"Give it here," I snap.
He rolls over, refusing to face me. "Fuck off."
"Spike, there are six pillows on this bed. You don't need five of them." I reach under his bleached head and snatch back *my* feather pillow. I bought this in Holland in 1796. Do you have any idea how careful you have to be with a feather pillow to make it last three hundred years? He's not allowed to touch it. That's the *rule.*
Dear God, I sound like Angelus.
"But it's my favorite," he pouts. Christ, he's good with the pouting.
"They're *all* your favorite."
"Yeah, well."
"Go to sleep, Spike."
"Whatever."
"Now!"
"I am the anti-christ...."
"Spike, stop it."
"I am an anarchist..."
"Quit singing."
"Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it..."
I reach over and smack him lightly across the back of the head. "Spike, shut up. I have to get up early tomorrow."
"I wanna destroy the passer by..."
A hundred and twenty years ago, when he was an obedient, enthusiastic fledgling, we would stay awake in bed all night long, talking. Side by side, just the two of us, in the dark. Talking about nothing, anything. Life and Death and Eternity. There was so much he wanted to know, so much about the world I wanted him to understand.
But this is not William the Bloody. This is not Will, my apprentice, my Favored Childe. This is Spike, and there is precious little about the world that I could tell him that he hasn't learned already of his own accord. He isn't much for deep conversation and he has very little respect for my opinions on anything. We don't have a lot in common anymore. Truth be told, Spike and I don't agree about anything. Not music, not art, not politics, not religion, not film, not philosophy, not architecture. That's right, we've had arguments about architecture. Gothic vs.Romanesque.
But we still miss those late-night talks.
I still miss that voice, the voice of a man who has seen and done so much, yet still, so childlike. That voice, with its familiar inflections, peppered with curses and slang. He didn't lose his accent like I did. Perhaps because he stayed in Europe longer; perhaps because he was always accompanied by Drusilla, whose own tones bore the accent of their homeland.
His voice speaks of rainy skies, cold winters, gray fog, icy seas. Mine is a quiet voice, with few variations. But Spike's voice- it shouts, it screeches, it mutters, it begs, it chatters, it purrs, it sings. I miss that voice.
And he still misses me, my presence in the bed, the Sire that loved and comforted and protected him. The way he would reach over to lightly punch my arm or bend his head back to receive my kisses. Unconsciously, in sleep, he would wind his arm around my waist or bury his face in my neck. He never forgave me for leaving him when I regained my soul. He shared his bed with Drusilla for a hundred years and he loved her and I'm sure he still does, but he never forgave me for leaving him alone in that bed. Because he still misses that.
But we can't reclaim what we once had, those late-night mentoring sessions, father and son, Sire and Childe.
So we bicker instead.
We bicker about something, anything. The pillows, the blankets, his cold feet against my back. We bicker because, when we're fighting, I can hear that voice, rising in pitch as he becomes more and more irate. And when I lose my temper and we begin to wrestle for control of the thermostat, he can feel my arms around him.
It can't compare to what it once was, a hundred and twenty years ago. But it'll do.
"Cause I wanna be anarchy..."
*~*~*~*~*
I throw my head back on my remaining four pillows and sigh. He's supposed to be the quiet one, you know. He's bloody well keeping me awake.
And he doesn't even know it.
As a mortal child, six or eight years old, I was sent to work at the steel mill. Thin and wiry, my duty was to clamber up the machinery and apply oil to various cogs and pulleys when they became stuck. I did it all day; it was boring and tremendously repetitive. But the worst part was the fact that I'd go home every night, fall asleep, and spend all night dreaming of those cogs and pulleys, as if I'd never left. It's a fairy common phenomenon; hell, I bet the Slayer slays in her sleep. Any activity done repeatedly at work during the day will come back to haunt the dreamer at night.
Which is why he's yelling at Cordelia in his sleep right now.
"Cordelia, answer the phone," he murmurs, his head thrashing against the pillow. "Cordelia, answer the phone."
I snicker.
"Cordelia, answer the fucking phone."
"But, Angel," I reply in a high-pitched voice, "my nails aren't dry."
There is a pause as he furrows his brow and opens one eye sleepily. "Spike?" he inquires, as if he isn't quite sure whether or not I'm really his long-legged, scantily clothed secretary.
"Yeah, mate?"
"Quit fucking with me." And he rolls over and goes back to sleep again.
Yes, he's asleep.
He hasn't make a noise in five minutes.
Six minutes.
Seven.
He's asleep now. I'm sure of it.
Time for me to make my move.
I sit up slowly, so slowly, an inch
at a time. Any sudden movement might disturb him. I peel the blankets back
slowly, shivering at the rush of cold air against my bare skin. Making
no noise, silent as he grave, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
Carefully, carefully, sure not to wake him, I stand up and begin to make
my way soundlessly across the wooden floor, utilizing every ounce of my
vampire stealth to creep across the room like a
deadly jungle cat.
"Don't you dare," he growls.
If I stand very still he won't know I'm here.
"Get your ass back in bed, boy."
Damn vampire night vision.
"Leave the air conditioner alone."
"Angel, it's fuckin' freezin' in here!"
"It is not."
I sigh. I suppose I should be patient with him. After five hundred years in Hell, I'm sure centralized air is a blessing. But sometimes he goes around the effin bend. It's about six degrees in here, and I think there are icicles hanging off my bollocks. I put out one tentative hand and reach towards the thermostat.
"Touch it and I rip your lungs out."
Angelus takes over when the temperature's at stake.
"Angel, it's *cold!*"
"Then perhaps you should put something on in the way of nightclothes."
I glance down at my naked form. Maybe he's right. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna admit it.
"I don't *own* nightclothes."
"Then borrow some of mine."
"Oh, no. No bloody way, Peaches. Uh-uh. Fuck that. Fuck you and your silk pajamas."
"Well, then, wear whatever the hell you want to, but you're not touching the thermostat."
So I comply. Of course I do. 'Cause I'm an obedient Childe. Right?
"Spike, *no.*"
"What?" I say innocently as I begin to crawl back beneath the covers.
"You can't wear your duster to bed."
"Why the bloody hell not?"
"We talked about this. The leather. It squeaks when you move."
"So I won't move, then."
"Spike, you're almost as hyperactive when you sleep as when you're awake. Take it off."
"Fine." The duster drops to the floor.
"Pick that up!"
"Fuck you!"
He gnashes his fangs at me, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.
"No reason to go all demonic over the neatness of the partment," I snap, leaning over and scooping up the duster. I toss it over a nearby chair; he doesn't like that either, but it'll do for now. "Suddenly I think I know what Martha Stewart would be like if she was vamped."
"Come to bed, Spike," he says tiredly.
"Yeah, fine."
I crawl into bed, grasp the blanket with determined hands, and wrap the whole thing around myself in an effort to stay warm.
*~*~*~*~*
I look over at him in annoyance. I don't know why this upsets me so. It's cooler in here without the blanket. I certainly don't have a tendency to cocoon myself the way he does. I suppose it's the principle of the thing. I've told him a million times to stop hogging the covers.
"Spike, quit it."
He rolls over, taking the entire quilt with him.
"Spike!"
No response. He's a very light sleeper,
so I know perfectly well he's
ignoring me.
"That does it." I reach over, grab the corner of the blanket, and give it a mighty tug. He's so tightly wrapped that he comes flying over to my side of the bed and lands on top of me.
I love it when he lands on top of me.
"Pillock," he growls, already gamefaced. He tumbles off me, snatching the blankets back.
I snarl, clutch at the quilt, and pull it towards me. But he's got a death-grip on it and it tears neatly in half.
This is why preternaturally strong vampires shouldn't play tug-of-war with textiles.
I sit up in shock. This is
*(was)*
my favorite quilt. I got it in Spain. It's beautiful. It's *priceless.* I had to kill for it. No, really. I did. I killed the little old toothless blanket-weaver. And now it's in tatters... destroyed... utterly ruined...
....and he's laughing.
Chuckling softly, he gathers up the ragged remains of his half of the quilt, wraps them tightly around himself, and rolls over with a little self-satisfied "so-there" sound.
I pounce on him instantly, ready to disembowel him, or fuck him senseless, or some bizarre combination of both. And then the most astounding thing happens.
He looks up at me, blue eyes and white hair gleaming in the darkness, and flutters his eyelashes, smiling coyly.
He reaches up with one hand, strokes my cheek with cool fingers, and kisses me.
Spike isn't one for public displays of affection.
Whether it's the power struggle of not wanting to be seen giving in to me, or simply because he doesn't want to appear a "bloody poof," I'm not entirely sure. As in the record store or the mosh pit, he doesn't hesitate to feel me up if he can get something out of the deal. And he isn't afraid to sneak a shag in the back of a club or a limo or on top of an SUV. But these kisses- the spell they weave around me every time, the key to my heart and my less dignified organs, that Jekyll-and-Hyde gesture that brings me to my knees both literally and figuratively every time, impassioned, insistent, desperate, careful, scorching, hesitant, innocent, almost chaste, this intoxicating pressure of his gently smirking lips against mine- those kisses are for this apartment, this bed. Those kisses are for me alone.
Damn, he's good.
I've already forgotten what we were fighting about.
I return his kiss with a languid ease, despite all my stolen blood already rushing southward. It`s so rare that he will tolerate gentleness, slowness; and I will not be the one to break this mood, this majik unbidden but so utterly coveted.
``You are forbidden to brood while necking, Peaches.`` he whispers into my mouth, and I laugh against his cool, insistent lips. He smirks back, but adds, ``I mean it, pet, keep that up and you`ll get nothing but my feet up your ass.`` A small bite to my lower lip proves his resolve.
I sigh as if put upon, but he is having none of it.
``Turn over you bloody annoying poof.`` he commands, with the air of one who is used to being obeyed. So I do.
And then he is rubbing my shoulders with those amazingly strong fingers, and I am melting into the bedsheets like chocolate in the sun. ``You`re fucking immortal, Angel, what the hell could you possibly worry about so damned much that your back is like concrete?``
I wonder if he wants the list in alphabetical order or order of importance.
It doesn`t matter anyway. I can`t form words. Mostly, I think I`m groaning like I`m dying. Vampires tend to think alot about death in sensual moments. So maybe I am --
``HEY! Ponce! What did I tell you about the effin brooding?! Who broods while getting a massage for fuck`s sake!? And you sound like a goddamn deranged bear with that groaning shit. Cut that out too.``
``Sorry,`` I mumble into the pillows, ``I`ll be good. I promise. No brooding, no moaning, noo -ooooooooohhhhhhhgooood...``
He can threaten me with his cold toes all he damn well pleases but if he is going to put his hands *there* then I am *going* to moan like a deranged bear...in heat.
Gods, his hands are strong. I sometimes forget...until they are on me, lingering and stroking, kneading and caressing, pulling my hair and grabbing my flesh, desperate and needful and infinately sweet.
Yes, Spike can be sweet. He is capable of great tenderness, and that`s impressive not only because technically, well, he`s a souless demon. In fact, however, he demonstrates a greater capacity for love than a good majority of the humans I have met in my two-hundred-and-forty-something years. Granted, the emotion is reserved mainly for intimate moments such as now, but there are others. I`ll admit to being partial to these moments.
His powerful grip is on my shoulder
blades, pinching the skin and muscle until the knots give way under his
pressure. I sigh my contentment into the pillows. His hands move lower,
creating intricate patterns along my spine, and I feel goosebumps rise
along the flesh everywhere he touches. I can almost hear the smile slide
across his face. Fine. Let him gloat. He ((gasp))
deserves it...
Heel of his hand along my lower back, pressing me down into the bed, and suddenly I`m aware of the side benefit. His legs are wound around my waist, his weight comfortable, familiar, and just heavy enough to create the most incredible friction between my rapidly rising arousal and the mattress, when he presses down...like *that*...
Another groan is torn from my chest, but he allows this one without comment.
His hands busily remove my pants, and now he is working that same inescapable grip down the backs of my thighs. I never even knew my legs were tense, but as he threads his firm caresses from my ass to my ankles, I can feel every muscle unbending to his will.
He grabs one foot in his hand, and begins to press the pad of his thumb on my arch, and I think I might actually come. I can`t believe I have lived two and one half centuries and noone has ever rubbed my feet before. I would pay money for this. I would swallow for this. Damn, I would go back to a Mosh Pit for this....Well, maybe....
**``Yes``.....**..... Oh gods, a mosh pit in Hell for this.
``Likin that, Peaches?`` he whispers insidiously, running his index finger down the center of my other foot. I think my answer is in English, but I`m not entirely certain.
Then he is working his way back up my legs, and resting his full weight on me, laying his chest to my back, and rocking just a bit...just enough...friction again...and ..and....
``You want somethin` specific, or you wanna just lay there and make that fuck-all ridiculous noise?`` His voice in my ear, teasing, but I can hear it, under the taunts and the tantrums, the curses and the cool.
I can hear the affection. And it`s clear and it`s real and it`s right now. And you know what? Fuck the past. What I want is *here*, in LA, in my bed, on top of me, right now.
What I want is Spike.
``You,`` I whisper, and I wish I could see his face; he`s probably grinning and giving me that ``you`re such a bloody toff`` look. Which by now, is pretty well in and of itself our personal version of foreplay.
``Damn straight,`` he whispers again, and I laugh at the Whiskey reference, until I`m not laughing anymore, because he is lifting my hips insistently off the mattress, and sliding his one hand under my body, his touch so cool and sure I can`t help but twitch in response, and he chuckles again in my ear.
I can feel his hard length pressing against the small of my back, and my own cock jumps once more in his grip. I arch against him, forward, back, twisting in his embrace, because it`s not enough..it`s never quite enough...until...
He licks the back of my neck again, long, slow, beguiling strokes, that limitlessly talented mouth wringing shudders and whimpers from me as noone else has ever been able to.
Not this way. Never like this.
As a mortal, it was about conquest. It was quick, and dirty and I was in control. Always. As a fledgling vampire, I did what I had to do to survive and rise in the ranks. I soon killed enough Alpha dogs, however, and I never found myself in this position again. As a Master Vampire, the choice was always mine. It wasn`t something discussed in undead circles, but it was allowable, with favoured Childer. So I could have given myself to him then. I never did. To Angelus, the thought of saying `` Please fuck me`` was pretty well up there with ``Hand me that piano``, or ``Please saw my legs off.`` And I have to admit, even souled, I still never had the desire to give myself away in this manner.
Not to any mortal or vampire, not even to the previous incarnations of the man above me now. The one licking along my hairline until the tingles rise uncontrolled down the bumps on my spine, the one biting cruelly into the muscles of my shoulder until I arch back and cry out, the one stroking my cock with a shocking tenderness completely belied by that demonic visage and the razorlike teeth sunk into my flesh.
So when I groan something inaudible
at his bite, at his caress, and spill my seed into his hand, and feel his
touch slip away, now rubbing over the spilt blood of my neck, now down
my back, now sliding easily, not hesitantly, but cautiously, deliberately,
inside of me, two fingers, three...finding a rythm like no other..because
there has been no other...there will never be
another....
I simply moan his name and then for several incredibly long moments, I am not thinking at all. Quite a mean feat, he assures me. But it is no longer his fingers giving me the mindless pleasure I crave, and he is finding his own as well. And I can feel his sweat pour down onto my back, along with the droplets of blood as he worries his bottom lip with his fangs, feel his hands crushing my hips, fingers wound around tightly enough to crush mortal flesh and bone, feel his rough, lean thighs between mine, the persiration making our skin sing, and I can feel him inside of me, sacred and divine and fucking *good* and who the hell wants to think now?
And when I drown in these moments, if I don`t forget my existence, my purpose and my plight, well, it`s simply because I never can again. I don`t really believe in perfect *anything* anymore. But I come so damned close at moments like these, that it almost, almost frightens me. He`s not frightened at all. He`s screaming out my name now, and crushing me tighter to him, and collapsing on top of me, and doing that rocking again, and I never, ever want him to move.
And he twines his fingers through mine, and he doesn`t move. Soon his breathing has stopped and I wonder if he is asleep. And I want to tell him, want him to know, but what can I say..? What words explain a relationship based on centuries of upheaval, mountains and valleys of emotion, stupid folly, blind luck and sheer, cruel fate. What can I say that will make ``Christ, Spike I love you, but I`m so glad you make me just crazed enough that I don`t have to worry about losing my soul and turning into your worst nightmare again`` sound remotely reasonable and like something he would actually want to hear?
There really isn`t anything appropos. So instead, I turn, hold him to me, wrap his limp, pliant form in my arms, say his name softly, and mumble something against his flaxen waves I hope abstractly resembles a lover`s whisper. I know he won`t hear it; and odds are, even if he does he won`t acknowledge it. So then I close my eyes too, and just when I find that place, that gateway entering sleep where you can`t quite feel your limbs, I hear his voice.
``Yea. Me too.``