Everybody Smokes in Hell

DISCLAIMER: I’m saving up for them, but they’re not mine yet. Do you know how much they COST? So, I'm just stealing them. I can’t promise to put them back when I’m done, but I can promise the only profit I get is purely spiritual. And maybe carnal. *eg*

SYNOPSIS: Spike refuses to go on a mission with Angel, almost resulting in his Sire’s Final Death. He feels bad. And you know that can only be a good thing. *grin*

DISTRIBUTION: Dead Sexy, first and foremost! :) Slashing the Angel, AngelSlash, BTVS Slash, Blood Screaming, Eternal Nightcap, anybody else who houses my Slash (I feel like I'm in that Python sketch, but instead of saying "Spam spam spam spam," I'm saying "Slash, slash, slash, slash," which is WAY harder.), if you guys want it. Okay for list archives. Anybody else, just ask. I’ll say yes. :)

"Spike, Angel, Angst, Anger, Violence... and a slashy sexy NC55 type ending would be my dream come true. How about Angel getting hurt, and Spike making it okay for a change. Perhaps let him kick the hell out of some huge spiny demon gang, and get to drive the Plymouth. Maybe the line, "After you’ve taken care of all these soddin’ humans, someone’s gotta take care of you."

P.S. The title doesn’t have anything to do with anything. I just heard it on NPR the other day, and I liked it. I'm fairly certain I'm stealing it from a suspense novel of some sort. :)

This is the unlife. I tell you, moving to Los Angeles was the best bloody decision I ever made. Living like a damn king, I am, kicking back in the Lazy Boy, a six pack of Guinness at one hand, a big steaming mug of fresh O at the other, and an industrial sized drum of Planter’s Cheese Balls at my feet.

I am one happy goddamn vampire. Maybe I can’t hunt, and really don’t make much of a villain anymore... but I’ve got a 52" digital flat screen television, and the meatiest bit of souled vampire flesh in existence to shag on a regular basis.

Oh, and look... Speaking of Mr. Sunshine, here he comes now, scowling like somebody ate his little sister (On, wait... somebody did. Him.), carrying that monstrous fucking Small Penis Complex he calls an axe. I’m always telling him, "Plonker! Your dick is plenty big, you don’t need that dragon chopper!" Which comment he generally ignores.

But he’s not ignoring me now. He’s got Heavy Mission Face. Must be somebody’s been pushing old ladies into traffic down on Sunset Strip or something.

"Gear up, Spike," he says, all "I’m the Boss and You Do As I Say," which is a big fat crock, because I never do a damn thing he says unless there’s something in it for me. And right now, I’ve got everything I need. What, does he think I’m one of his pet humans?

I don’t even dignify his stupidity with a look. He stands there for a minute, like I’m a little slow on the uptake, and not purposefully ignoring him.

Okay... so it’s apparent the old, ‘ignore him and he’ll go away’ isn’t going to work. Guess I better address the issue directly. I still don’t look up, but I say, "Liberace... what day is today?"

I turn slowly and look up at him. Yes, he is gorgeous -- stuff horny dreams are made of, really, with those eyes and those fucking barn door wide shoulders... but his brain just doesn’t work quite right. Probably a good thing. I’m thinking if he had half a brain cell, he wouldn’t bother keeping me around.

I sigh. "Two years, roughly. Now... this is important, so pay attention." I pick up the remote and flip on the telly. He stares at it like I just lit the fuse of a bomb or something. "Thursday night. What happens *every* Thursday night *without fail*?"

He growls. Just a little. "There are Garagh demons in the tunnels under the number 10 line, Spike. Picking off commuters. There’s a concert at the Forum tonight, and I want to get over there before..."

There goes that enormous monobrow with the furious scrunching. You can look at me like that all you want... Hell, you can swing that axe at me, ya fucker. I’m NOT missing my shows. I don’t give a shit if every demon in the cosmos is bearing down on the city.

I’m no fucking hero. Garagh demons are nasty bastards, and I’m sure as Hell not missing two hours of Hot Honeys to get my arms ripped out and used as toothpicks. That’s his deal.

I finally look up at him. He looks like he’s gonna cry. "Listen! How many fucking times do I have to say ‘No’? I’m not going do-gooding when my bloody effin’ shows are on! If you wait till bloody ten o’clock, I’ll *think* about taking on your effin’ suicide mission! Otherwise, SOD OFF!"

Damn it. Soddin’ pouf never came home. I hate it when he gets like this, because he’ll walk around pouting and sighing and not making eye contact with me for days... and that means I don’t get laid. Believe me when I tell you, I don’t deal well with sexual frustration. Fact, it makes me downright pissy, and nine times out of ten, I end up buying him flowers or giving him a backrub and apologizing or some such fruity bullocks.

The pounding continues, and now there’s some girly shouting, too. Bloody Princess Effin’ Cordelia Goddamn Chase. "SPIKE! Are you in there??? WAKE UP! I NEED YOUR HELP!"

She’s been crying. She’s not wearing any makeup. Her hair’s sticking up all over the place, and... she’s out in public looking like that? Something is very, very wrong. Don’t like the little twist of fear I get in my gut at the sight of her one damn bit.

"I had a vision," she pants, like she ran all the way from Silver Lake, which I know damn well she didn’t. "The guys are in trouble. Big trouble."

Okay, wait... you mean Fluffy hasn’t even come back from his little act of contrition yet? I figured he was off somewhere gazing dejectedly up at the stars and wondering how his unlife could get any shittier.

"Let me bloody get dressed at least." I run back into the bedroom, jam my jeans and one of Peaches’ sweaters on over my sleep gear, slam on my boots, grab the nearest broadsword and my duster, and run out behind her.

I don’t know what the fuck bloody lunatic gave this idiot a driver’s license. Cordelia really shouldn’t be allowed on the road. She’s doing 90 down crowded Friday night downtown streets, and I’m hanging on to the Jesus Handles for dear unlife. Wussley’s little redheaded friend is sitting in the front seat trying to look tough, but her bottom lip is trembling like she’s gonna burst into tears any minute.

"There were a lot more of them than I thought," Chase is explaining as she continually threatens to kill us with her driving, careening around a corner so fast, we skid across the lane and almost plow into some homeless people. "Ten, maybe twenty, and they’ve got magick weapons. I should’ve seen... I mean, the first vision... it just didn’t seem like that many!"

Oh, good Gods. I’m riding in a rolling death trap with the fucking Fang Gang Ladies’ Auxiliary, and they’ve got PMS. I may be the sub in me and Angel’s relationship, but I sure as Hell ain’t a woman. I almost wish we would crash just so they’ll shut the Hell up.

She had to go and say that, didn’t she? I start getting all worried, thinking Hallmark-y crap like the last thing me and Angel did was fight, and how I really don’t want him to dust at this particular point in our relationship... Damn it, I don’t want to be attached to a friggin’ superhero and be a bloody war bride all the damn time, wondering if he’s gonna come home every effin’ night!

By the time we pull up in front of the abandoned warehouse where Chase says they’re being held, I’m right pissed. I jump out of the car, practically ripping the door off as I do, and sword in hand, go tearing into the place with a battle cry would make Picts shiver, I bet. Berzerker Spike, jumping into a pretty hairy fray without looking first, probably going to die, but I don’t give a shit. I start swinging that damn sword, and I’m seeing nothing but red. I can smell blood... the kid’s... the Watcher’s... my Sire’s... and I’m a damn nutcase, chopping up everything that gets in my path. Hope no good guys wandering around in here...

Sure I hate him most days. Sure he’s a holier than thou, sanctimonious, self-important, boring bloody bastard. Sure he’s made most of my unlife one sort of Hell or another.

But he’s still my bloody Sire, and my bloody Mate, at that, and no scaly, spiny, slimy fucking Garagh demons are gonna chain him up to a fucking wall and do ANYTHING to him. Torturing Angel’s *my* job, and mine alone.

So I’m kicking and punching and slicing, and just generally making mincemeat out of the buggers, when I realize that Cordelia is right beside me, grunting like crazy as she swings that little Barbie Dream Axe of hers. Crossbow bolts are flying all over the place, and I see Virginia "I'm So Rich I Could Buy Your Ass Twice Over" Bryce out of the corner of my eye, taking out the stragglers with a double load.

The Garaghs weren’t ready for us. It’s obvious by the sulfur stink in the air that my Sire and Co. were thwarted by magick, not by might, and they didn’t have warning or time enough to zap us. We make pretty damn quick work of the whole bunch... what few manage to survive my little violence fit run off with their tails between their legs. At least, I think they were tails...

I have to stand still for a long time once things are quiet, because I’m pounding and shaking with adrenaline and bloodlust and just plain run of the mill fury. I can’t even get my game face off, not that that matters.

Cordelia’s little yelp brings me back to some semblance of sanity. I have to force my eyes to focus on the far side of the warehouse, and for the first time I see what’s happened to Angelus and his friends. All three chained side by side, bleeding all over the place, and the ladies can’t quite reach the locks on the manacles. I sprint over and rip the damn things out of the wall, letting the other two fall into Cordy and Virginia’s waiting arms, and only worry about catching Angel. He looks like holy hell... burned and bruised like they were torturing him. His eyes are closed, and goddamn it, I’m NOT going to cry!

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I shoulda taped my shows. I shoulda been here. I shoulda been watching his back, like he said. It’s my duty. My damn job. If anything happens to him because of me, I’ll...

"Sh. Shut your fat gob, wanker," I whisper, and pull him tight against me. He’s not hurt so bad. Coupla days in bed and he’ll be fine. But I feel like shit for getting him into this mess. "We took care of it."

His eyes lock on me, and I swear to everything unholy, my heart beats for a second. Those fucking eyes, mate. I can’t tell you what it’s like to feel them penetrate yours. Makes me hard as damn marble and want to burst into tears like a girly girl in the same second.

"...Admire your... dedication to... your principles," he grunts, and gives me what’s probably supposed to be a squeeze, but ends up being more of a jerk.

I deposit him as carefully as I can into the front seat of his muscle car, and climb in the other side. Never driven this monster before. It’s a fucking beaut. Every time I ask him, he gets that "I’m having an embolism again over your sheer stupidity" expression, and says I’ll drive his car over his dead body... or... pile of dust, I guess.

Well, looky-looky here. The times, they are a changin', 'cause he’s still more or less solid, but he’s handing me the keys, and I’m startin’ up that Plymouth’s bloody beautiful purring engine, and I realize...

Fuckin’ A... my eternal existence has just reached a bloody pinnacle. A nice, healthy dose of gore and violence... got to slaughter a whole pack of badass demons, saved my Sire’s pretty hide, I’m driving this sweet fucking forbidden car, and I STILL got to watch my shows.

You know, I really don’t get why Angel insists on living on the fourth goddamn floor. I mean, he’s a vampire, for Chrissake. In the dictionary, under "subterranean", there’s a picture of one of us.

And yet, here I am, hauling his enormous ass up four bloody flights of stairs, because the elevator’s broken again (and no, I did NOT break it, no matter what my Sire says), and he’s too damn cheap to fix it.

He’s bleedin’ still, which means I need to get him fed soon before he passes out. So, on top of the fact that I’m pissed off about being wakened in the middle of my Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue dream to rescue him when *he’s* supposed to be the friggin’ hero, and pissed off because he got me all damn worried and upset, now I’m pissed off because I’ve got his damn gore all over my leather coat.

Mostly, though, I’m ripped about him going off and almost getting himself killed. I mean, just what the Hell would I do if I didn’t have him to take care of my sorry ass? Hell... his pet humans would probably stake me first thing.

I finally get him into the bedroom, and set him down on the bed as I drop to a crouch and start taking off his boots and his smelly-ass socks. Ponce’s got the ugliest, nastiest damn feet in the universe, I swear. Considering the rest of him is so damn perfect, I guess he’s allowed one flaw, but... Hell... I didn’t even think vampires could have smelly feet. It’s not like we sweat or anything.

Anyway... I pull him back up again, and he leans against me as I pull off what’s left of his shirt, then work his filthy pants and froofy boxers down, and try not to breathe a sigh of relief to see that his tackle’s still fully intact.

Can’t help myself... Angel’s so damn beautiful, I’ve got to touch him. I start stroking him softly, and he moans, shivers, and sinks back down on the bed.

I kiss his knee as I get up, and he lies flat on his back, with those fucking legs hanging over the edge. I gotta force myself to look away, because even with all those bruises--or, maybe, because of them, who the Hell knows?-- he’s one magnificent looking man... damn endless miles of muscle and that smooth skin... That thick, juicy...

I go turn on the tap, running it as hot as it’ll go, till it hurts to stick my finger in it. But... that’s the way he likes it. I pour in some of his faggy bath oil crap, and head back to the bedroom.

Well, I’ll be a twice eaten potato. Ponzy’s fast asleep. I go back to the bathroom, turn off the water and the light, and head into the bedroom again.

You know, it’s times like this that I wonder how important having a soul really is to caring about somebody. I know, I whine about him, and bitch about him, and spit on his rules and mock his Destiny and his stupid hair... but... As I tuck him under the covers and he snuggles up with a sweet smile on those lips, he looks just like a little kid, and I think...

Yeah, I love him. I can’t help it. Dunno if I even really want to help it, anymore. I’m good right where I am, with what we’ve got. Happiest I’ve ever been in my life, really.

I strip and crawl in beside him, slide right up close and put my arms around him. He sighs deep and nestles his rear into my crotch, reaching one of those hamhock arms around so he can stroke my hair...

Fuck me. Even filthy and bloody, he smells so damn good. I tap a little kiss behind his ear, trail my tongue up and around the outside, as I grind into him a little.

"Thought you were sleeping," I rumble. You know, that "I’m about to have sex and really shouldn’t be talking, but I’m gonna try anyway" voice.

In a second, I think we’ve both forgotten that he’s all messed up from tangling with a nasty bunch of demons, and that we had a fight right before that. Or that I let him down, or that I’m a lazy, selfish damn bastard... Hell, I think we’ve pretty much forgotten everything, because he turns over in my arms, and we’re mashed together like... well... like two horny vampires mashed together. There really isn’t a suitable metaphor for that. Legs all wound up, grunties rubbing like crazy, hands all over the place, mouths locked tight, tongues slippin’ and sliding and Holy Jesus H... the bloody world could come crashing down around my ears, and as long as I’m in my Sire’s arms, I couldn’t give half a shit about it.

Shit! Makes me right batty when he does that. Not that I’m not half-fucking crazed with lust and lingering fear of losing him, anyway. I kiss him slow and deep, slide my tongue halfway down his throat, and reach between us to stroke his cock. Angel moans into my mouth and does the same to me, and his hands are so...fucking... warm from being under the covers... We’re moaning and kissing and purring and growling and jerking each other off like no tomorrow... one of those easy, languid comfort shags where your blood comes to a slow boil, and when you get off...

Soddin’ Satan Spawn on a Spoon, there’s not a goddamn bloody sensation in the universe like making love with my froufy Sire. We’re both fucking each other’s hands and mouths and crushing our bodies together, and Jesus Christ, when I come, it’s like the top of my head just blew off. I’m hollering and spurting into his big hands, and he’s whimpering like a little puppy dog as he cums all over me...

This is a sweet damn arrangement, it really is. Sure, I’ll be his bitch... I’ll be his Boy Fucking Wonder. I don’t care, as long as he never fucking lets me go.

We lie there, pressed together, all sticky with each others’ jiz for a long, lazy time, him tapping tender smooches to my throat, and me just relishing his giant damn body against mine. Gotta say, I’m really effin’ glad he’s not a big pile of dust back at that warehouse.