yeah?”

Okay, I know this one. “Actually no, vampires don’t
breathe.”

Another pretty frown. “But *I* am breathing. Feel.”
With that, there’s a hard yank on my arm and I’m on my
knees next to Spike in the puddle.

I don’t even need my hand on his chest to feel its
rise and fall, because I can feel cool little puffs on
my face. I don’t look at him, because he’s too close
and it doesn’t bother me enough. Things just seem
cleaner in the rain.

Rise. Fall.

It’s all very surreal, just kneeling here in the
aftermath of a storm, hand between the folds of a
partially unbuttoned shirt, resting on the skin
exposed there. It would be so easy to make believe
that he is breathing, really breathing.

Puff. Puff.

That there isn’t a god-awful stillness where a
heartbeat should be. That the skin I feel is clammy
only because of the wet.

Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.

I slide my eyes to his, check to see if I’ve somehow
willed him to life. And his eyes, well, they sure as
hell don’t look dead. They look even worse, and it
dirties the moment. It's still beautiful, just less
clean.

Puff. Puff.

Close my eyes, and I’m back to where Spike isn’t
broken and I’m not so fucking out of my league. Back
to where tears are only rain and Spike can be the one
to wipe them away. Not a happy place, no, but
happi*er*. Easier.

“How many do you think there were?”

I feel a slight vibration as he speaks, and it drags
me back to reality, where it’s me and Spike, kneeling
in gritty parking lot water with cigarette butts and
soda can tabs floating around us.

"Somewhere along the way, I lost count."

Back to where the hand-shaped spot of warmth I'm
feeling is borrowed from me and Spike has nobody to
cry for him.

My knees hurt.

Everything is suddenly very ugly again.

“Between you and me, I don’t think I’ll ever be able
to make it up to them.”

“Spike...” I sigh. Stand and offer him my hand. Drag
him up. “Look....” And really, I have nothing to
offer here. No words of encouragement, no "time
heals" blather. And did I mention that I'm ever so
*fucking* out of my league here?

“Is it too late for me? Tell me the truth.”

I contemplate that. It probably is. But I'm not
stupid. While I might not know what to say, I
definitly know what *not* to say.

I clear my throat around the lump there, and even so,
my voice sounds hoarse. "No. Of course not."

Besides, there are cool fingers tangled in mine, and
there’s rain.

So maybe it isn’t.

margie hat geschrieben:Aber von den Grundzügen also Stellung ..... ist es ja in den meisten Stories das gleiche mit geringen Abwandlungen. Also da hat wohl sicher irgendwer angefangen und die anderen haben das mehr oder weniger übernommen.

Stranger Things Have Happened

Author: Estepheia
Pairing: Spike/Angel (slash)
Rating: don’t know really, probably R
Summary: It’s Christmas 2001. Angel and Spike bury the hatchet over a bottle of whiskey... and Spike wakes up with a hangover.
Spoilers for Buffy Season 6 & Angel Season 3

~~~



The moment I wake up I know something’s wrong. I’m lying in a proper bed. Not mine, though. I don’t have satin sheets. I open my eyes. Black satin sheets. Satin on naked skin. Totally camp. Hang on a sec, naked? Nothing wrong with that, except for one tiny little detail: can’t remember how I got here. Instead of memories I’ve got a splitting headache and a horrid taste in my mouth.

That’s right. I’ve got a hangover. It’s been a while since I could actually afford one.

Something else is wrong. In fact, wrong doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s a naked body spooned against my back. An arm is slung around my waist, cradling me. Not necessarily a bad thing, except that the body feels male – wriggle – oh yes, definitely male. Oh fuck!

Bloody hell, must’ve been drunk as a skunk last night! Oh god. I didn’t, did I?

I take a whiff. Hair gel? Coffee? And that unmistakable... Bollocks!

I stifle the urge to jump out of bed and run out as fast as I can before my magnificent grandsire has a chance to stake me for the Gem of Amara cock up. Oh god! I don’t believe I ended up in HIS bed. But how? All the booze in the whole wide bleedin’ world couldn’t get me plastered enough for THAT. No broken bones, no pain – apart from the hangover, that is - and I’m not wearing chains or anything.

I force myself to lie still. Go away, headache! Better to sift through recent memories now, before Angel wakes up.

L.A.? Yeah right, I went to L.A. for a few days. Not to see the ponce, of course, but to give the good old DeSoto a bit of exercise. And, truth be told, to get away from the Scoobies and their holiday preparations. Christmas turns ordinary people into scary monsters and super freaks. All that talk about presents and turkeys and trees and whatnot, and the milling around in malls, the shopping frenzy and agonizing over festive menus. Enough to drive me nuts. And away. Also, no one invited me. And let’s be honest... that hurt.

They probably expected me to come, anyway, but it just isn’t the same, is it?

Anyway, as I was saying, the whole bloomin’ Christmas rigmarole was getting to me. Made me downright morose one minute and stir crazy the next. Reminded me of my black princess. We always had a good time at Christmas, Dru and I. She liked the whole package, the sights, the smells, the flavors. And I liked getting her presents.

I missed her.

I felt lonely.

So, I went for a drive.

And when I saw that punk girl standing underneath the “You’re leaving Sunnydale” sign, I actually stopped and told her to hop in. Only goes to show that I’ve really gone soft. I mean, I’ve eaten my share of hitchhikers, but this one I actually picked up to give a ride. Um, not the kind you’re thinkin’ about, you perv.

Strange girl, too. Nice outfit, leather, lotsa chains, safety pins dangling from pierced ears, hair all straggly and green. She had some of them little blinking lights in it, makin’ her look all Christ-messy. She didn‘t comment on the blackened windows. She just made chewing gum bubbles and bobbed her head to the rhythm of my assorted Punk Rock tapes.

She didn’t talk much. But I think I ranted a bit. We shared my Bourbon and her cookies. When I finally dropped her off, she held on to the car door for a moment and said, “If you wanna get laid, wear something blue.” She walked off, appearing more than a bit tipsy. As I was watching, she turned around. “One good turn... and all that crap,” she hollered, gave me a cheerful wave and then she was gone. As in now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t. Gone. Vanished. Into thin air.

So what. Stranger things have happened. Believe me.

How many people you reckon live in L.A.? Over three and a half million people. So, the chances of bumping into anyone particular are therefore three and a half million to one, right?

Wrong!

If the fates hate you enough, they’ll unerringly make you run into the one person on this godforsaken earth whose guts you hate the most. And if you are daft enough, you don’t just bugger off quietly, but you tap that person on the shoulder.

“Peaches.”

He turned round with a start. “Spike!”

“Argh!” I yelled as hot cappuccino spilled over the front of my T-shirt, narrowly missing my duster.

“What are YOU doing here?” It was all there: hostility, suspicion, exasperation, and a hefty dose of mental self-flagellation. He was also being territorial, but I wasn’t playing.

A standard question deserved a standard answer. “What’s it look like?” I asked amiably. I inspected my T-shirt. Decided I needed to change. Dropped my shopping bags and began to shrug out of the duster.

There was enough of Angelus left underneath that soul to make Angel look pretty pissed at that lack of respect.

When he opened his mouth to say something, I interrupted him: “Hold this.” I hung the duster over his arm.

“Looks like you’re stripping in the middle of a shopping mall,” he said, making a sour face. He looked around nervously.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” I pulled the coffee stained T-shirt over my head and rummaged among my bags until I found the one with the T-shirts. I picked one randomly, tore off the price tag and put it on. Then I unburdened the poof and put my leather coat back on.

Angel was wearing his usual expensive designer clothes: black pants (not leather, though), silk shirt, long black coat. He was carrying half a dozen bags. It looked like Angel and his credit card had joined the general holiday shopping frenzy.

Yeah, look who’s talking. I wasn’t exactly unencumbered, myself.

If was funny, really. There we were, two vampires amongst thousands of tasty people, but both kind of restrained, me technologically, him metaphysically. Both removed from our own kind. Except perhaps from each other. Granted, we were enemies, but we were also family. You just got to love the irony of it all.

“Buying prezzies for your pet humans?” I asked. You marvel at my civilized tone? Been chipped for over two years now. Plus, spending too much time among humans.

Angel didn’t answer that, probably trying to fathom some sinister meaning behind the small talk.

“Let me ask you one more time, Spike. What are you doing in L.A.? What are you up to this time?” His body was tense, ready for a fight. It was nice to know that at least someone still considered me dangerous.

“Executing my evil master plan of the year: This Christmas I am going to get Buffy and the Scoobies royally pissed off.”

Angel raised a brow.

“Buying presents for the children.”

“That’s the master plan?” he asked, reluctantly drawn into what one might actually call a conversation. I didn’t know what had gotten into me. I was actually TALKING to Angel. Last time we’d been vis-à-vis he’d been squirming and writhing in chains and I’d listened to the music of his screams.

“It’ll make them feel really guilty.” I forced a wicked smile.

He gave me a strange look.

“Do you want yours now?” I asked, still grinning. “Saves me the trouble of having to find out your new address.”

“You’re drunk,” he observed.

“Not nearly enough,” I said. “Suit yourself. I can always drink it myself.”

I picked up my bags, turned around and walked off. I could feel his eyes on me as I threaded my way through shoppers and fake Santas. For a moment I was tempted to give him a two-fingered salute.

“...’Tis the season to be jolly, falalalala laa...”

The omnipresent Christmas cheer was beginning to get on my nerves.

“Spike!”

I kept on walking.

“Will!”

Okay, that stopped me in my tracks.

I turned around. He gave me that put upon look he’s so good at. Angel, that is. Not Angelus. As you can see, I’ve learned to differentiate. Sort of.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.” I had planned on sleeping in the old DeSoto again, cause it was cheap and felt homey, but I’d have rather spontaneously combusted than admit that.

“There are plenty of empty rooms at the hotel,” he said hesitantly.

Dru had told me that Angel Investigations was now based at some old hotel. So, I recognized this for the invitation it was. And jumped at it.

I shrugged, as if I didn’t care either way. “Thanks, mate,” was all I said.

He nodded.

“So,” I said. “Where’s the Angelmobile?”

We picked up our cars from the shopping mall parking lot and I followed him to the Hyperion. Holy shit, I thought, when I saw it the first time. Pricey. Looks like the poof stashed some money away in his time... Which yours truly never did, cause – you know – vampires take whatever they need whenever they need it, unchipped ones at least.

There was a huge Christmas tree in the lobby, very nicely decorated, too.

I went through my shopping bags, took out a parcel and shoved it under the tree. Which was a bit silly, come to think of it, cause I had bought the present to annoy him but now it looked like a peace offering. What the heck, perhaps it was just that.

I flopped down casually on the round settee. “So, where is everybody?” I asked.

“Wesley...”

“Your ex-Watcher?” I interrupted.

“The same. He’s in England.”

“So’s mine,“ I grinned.

“Yes, but mine will be back after the holidays.” Angel elaborated. I nodded.

“Cordy...”

“The beauty queen?”

He didn’t correct me, but it was obvious he didn’t like the moniker. “Cordy went skiing for the first time in years. She deserved a break.”

“Fred...”

“Who’s he?”

“SHE is a friend and she’s celebrating with her parents.”

“Gunn...”

“That a she, too?”

“No, HE said something about going to Vegas.”

“So, they all scampered off to their families or to have fun, leaving you to brood on your own?” I said with my trademark smirk, rubbing it in. “Life’s a bitch and then you die.”

I’ve never been able to really get to Angelus, no matter what I said or did, but Angel was a different matter. He looked hurt. Which should have given me pleasure, but didn’t.

I dropped the smirk. “Yeah well,” I said with a sigh, “my lot aren’t keen on having me around for Christmas, either. So, I’ll do what I did last year. And the year before. Drink myself into a proper stupor.”

And that’s when he told me about his kid.

A mortal child.

He showed me photographs. He couldn’t show me the boy himself, although I think he would have liked to. He was that proud. But in order to keep the nipper safe, he had given him to a family, the parents of a friend. I didn’t ask who or where. It was obvious that the separation made him deeply unhappy. I mean, you couldn’t even call it brooding anymore.

After a while, he fetched glasses and a bottle. Old Irish single malt whiskey, which he sipped reverently and I downed at more than twice the pace. Made a change from my usual paint stripper.

We spent hours talking. Why not? Stranger things have happened.

He told me about Darla and how she had come to an end. Good riddance, if you ask me. When I said so, he gave me a furious look. But he didn’t hit me like he used to when he was Angelus.

I couldn’t think of anything to brag about, and I was no way near drunk enough to talk about Buffy, the 147 days and nights she’d been dead and buried, and how she treated me like dirt, and how I hated myself for loving her. So, I ended up talking about old times. Dru and me did this, Dru and me did that.

But while I was talking, I kept coming back to the same thought.

A mortal child.

Goes to show that the universe really does have a sense of humor. And a sick one at that. I mean, Angelus, he always had this thing about families. Stalking them, controlling them, tearing them apart.

If the gypsy curse hadn’t given him a soul and all that guilt, we’d probably still be together: Darla, Angelus, Dru and me - with a few additions, I suppose. Not a happy family, but HIS. And I’d never be alone. I’d belong.

But now? Darla was dead. Again. And Dru’s whereabouts were unknown. And he had a child, a real one, alive with a soul and all.

Got me thinking.

What did he need ME for?

Why was he talking to me, anyway? Why hadn’t he mentioned Marcus and his hot pokers? Why was he so bloody forgiving? I was beginning to think that staying at the hotel wasn’t such a bright idea, after all. Come on, I wasn’t THAT lonely.

This was ridiculous.

I put my empty glass down and got up.

"Right then,” I said. “Must be off.”

“What?” he asked. He sounded funny with his voice highly pitched like that. “I thought you were going to stay.”

“This isn’t gonna work, now, is it? You. Me. For god’s sake, we’re enemies. You didn’t expect me to sing ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ with you and whatnot, did you?”

“Why not?”

Good question.

“You used to sing for Dru,” he added, sounding petulant.

This was getting downright surreal.

“True,” I said, surprised that he remembered. I didn’t get it. What did he want with me? What could I possibly give him that he didn’t already have?

I couldn’t put my finger on it just then.

“If you have no pressing engagements elsewhere, why don’t you just stay?” he said with just a hint of pleading. I didn’t think I had ever heard Angel plead before. Or Angelus. He really wanted me to stay.

“Haven’t eaten, yet,” I answered slowly while trying to digest this novel experience. I wasn’t used to being welcome, and I honestly didn’t know how to deal with it.

“There’s blood in the fridge,” he answered.

“Pig’s blood.” I made a face. “What about turkey?”

In the end I sent him off to set the table (which he did, with napkins, candles and all, would you believe it!) while I made some pasta. A liberal helping of heated blood on top and - voilá! - you got Spaghetti Sanguini á la Spike. Angel’s disgust was short-lived. We drank two bottles of pretty decent red wine with our meal.

And we talked some more. Most of which I’ve forgotten.

When the candles had burned down and the wine was gone, he got another bottle of whiskey.

I remember having a truly morose moment and talking to him about Joyce’s death and later Buffy’s. But on the whole the evening got better and better. We even sang ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ together – no mean feat after all that booze, I can tell you. And boy, is Angel a bad singer!

From then on my memory gets really patchy. I believe I told him about my feelings for Buffy, and I think we fought, but were basically too drunk to do much damage. And then, well, I’m not sure, but I think we made up. We must have, cause neither of us is dust and I am lying in his bed now, wondering if he’s awake or not. What I do vaguely remember is crawling up some stairs on all fours, shedding my clothes on the way, singing ‘God Save the Queen’.

But I honestly don’t know how I got into Angel’s bed. Or if anything happened after that. I sniff again. Doesn’t smell like we had sex. I am not sure whether I should be relieved, insulted or disappointed.

Oh god, he’s awake.

I can feel his cock slowly hardening against my thighs. I know he’s not Angelus; still, I can’t help going all tense.

“Good morning,” he mumbles. I expect him to withdraw his arm from my waist, but he leaves it where it is. In fact, he doesn’t move at all.

“What happened? Last night?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember?”

“I remember drinking way too much. I don’t remember going to bed. Is there something I should know?”

I turn over. So now we’re lying face to face. For someone who is over 200 years old he sure looks insecure right now. He hesitantly withdraws his arm.

“You crawled in here, naked I might add, and said, and I quote: ‘For Christ’s sake, Angel, If you wanna shag, why don’t you just say so!’ End quote.”

He doesn’t get the accent right, but other than that it sounds like something I might have actually said. Not necessarily to HIM, though.

“And?” I prompt him.

“And then you passed out.”

The way he looks at me is weird. Like he’s waiting for something. Not anticipation but apprehension. He’s waiting for the rejection he thinks he deserves. For me to call him a soddin’ poof and jump out of bed, now that I’m sober again. And then I get it. He feels guilty for letting Dru turn me. Which he needn’t be, cause I like myself just fine. And for doing the things he did as Angelus. Probably thinks the whole Gem of Amara issue was really about how he treated me when I was stuck in that wheelchair, and about how he stole Drusilla’s affection. He might be right on that one.

If Angelus were here I’d fight him with everything I’ve got and one of us would end up dust. But Angel? I don’t want him to feel guilty on my account.

So?

So I forgive him in the nicest way I can think of: I kiss him.

A sharp intake of breath and he goes rigid with surprise. As if he can’t believe this is happening. Hell, I can hardly believe it myself.

Still, stranger things have happened.

And then, slowly, he begins to respond. His lips part invitingly. I nibble on his lower lip, teasingly, before our tongues meet. When he fully realizes that I don’t intend to break it off, the kiss becomes more intense. Almost desperate.

Most likely he hasn’t been kissed or touched by anyone for quite some time. His sex life is even more fucked up than mine. Well, of all mornings, I think Christmas morning is the right time to give Angel a real treat.

I bury one hand in his hair and pull him into a tight embrace. As our bodies press together his erection prods me. I grind my thigh against his hardness and he whimpers. I can feel my own cock harden.

He tentatively starts to touch me, too. My hair, my back, my ass. Meanwhile, I explore his body, learn its secrets. I stifle a chuckle as he arches under my touch, as he moans. He longs for it. Needs it.

Suddenly, he pulls back, all self conscious and brooding. I can see it in his eyes. He’s embarrassed. I think he doubts my motives, doubts his own power to attract. Remembers all the times I’ve called him a poofter or worse.

He’s right, you know. To question my motives. Sometimes I hate him so much that it chokes me. And he knows it. But even that’s gotten stale. It’s not his fault the Slayer always holds him up as a shining example, as the one to measure up to.

Fact is, right now I want him.

“For god’s sake, Angel! Unwind! Shag now, brood later!”

I touch his erection and he bucks. I guess he liked that. I begin to stroke him firmly, steadily, watching his face. The doubt goes away. And the last vestiges of coherent thought aren’t far behind. So much for the better. I rub myself against his body. It is as strong and muscular as I remember it, but this time it’s me who’s in control.

“Spike...” he moans as I coax him onto his back and begin to lick his throat, his collarbone, chest, his nipples... While I lick and kiss and playfully bite him, working my way downwards, I never cease the slow rhythm of my hand. I know he’s not gonna last long. When I take him into my mouth he groans and arches his back.

He shouts my name when he comes.

Afterwards he just lies there, spent. I am still hard. I want to bury myself in him.

I give him a cocky grin. He returns the gesture with a goofy smile, then looks at my hard-on. An unspoken question passes between us.

“Cooking oil, kitchen,” he suggests.

“Right,” I remember where that is. Doesn’t take me long to get it. I half expect him to go back to brooding while I’m gone, but when I come back he hasn’t moved. And the goofy smile is still there.

More kisses and more licking. It doesn’t take much to get both of us aroused again. This time he’s more active. This time he tries to find out what I like.

I like his teeth lightly scraping the insides of my thighs, oh yes, and I like his tongue licking my shaft and his lips surrounding it, but the moment I like best, though, is when I finally slide into him. Cool, tight, soft. We stare at each other, momentarily overwhelmed. “Oh god, Angel,” I breathe, and then I begin to move. He wraps his legs around me. Soon we are both moaning with pleasure. He babbles my name, as I jerk him off in synchronicity with my thrusts. He’s not one for dirty language. Not his style. A shame really. In the end it’s his cry when he comes that sends me over the edge.

A little nap and a few encores later, I think I can safely say that there’s not a lot of Angelus left in him. Just enough.

Eventually, I get up to take a shower. Then I pick up my discarded clothes and begin to dress. Slowly, cause he’s watching. I hate it, after I’ve made love, when the person I made love to can’t get away from me fast enough.

“I promised Dawn I’d stop by later today and give’er her present,” I answer his unspoken question. He nods.

He puts on his poofy dressing gown and disappears into the kitchen to heat us a few mugs of pig’s blood.

“What did you get her?” he asks, while we sip our lunch.

“A gift voucher for a tattoo.”

“Buffy will go ballistic.”

“Yeah,” I say with a happy smile. “I expect she will.”

I rinse the empty mug in the sink, cause Angel’s a pedantic sod and I’m feeling charitable.

“Well then, I’d better be off.”

“Take care,” is what he comes up with.

I guess we really buried the hatchet.

“See you around,” I say, giving him a friendly pat on the back. “Say hi to your pets,” I add, knowing that he won’t, and then I pull a blanket over my head and dash out.

Safely inside my car, I look at the photo I’ve nicked from of his collection. Father and Son. The little one looks a bit cross, but Angel’s lopsided grin more than makes up for it. I put it into my pocket. It’ll join the Scooby photos on my fridge.

Humming contentedly, I start the DeSoto and drive out of L.A.

Just as I’m about to get on the highway to Sunnydale, I see her standing under a road sign, hitchhiking again. I stop and she climbs in. “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “Did you get laid, all right?”

I step on the brakes and face her. “What are you?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” she asks.

No, not really. “What do you want from me?”

“A word of thanks would be nice.”

Realization dawns. “You! You set this up. You put some kind of love spell on us. What gives you the right to mess with people like that?”

“You called me.”

“The hell I did! Dabbling in the arts of summoning and conjuring? Not this vampire.”

“I don’t need summons. I go where I’m needed.”

“Get out!” I snarl.

“There was no love spell,” she says. “I only did one little thing.”

“And what was that?”

“I changed the odds.” And with that she disappears. Like last time. Vanished. Poof!

I start the car again, change gears and pull onto the highway.

Three and a half million to one. Well, I guess that did need some fixing.

I light myself a cigarette. “Yeah, well,” I mumble. “Thanks.”

And with that, the DeSoto and I roar back to Sunnydale.




THE END

Yaddayaddayadda. I do not own. A pity.


*Last time in Happenings*

"I should've known what?" Spike appeared from the dark, confusion in his eyes.

"Xander, do you happen to know what he's talking about?"

Xander shook his head. "Nope, but he mentioned you, so you probably do."

The demon was getting annoyed. He hadn't come to see the two vampires talk, he was only collecting what belonged to him.

"Spike, you of all the Undead should've known everything has a price. Even wishes. Rule one: never make a wish and let a demon you don't know grant it. You'll pay with what is dearest to you."

Spike started to see what was happening, but when he did it was too late. The demon hit Xander on the head, grabbed him and disappeared in the dark.

"NO!"

He ran after the demon, frustrated and angry. And also afraid he'd loose the one thing he loved after Dru, the boy that gave his unlife colour. But he couldn't reach the demon, and when he saw no sign of the demon anywhere anymore, he just fell down and cried. And that's how the Scoobies found him.

~*~*~

Chapter 5


"Spike?"

When Buffy and the others found Spike crying, they feared the worst. But it didn't hold Buffy from trying to stake Spike.

"You're a dead man! More dead, anyway! And this time for real!"

She kicked Spike and the face and jumped on him, the stake ready to pierce Spike's heart and kill him.

"Buffy, don't. We might need him."

"You're saying we shouldn't kill the son of a bitch that killed Xander? Give me one reason Giles!"

"Because he might know where the demon's hiding?"

Buffy lowered the stake, and sighed.

"I guess you're right. And I hate it when you're right."

She pulled Spike up, and if he would need any breath he would run short on it now.

"Let's get this straight Spike. You help us getting Xander back, and I won't kill you. Yet."

Spike struggled to get out of Buffy's grip, and when he dropped on the floor he nodded.

"Fine Slayer. You got yourself a deal. But just remember in the back of your head, that we won't be done with you. Xander is the only one that matters now, and we have to work together. I say we let him choose what he wants when he's save and sound. Until then, I'll work with you. Sort of."

"I agree. For now. But I'm not done with you either Spike, don't forget."

Giles interfered, afraid that the Slayer and the vampire would attack each other anyway, and if Spike got killed it'd be harder to find Xander. He pulled Spike and Buffy apart, and tried to keep them separate.

"You'll have to control yourself Buffy. And so will you, Spike. I'm not saying this to protect any of you, but for Xander's sake. He indeed is what matters now. He's my priority, and I hope it's the same with you. Now stop trying to look each other to death, and cooperate. For once in your life… and unlife. Now Spike: where did you meet the demon?"

Spike grinded his teeth.

"In an alley near the Bronze. 'M not sure if he's still there though, but we'll find out if we go now."

"Fine then, let's go. Spike, show us the alley. And remember; one wrong step, one attack, and you're dust. Buffy'll take care of that."

"Whatever mate. I just want Xander back."

~*~*~*~

Xander woke up in a soggy dungeon, tied to the walls with chains and unable to move. He tried to pull himself free, and when it didn't work he yelled out his frustration.

"Damn this! You ugly demon, come and get it! You're such a dead demon! Man, I wish Spike was here."

When he found out there was no one to listen his calls, he just let his arms hang down. He wished Spike was here, but he also wanted Willow and Tara and Dawn here, Giles, and hell even Buffy. He hadn't told Spike how he felt, how he really felt, because Spike just wouldn't understand. He loved Spike more than anything, he was the first one he really loved, with whole his not beating heart, but he still felt that a part of him was connected with his friends. Former friends. Whatever. He still felt sorta bad about it, about everything. He wanted things to be back like they used to be, and then again he didn't.

Being a vampire was still a little weird for him, and not being every ones butt monkey was definitely a good change. And with the demon inside him the power had come, and the hunger. Always hungry. But he'd get used to it. And yet, he felt like his soul hadn't abandoned him forever. He still wanted to be with his Willow, just because it felt right. But he also wanted to be with Spike. He just had to figure out how to make the best of it. But first, he had to get out of this dungeon and feed. Fast.

~*~*~

"Master, I think it is time to talk to the vampire and his friends."

"They are not his friends, but they aren't his enemies either. I will talk to them, hear what they have to say. Perhaps kill one. Or all of them."

"You would do great Master, I'm sure."

"Of course I will. But I have to watch out for the slayer. She might be stronger than she looks, just like the others.
They'll want to have the boy back. I'm ready to give him back. But not for nothing, of course."

A cruel grin got onto the demons lips, and his servant giggled hysterically.

"Oh Master, you'll love that. The girl will be great, her energy is big."

"I know. But so is the boy's. We'll see. We'll just see. Now, I will be gone for a while."

"Yes Master. Have you fed yet?"

"Perhaps I should do that first, yes. Is the boy awake?"

"Yes Master, and his fury will feed you well."

"Then I'll go and pay him a visit, first."

~*~*~

"Let me out of here!"

Xander had started to yell again, if it was only to keep him awake. He was really tired, but he wouldn't give up yet.

"I see you have awoken. Good, good. My servant was right then."

Xander looked into the face of the demon that had kidnapped him. Correction, vampnapped him. He switched to gameface, and snarled at the demon.

"Will you let me out of here already? 'Cause I'm really not in the mood for another fight. A shag with Spike, always. But I didn't feel like getting knocked out."

"Silence. When time comes, you'll be gone. Somewhere else than here."
"Good, 'cause…"

"I never said it'd be a good place."

Xander was surprised, and when the demon placed his hands on Xander's head, he roared in pain.
"NOOOOOOOO!"

~*~*~

"Here's where I found 'em."

Spike, Buffy, Willow, Tara and Giles were in the alley where the demon was supposed to be, and were left with nothing. Yet.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I don't see any demon Spike!"

"And you won't be if you keep yelling like that, Buffy."

Buffy immediately shut up, hurt by the look her Watcher gave her.
All of them took a look around, and they jumped when they heard a low voice behind them.

"I assume you're looking for me?"

The demon had showed up after all, and he was smiling evilly.

"You're the man. You have Xander, we want Xander. You took him, we'll take him back, you ugly… demon."

Buffy felt hate toward the demon, much, but it didn't seem like the demon was surprised.

"No need to get so verbal Slayer."

"Just trying to make it easy for you to understand."

"Ah, you have power. A lot. So do the others. Two witches eh? Interesting…"

"Care to feel it?"

Willow's eyes flashed black, and it even surprised the demon. For a second.

"Not quite. You're here for a deal, for the boy. Talk. And I'll decide if I like it."

~*~

To be continued! I know, sometimes it gets kinda boring, but I have a little part of the next chapter in mind already. With some turns in the story. Promise!

Author: Trixx
Title: Hope
Pairing: S/X
Spoilers: Season Seven
Summary: Spike alone in the darkness, about to give up
Disclaimer: I do not own, I merely cry over.
Authors Notes: Okay so I've had writers block for quite awhile now,
when suddenly this bunny came outta no where and bit me *gasp* I know
I
know I should have had it treated. but the venom spread. this was the
result.


I was alone. Alone for the entire world to see, or not see if they
chose to ignore me. I became one with the mouth of hell, it called to
me, moved me, directed me, pulled me ten ways from Sunday until all
that
was and is, was its presence in my mind.

I know that I deserved every instance of insanity it visited upon me,
and I know with all my being, that I don't deserve to be saved. I am
evil, bad, wrong, unnatural, and this is the unlife I am condemned to
live. Buried beneath the wreckage of a tattered life, mistakes I so
easily made, the regrets that swamp me, overwhelm me, make me. They
make me what I am now. This thing that I have become, unnatural.

I cry. The tears course down my cheeks in silent misery and no one is
near enough to see, no one is near enough to listen, to feel what I'm
feeling. Alone so alone in the dark, yet not alone, as the voices
whisper to me, call to me, telling me, telling me of things to come,
and
I just want them to stop, I want to be alone in the darkness, alone in
my tears, my pain, my misery, its mine. MINE, and they can't have it,
they can't share it, I won't let them, I deserve to be alone in my
misery, in my silent contemplation on my unlife's atrocities, the
things
I've done, the people I've. killed, I deserve to drown in their
memories, in their ghosts, I deserve to be haunted. I can sit here and
rock, back and forth in the dirt. I don't feel the cold, I don't. I
feel the ache more so, this ache deep inside me, I tried to get rid of
it, tried to claw it out of me, claw it, rip it, shred it, but I can't,
they whisper that this is who I am, this is me in all my pathetic
glory.

Glory. It all started with Glory. If she hadn't tried to hurt the
Nibblet, Buffy hadn't died, been resurrected, been wrong, I wouldn't
have become unnatural, wouldn't be, I should have died in her place, it
was my place to die, she was the good one, the purest being that I had
ever seen in my meager existence, pure in the perfect harmony of good
and evil, she tread the line with ease, between darkness and light, she
tread the line with ease and comfort, while I sit here and rock back
and
forth upon it, never sure which way I'm going to teeter, whether I
should just give up and fall, let myself fall into the endless abyss
that awaits me, it would be so much easier, than suffering. Suffering,
alone in the bleakness that surrounds me, they call to me, pulling me
in, crying for release, for peace, the peace that I've long denied
them,
my ghosts, my past, they haunt me, every time I close my eyes, every
time I. every time I think of her, what I did. the purity I tried to
capture. take, violate. I'm teetering on the edge, I want to fall, to
just let go. but he won't let me.

He never lets me. I'm alone with the voices, in the voices, drawn to
the mouth of hell, and he finds me every time. Drags me back from the
edge. into his arms, into him, and I don't want to fall anymore. I
don't want to be teetering on this precipice about to fall. I want to
be the Man he thinks I can be. I cry as he holds me, as he guides me
back to our apartment, holding me, carrying me when I begin to shake
too
much to stand, and he doesn't say a word. He carries me through the
darkened streets without as much as a whisper of sound.

Once home, he cleans my face, washes the tears and grime away, he lays
me gently in bed, and he climbs in behind me, holding me, cradling me
to
his heartbeat. I'm lulled by it. It makes the voices go away, his
heart beat is too loud, I can't hear them over him. It's always him,
pulling me away from that edge, he makes me feel safe, and secure.
loved. I'd forgotten what its like to feel loved. I can smell him in
my dreams. He smells like home, like love, like forgiveness, he smells
like hope.

I close my eyes, as the peace of his presence steals over me, closing
my
eyes, I find the solitude I've been seeking when he isn't here, and I
sleep. In his arms, safe, secure. loved, surrounded by. hope.

yolande hat geschrieben: Bitte keine allzu graphischen Diskussionen

winterblue hat geschrieben: die szenen mit ihm gefallen mir immer am besten und ich beim letzten kapitel hab ich schon angefangen nur so schnell drüberzulesen und das wort *spike* zu suchen. das ist schon mal kein gutes zeichen. andererseits ist die fic ansich wirklich nicht schlecht, aber so richtig als x/s fic würde ich sie nicht bezeichnen. es kommen z.b. viel mehr giles/xander sachen vor (also nicht in einer *eww* art, sondern eher in so einer art vater/sohn beziehung).

Myš hat geschrieben: eww-art? das ist zu süss