What Remains

He watches them, painful to look for long at what he'll
never have. On the surface, changeable as humans, fads and
fashions and this summer's new attitude, masking the
immutable, the demon.

(("Peaches, you keep stealin' my clothes, I'll never manage
to get dressed." "Donât tempt me.))

Spike and Angel don't change.

In the diaries, they are Sire and Childe, bound by that
law, tied to what they taught each other. Hurt Spike and
he craves more; need Angel and it fills him. Before Spike
came home to Angel, wounded by the Initiative and defeated
by his love for Buffy, Angel was like a massive, still
lake, brimming to the top with chaotic emotion, but
perfectly, utterly in control.

Only Spike can make him lose his disturbing control so
totally that Angelus floats to the surface.

((Spike nearly flew across the room from the force of
Angel's blow. "I give the orders here. Me!" The blonde,
fading to brown now, vampire laughed through the bubbles of
blood issuing from his mouth. "Arrogant prick. I'll do
what I wanna, but go ahead, try to stop me. Hate to ruin
the entertainment.ä))

And before Spike came, Wesley hoped.

For touch, never spoken of; for taste, delicious cold and
dead.

If it disturbs Wesley that Spike has filled Angel in ways
he himself longed to, the former Watcher has kept his
silence.

Too silent.

Before Spike, Wesley spent more than a few nights in the
Hyperion after a long night of talking, chess-playing, and
keeping Angel company. Friends, if you will, who
understood the unquiet things waiting in the darkness. Old
lovers and things that hurt too much to name, let alone
think about. Better to be with someone, anyone, than be
alone. Unwilling to face the darkness of private hells,
they kept company together.

(("Did you ever think this is how you would end? Working
for a vampire?" "No, I rather thought I'd be vampire snack
food, 'mmm, mmm, time for a leg o'Wesley or perhaps a piece
of the heart'."))

Now, Angel sees Wesley only in the company of Spike,
Cordelia, and/or Gunn. And he wonders why. Oblivious, it
hurts him in ways he doesn't understand that Wesley can so
easily forgo friendship.

(("Wes, are you staying for dinner?" The Englishman stood
at the door, looking ill at ease, Spike and Angel sitting
at the wooden kitchen table, the picture of domestic
tranquility·if a person ignored the identical mugs of
warmed blood.))

Spike knows. Understands. Who else could? He scented
panicked lust on Wesley, laced with regret and pain,
longing for things not even Wesley knew the names to, love
and patience, tender roughness accompanied by a gentle
hand. Oh bloody hell yes, he understood. Rain soaked
flashes of begging Angelus, crashing to his knees, scraped
raw by the stones, touch me, anywhere, once, God please
just once. Mortal and stupid, begging a dead man to hold
him. Nothing mattered but Angelus. As long as Angelus
touched him, the vampire could do whatever he wished to the
mortal boy he had found. Alpha and omega of William's
world from the first moment they met.

(("Ah, lad, but you're a sweet one. Perhaps I'll keep you
after all."))

Angelus knew this.

((Eyes golden, demon swimming at the surface, Angelus
rammed into his newly made Childe's fuck-hole. He chanted
as he broke the boy, bit by bit, bone by bone if he had
too. This was his, only and totally his.))

Angel knows that though he has betrayed his boy more than
once, Spike is his. Irrevocably, eternally.

((His arm broken by the Fiarski demon, Spike crawled to his
Sire, mewling and whimpering until he reached the dark man.
Weeping at the sight of his boy, broken and torn because
he'd thrown himself between Angel and a raging demon, Angel
cradled the other vampire's limp form in his arms. Soon,
loud purring echoed in the sewer.))

Blind to Wesley, ignorant of how he's marked the man, laid
his scent down everywhere from Wesley's soul to his pores,
to warn off the creature stupid enough to attempt harm.
Angelus would have fucked Wesley into the ground and turned
him.

Angel keeps his poncy head in the ground and muddles on
through, saving lives, ignoring the one walking right
beside him that is fading fast.

Spike hates being self-sacrificing. It's right up there
with helping the good guys. But his Sire and lover is one
of the good guys, and fuck it all, if self-sacrifice helps
Peaches, he's all for it.

Besides, Wesley's a decent looking bloke. Can't wait to
see what he looks like without clothes.

After a fight, Cordelia and Gunn out to do what people
denying an attraction do, Spike is left to implement his
plan. He can't do it without his Sire's permission.
Besides vampire rules, the prick has to agree to it.

It. Sex. A threesome. Three men, happily fucking
themselves into a blissful coma. Next best thing to
killing things, shagging is.

He sidles next to his Sire in the kitchen while Wesley
showers free of demon goo.

"Sire?"

Angel almost ignores him, he wants to get this omelet done
before Wesley gets out of the shower, wants Wesley to feel
obligated to sit and eat, to stay.

"What?"

"Can I fuck the Watcher?" The blunt question takes a
moment to sink into Angel, but when it does, he reacts
badly. Spike against the counter, so hard he can hear
something crack, and he laughs, face crinkling. His blue
eyes reflect mischief and the barest hint of lust. Angel
wonders if that's his boy's lust or just what his boy sees
in Angel's brown irises.

"That's not funny."

"Didn't mean to be funny. I wanna fuck him. He's kinda
cute, and he's a bit into you, ya know, and I think he
could be into me, and I don't see why not, I mean, you want
him, he wants you, I want you, I'd like to give him a go at
least, so what's the problem?" Spike's speech at the best
of times was baffling, but this could have won an award.

Angel's face shifts from shock, to fury, to lust, and back
to shock. He rocks under an enticing image of Wesley's
lean frame attended to by Spike's tongue. Angel fights his
way out of fascinated lust into full-fledged, bright lime
green jealousy. Divided between making the image happen
and throwing Wesley into the bedroom alone. Or ripping
Wesley's dick off so that it could never plunder the
gripping cool depths of his boy's ass.

"You want·to fuck Wesley." Angel draws out the words,
testing each syllable on his tongue before speaking it.

Spike rolls his eyes: handsome his Sire, but smart musta
been knocked outta him as a human. Dense as a pile of
stone and twice as hard to convince of anything.

"Yeah, Peaches, I'd really like to shag the human. I
promise not to kill him."

(("You swear, I get this chip out for you, no bloody
rampages?" "Swear·unless you ask me to." The sandy haired
vampire threw a leering grin at his weary Sire, who waved a
hand at the surgeon to begin. An hour later, one
chip-less, but Souled Sire encumbered Spike munched on his
first human in years·Lilah, the Wolfram and Hart bitch.))

The elder vampire's eyes cross and his balls twitch. No,
Wesley doesn't want him. The man can't even spend an hour
in the same room with him without an anxious tremble in the
hands, followed by an immediate need to use the restroom.
If Angel comes into a room, Wesley leaves shortly
thereafter. If Angel asks Wesley a question, Wesley
answers without meeting his boss' face.

Spike wants to fuck Wesley. What the hell is Angel
supposed to do, watch? Oh, now that makes him feel dizzy.
He sits down, abandoning his omelet. Spike flicks the off
switch for the burner and straddles a chair opposite
Angel's.

"Wussley's usual after-killing tonic will booze him up
nicely." (("Honestly, Angel, it's just a bit of whiskey to
sooth the nerves. Nothing more.")) "He'll be properly
sleepy and groggy and I'll seduce him up proper."

Angel blinks. This has to be wrong in somebody's
definition of the word but damn him to hell twice on a
Sunday if he could figure out whose.

Mute, he takes Spike's hand and follows him to the bedroom.
Lucky for Spike, Wes has finished his shower, and knocked
back his 'bit' of whiskey, more like several shots, and
sits on the bed, woozy from the steamy warm shower and
potent liquid.

The Watcher's eyes focus blearily on Spike, kneeling beside
his shower wet body. Soft hand, push the unsteady torso
down, press it into the bed. Comfortable bed, for a
creature used to his comforts. Smooth, warm skin, good for
lots of things. Angel stands at the foot of the bed, legs
shaking with the need to lay down on that bed and take them
both into him, on him, mark them until they bleed his name.

Wesley's eyes glide shut. He's dreaming. That he knows,
like he knows that Angel makes fantastic omelets and that
Spike belongs to Angel and visa versa. Two for the price
of one, or maybe it's the other way around, Wesley can't
figure it out. Things are fuzzy, the edges of his body
burn, skin tingling, he's too warm, and so he sighs
helplessly at the cool hand caressing his chest. It feels
so soothing that his eyes open, and Spike smirks at him.

Spike. Wrong. He rears up, disrupting Spike, who almost
tumbles off the bed. Spike belongs to Angel. Wesley can't
have any of it, no part, no place, he figures into no
equation. This is real, somehow, and that means he must
flee. He won't be hurt by the whims of a childish vampire.
Or by his own mind-wracking desire to wrap both vampires
around his needy flesh like a big undead safety blanket.
One-hundred percent guaranteed to protect from nightmares,
loneliness, and pain.

((The fair-haired boy sneered. "Go on, suck it, yeah,
that's right, there·" Smelly pungency of a locker room.
Too warm, ashamed and turned on, Wesley awkwardly wrapped
his lips around the thick penis.))

(("Don't scream my boy. You wouldn't want to wake
Mother."))

Back against the bed, downed by Angel's hand, the vampire
straddles Wesley's body. Dizzily, Wesley notes that Angel
is naked from the waist up. His mind conjures the wonder
for the feel of the pale pink nipples on the broad chest
above him and his hands move to satisfy the wonder. Angel
covers Wesley's hands with his.

"Spike wants·"

The vampire in question cuts into the statement. "Wanna
shag? I'm a bloody good fuck, and the Poof isn't too bad."
Wesley holds himself still, don't move, the animal wants
you. Frustrated with the Watcher's fearful look, Spike
takes matters into his own hands. Dipping down, he grasps
his target's cock with a firm grip, and begins to jack
Angel off. Angel groans, gasps, and almost chuckles.
Wesley valiantly attempts to ignore the dripping semen
splattering onto his chest. Body disagrees with valiancy
and his hand betrays him by scooping up the goopy stuff and
sucking the laden finger into his mouth.

Spike jealously watches the digit disappear into the pursed
opening. Always loved Sire jiz, cold musk, salty, acrid
dark. He hastens the movements of his hand, guiding the
tip towards Wesley's open mouth, gaping at the taste of
Angel. A few hard, short strokes and Angel spurts, ropy
white come jerking out of the meaty cock, filled with
borrowed blood and semen that shouldn't have existed but
did thanks to some trick of magick. His Sire pants
needlessly, collapses beside Wesley and cuddles the
insensate Watcher. A lusty grin crosses Spike's face as he
spies the glistening, uncut cock, how unusual, gracing
Wesley's groin. Sandy brown hair brushes up Angel's
sensitized skin, Spike making his way to follow tradition.
Bows head, then tilts it and waits. Howls and huffs
through his nose when Angel bites, drinks enough to make
Spike light-headed, and then does as Spike did.

Unexpected.

Sires only allow their Childer to feed when making them,
healing them, reassuring them, or adding a mate. Vampires
don't have sex with humans. Vampires don't exchange blood
with another vampire while in the course of fucking humans.
It's not done. There's sex and then there's sex, and
Angel is initiating a clear mating ritual to a creature
already his mate through blood and sex and death, meaning
only one thing.

A human mate.

(("Order of Aurelius, Angelus, Childe of Darla, Childe of
Nest, now maker of William, Order of Aurelius, mate to
Angelus." Blood flowed freely from a gash on William's
neck, gushing into Angelus' eager mouth. "Feed, feed, lad,
come into me, let me into you." The boy struggled, his
mortal flesh failing, dying. As the death throes came,
Angelus ripped the boy's mouth from his throat, and rammed
his cock into the virgin hole, screaming his primal
satisfaction at being the first, the only. He let the boy
fasten onto his arm as the change came, and Angelus gloried
at the cooling flesh.))

Humans can't be real mates. And Spike knew, like he knew
his Sire's cock, that Angel would never turn another human.
Stupid waste of love on an effing human, but spare
thoughts of a blonde Slayer now dead and buried, who had
loved both he and his Sire, gave Spike pause. Alright. A
Mate. A protected, loved, welcomed, fucked, shagged,
buggered into a right fun coma, Mate. He vamps, sinks into
the neck offered, and drinks until Angel tears him free.

Wesley chances to open his eyes again, and sees a matching
pair of golden eyes set in demonic faces peering out at
him. Unnerving. Screaming open lust riding the demon
faces. Proud, uncut cocks, touching, greeting old friends.
He feels paralyzed with an embarrassing melange of lust,
fear, and shame. Bodies curl around him, cold to the touch
but boiling to the mind, skin smooth like a dolphin's,
resilient and able to heal unimaginable wounds. Angel rubs
his face against Wesley's, purrs into the man's ear,
triggering a sensitive spot inside Wesley. He gasps, a
small 'ah', and Spike's tongue makes bold its presence in
Wesley's other ear, tracing the ridges and dips. The
tongue wafts over his cheek and plunges into his mouth,
licking along his teeth, sucking at his tongue, and Wesley
knows. Why. The completeness of the act. No kiss. Spike
wants Angel's taste, his come, jiz, jism, the pearly white
stuff of mock-life. Gods, to be this man. To be the
creature that wakes up with Angel's cock in his ass, teeth
in his throat, and soul in his hands.

The blood in Spike's mouth blooms on Wesley's tongue and a
rush of electricity ripples down his spine. Young and
arrogant, too drunk to care about shame, fucking his way
through his home city, meeting the one creature that could
give him what he wanted. Out. Dead and born into unlife,
smelling and fucking and dying and knowing things no mortal
knew. Shadows of these rush over Wesley, his sight dims.
Sucking on his earlobe brings him back, soft and questing.
Flickering golden question, Angel purrs as he licks along
the man's jawbone. Tastes humanity, slow rot of humanity,
but clean, crisp from a recent shave, smelling of soap.
Wesley drowns in the simplicity, Angel breaths deep, taking
Wesley into him as only a vampire can.

Purring and licking, and gods, just there, almost, tender
press of fangs into body, Wesley drifts on a sweeping wave
of contentment. Never has he felt more alive. Or more
wanted. The bobbing, unashamed erections butting into his
body tell him that much. He should wonder what they mean
by this. He should ask what their intentions are. Ah, but
then he knows that this could end, the cool weight of
Spike's thigh between his, the taste of Angel and Spike and
history swimming in his mouth. The kisses, caresses have
stopped, been paused for some time now, when Wesley
realizes that they're staring at him. He feels small, like
a puny weakling laying at the feet of gods, invincible,
lords of blood and feces, beginning and end.

Angel speaks. His voice is rough.

"Order of Aurelius, Angelus, Childe of Darla, Childe of
Nest, mate to William, cleaves to Wesley, human mate."
Spidery shock shoots over Wesley's skin. Mate. Bound to a
vampire. For eternity, or what passes as such for mortals.
Gasp as Angel, Angelus, carves a symbol into Wesley's
chest. It hurts, spreads fiery burn down his left side.
Split in two, Wesley can't think, can't move. He can't
feel the right half of his body, as if Angel has carved him
in half, like everything he wanted out of Wesley could be
had from the left side.

Only the quick slicing of his chest on the right breast,
two quick slashes above the nipple, brings his body back
into alignment. Dueling tongues meet over his chest,
diverge to lap at the blood, licking into the skin. As
Angel's bite bows his body, Wesley strains to hear Spike,
kneeling, speaking.

"Order of Aurelius, Spike, Childe to Angelus, Childe to
Darla, mate to Angelus, accepts Wesley as human mate." A
lascivious grin so characteristic of the Spike Wesley has
known and the cocky vampire joins his Sire and Mate. Pin
prick points, icy blue flames dancing at his eyes, in his
chest, billowing, pounding. Tear him apart and pick him
back up, no good anymore, no good. Glide and grunt, and oh
so good. Loving, fucking the reality away from them until
nothing mattered but the sweet hard cock in the ass. Loss
breaks, smacks the reality back in, out into the world, but
back to the same love for what they can't have. Never
have. Sunlight destroys shadows, oh little boy, you'll
kill the pretty sunshine with your devil's ways. Back to
the fucking, the truth, cock in ass and fangs in neck and
they are filled.

Tears well up and rain down Wesley's face. His lovers, his
Mates, draw back from him, raise up with questioning faces,
in wonder. They've taken him in, they fill each other now,
no empty places left, but still he cries?

He's ashamed. Afraid even now that the gift he has
surrounding him will vanish. Wants the tears to stop, but
they continue unchecked. Angel curves against Wesley, lays
his head on his mark, and rests. Spike must make his own
connection, must give Wesley a reason to love him.

Leans up, takes the mortal's head between his. Feels a
pang for lost mortality, his and a feisty blonde none of
his kind should have loved. Washes the face clean with his
tongue, settles on the mouth and lightly kisses it. Never
good with words, but Spike knows Wesley enough to know that
the man deals best in words.

"You're ours. To fuck and love and protect. Got it?"
Spike cocks his head to one side, and his demon face pushes
out, tongue darts out to remove flecks of drying blood.
Down, to the curving thing, guides it out from Wesley's
stomach, and sucks it into his mouth. Spike rolls the head
along his tongue, and flicks hard against the underside.
Wesley pants, and winces as Angel bites hard into his
chest. Conduits of life, feeding his lovers, and the loss
of fluids makes him faint. The crash of orgasm brings
purple circles around his vision, but it eases quickly
enough. Finger, coated with something slick and cool,
pokes at him, slips inside, and Wesley grunts. Angel now
behind Wesley, laying the mortal down between his legs,
playing with hard nubbins of flesh on the warm chest.
Spike straddles Wesley, arranges the legs just so, and in,
head of his cock, pushing, straining in, and it's tight.
Fights between ramming into him and making love to him, and
settles on a hard rhythm. Later, bruises will color his
mate's ass, and Spike likes that. Myriad of possibilities
with a human mate, ways to mark Wesley that will never
fade, never return to normal. Spike shudders, and comes as
images of carving runes and using white hot needles to sear
flesh dance on his eyelids.

Flip. Wesley finds himself sprawled on a growling, purring
cat, no, Spike. Another cockhead probes at his ass, begs
and is granted entrance. Angel is less gentle than Spike.
Rides on come and lubricant, tears at the flesh from the
force and depth of his thrusts. Mates are of blood and
sex and he must bind Wesley to them. He must make Wesley
crave the pain and the bruising. And the love. The
cuddles. The endless concern. Part and parcel of
belonging to Angel, Angelus. As Angel comes, he bites, but
does not draw blood. Wesley collapses into an insensate
heap of bones. Angel eases out of his human mate and falls
to the side, nuzzling damp skin. Wesley's weak now,
kittenish and mewling at his cock's effort to join in
again.

His honey blonde lover speaks again. "Plenty of time for
fun later, Watcher. Can't shag you into the grave just
yet."

((Laughs, tries to move. A rough hand shoves him back to
the bed. "Will, you'll not be movin' for some time. And
when you do," his Sire's voice purred against his neck,
"it'll be because I told you to."))

Tries to laugh, but can't find the energy. This must be
happiness, the absence of fear and loneliness.

Something wet and warm touches Wesley's lips, and he sucks
on the digit greedily, his eyes closed. Senses roam, it's
wet, salty, rich, textured. Layers upon layers and his eye
flicker open to see blood outlining the skin on Angel's
hand as it runs from the wound on his finger. The finger
Wesley sucks on. A few minutes ago, Wesley may have
questioned. This is insane, madness, let me go, but it
satisfies his thirst and it smells like Angel.

And Spike. First and last, burning blood searing down his
throat, arrogance and calm, fury and temperance.
Beautiful. Love. Never alone. Their essence floods his
soul, wakes his body, tingles with the immortal. With the
immutable.

With what remains.

-END

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