Nights Like This

Dedication: To D, because she's a wicked bad influence, and I owe her for dedicating my B/A morsh-fest to her. *eg* To Av because she's ultra-shibby, and she knows how to put a damn crayon to good use! *laugh* And to Joss, because he's an evil little crack-addled devil monkey, and desperately needs to be taught the PROPER way to handle sexy vampires. Preferably by keeping them naked and in bed as much as possible. MAFF! MAFF! MAFF! MAFF! ;)

There was never anything good on TV at that hour, seeing how Angel refused to put cable in, and infomercials for food chopping products and televangelists screeching about how everybody who wasn't them was going to Hell were only amusing for so long.

Plus, he was out of beer. And too bloody lazy, truth be told, to march his immortal ass down the street for more. He could smell the sunrise just over the horizon, and going out now meant a highly unpleasant trip slogging through LA's especially nasty sewer tunnels.

He and Angel hadn't had a lot of time together lately, what with the damn demon population tripling every time they turned around, and more often than not, when they weren't out lopping off monster heads, they were sleeping or lying about, moaning and whining, licking their wounds in a pretty damn unsexy way. Hence the fact that his Sire had gone grumbling off to bed practically at sunset, instead of staying up to watch The Late Show with him, and bitching about how banal talk show hosts were like he usually did.

He was William the Damn Bloody -- once the baddest badass Master vampire on the face of the planet. Lesser demons used to call him the SlayerAxe, and for about ten minutes, he had been the damn leader of the Order of bloody Aurelius. But still... when he heard that shriek echoing off the hotel's acoustic ceilings -- Hell, when he *felt* it slice straight into his heart like a blade -- William the Bloody instantly became William the Bloody Terrified.

He was running full speed before the sound even finished reverberating down the hallway, taking the last few stairs in a flying leap, and tearing around the corner so fast that if he hadn't been a vampire with supernatural agility, he would have fallen flat on his arse.

Sure, his Sire was a bloody superhero martyr, spending his damn unlife out on the streets just begging to get staked... but Spike would be buggered sideways if any goddamn slimy ass demon would break into *his* bloody home and take out *his* fucking mate in their damn *bed* like some cheezy-arsed 80's slasher flick.

Demon fully to the fore, he kicked in the suite door with a savage roar and charged inside, ready to take out whatever the Hell was gutting Angel. But when he came to a skidding halt at the foot of their king-sized four-poster, what he found instead was far worse than some fiend off the street threatening his idiot knight in black leather. If it was a creature, then he could kill it. Rip it to shreds for daring to violate his territory... touch his Sire.

Tonight was a Hell dream night. And those particular horrors, he couldn't do a damn thing about. Angel thrashed about on the bed, his broad, naked form bathed in sweat, eyes screwed tight in agony as he cried out, alternating between swinging blindly at nothing and cringing in terror.

Spike gave a shaky sigh and ran a nervous hand through his hair, then turned and marched straight for the bathroom, where he had a special stash hidden for just such occasions. Under the sink, behind the never-used toilet paper ((why the *fuck* did Angel buy the shit, anyway?)), he found the bottle of Irish whiskey, and pulled that out along with two plastic cups. He filled one with ice cold water, and the second with the hooch, and returned to the bedroom once more.

Angel was coming to the end of his journey -- he'd stopped screaming and taken to snarling, gameface in full play as he scooted himself to the very top of the bed. Spike set the drinks down on the nightstand and stood back. There was nothing to do at this point but wait, and stay the bloody Hell out of the way. The first time this happened, not long after he moved in, he had rushed to his Sire's side to wake him, only to get his throat half ripped out for his trouble. Angel was senseless right now, fully trapped in his nightmare world, and touching him was only perceived by the demon as a threat.

He sat in one of the chairs a few feet away, and started speaking to him in a soothing voice, trying to reassure him with murmured nonsense that he was fine... everything was all right. He wasn't in Hell, he was in his damn froofy-ass hotel ((you stupid, fucked up son of a bitch))... But Angel kept right on snarling.

It never lasted long, once he started talking... he guessed there was something about hearing a voice from this world that called Angel back from that one, until the big vampire sat bolt upright with one final, gut-wrenching shout, and then fell silent. Spike took his cue and got up, slowly moving closer, his own demon face still on, and reached a hand out as though approaching a wounded animal.

Christ, he hated this! When Angelus was awake, there wasn't a damn thing he was afraid of, and to see him trembling in such abject terror made Spike want to curl up and die himself. He inched closer, keeping his eyes down, and ignored a second warning growl that rumbled from Angel's chest. Slowly, he bent toward his lover, exposing his throat submissively, until he was close enough to tuck his face behind the larger man's ear and take a long, deep whiff of him, whimpering softly like a pup as he did.

It had taken a few of these spells before Spike discovered the efficiency of the pack dog approach, as Angelus had never been much for the baser rituals when he was whelping him. Entirely by accident, he figured out that when human words and caresses failed to reach the traumatized soul, the demon was still able to recognize and accept comfort from the Childe of its blood in this feral way.

Angel froze solid for a moment as Spike snuffled his jugular. Then, gradually, he dipped his own head down into the crook of the younger vampire's throat and did the same, drawing long, shuddering breaths of the scent that was as familiar as his own. A brief eternity ticked by before Spike ventured to reach a hand over and touch the closest muscular shoulder, overwhelmed by the animal lust this particular position pumped through him.

Bad move. Angel flinched away from him with a loud snarl. Spike backed off, still avoiding threatening eye contact, and forced his posture to relax. The elder vampire cut off his growl and bent forward once more to resume sniffing, making Spike shiver at the sensation of cool breath on the fine hairs of his throat. He closed his eyes, and waited.

A soft nip of sharp teeth on his artery -- not even enough to break the skin -- sent a shock of want flashing through his blood, and made him force back a yelp. After a moment, Angel pulled away, and Spike looked up to find the amber eyes of the one who made him clear, almost focused, and filled with a pain he didn't think a thousand chips in his brain could engender as awareness returned to them once more.

Angel's face also smoothed, golden eyes flowing back to melting chocolate. He stared at his Childe, his face marked in confusion and fear as single tear drop broke from one of those eyes and rolled in slow motion down his cheek. Spike had to struggle hard against the urge to brush it away... it still wasn't time for touching... yet.

With a start, the big man before him began to tremble violently, tears multiplying and falling faster, until he finally closed his eyes and let out a wrenching sob as he collapsed to his side, and curled tightly into the fetal position against the pillows.

In the blink of an eye, Spike leapt up and stripped, then crawled back onto the bed once more. After the nightmares, Angel couldn't stand to feel anything but skin against him. Even the softest cotton or the flannel of his sheets set him to screaming all over again, and he had already kicked the bedclothes to the floor in his panicked thrashing.

Now was the time for more human comforts, though, and with the ease of a well-practiced routine, Spike scooped the shivering, sobbing mountain of flesh into his arms and pulled him into his lap, bracing against the headboard as he rocked his Sire like an enormous child.

It killed him to see his Master like this... helpless... in so much pain. And no matter how many times he cradled him in his arms and waited for the worst to pass, he still was never able to get beyond the blood-deep sorrow and fury that rushed through him. He wanted to scream... fight... yell. Hell... half of him wanted to rip Angel' s throat out himself for being so damn weak. He imagined that was still more pack mentality -- the urge to cull the unhealthy from the herd. He pushed the thought away, seeing as how he wasn't exactly whole himself. But this just wasn't *right*. Didn't Angel get enough Hell in Hell? Why did it have to follow him back here, into his home... his haven... his lair, where a vampire should never have to deal with anything that couldn't quickly be dispatched with a few swings of an axe or a swift twist of a neck?

Okay, so Angel wasn't exactly a "normal" vampire anyway, and he spent a good majority of his sorry unlife in some sort of physical, emotional or psychological misery--which pretty bloody well illustrated his point, come to think of it. When was enough e-goddamn-nough? Spike had fleeting moments when he wished he'd taken a little more time and Angelus-esque care when slaughtering those goddamn gypsies. Sometimes he wished that he could've been the one to give Angel a bloody moment of pristine effin' happiness back in SunnyHole, or that maybe he would have put a little more effort into making peace with his obviously bat-shit pseudo-Sire instead of whining and moping about him bagging Dru all the time. Look what the hell *that* got him -- fuck-all, that's what, tangled up with the bloody Scooby Gang, for chrissake, and panting around after the Slayer herself like Will the Fruity Poet all goddamn over again, and a fucking chip in his head besides, when all along him and Angelus could've been giving the big one-finger salute to the effin' Hellmouth and set out to suck down the world into *their* gullets, the way it was meant to be, instead of into the maw of some effin' stone ape with fangs, and...

He took a deep breath to calm himself. Spike tended to lose it a little, on nights like this. The sensation of his Sire going grave quiet in his arms, made the little fledge inside him start weeping senselessly, terrified that this time, maybe Angel really had just gone right over the edge. That maybe he wouldn't wake up the next sunset and roll over to look in Spike's eyes... maybe kiss him all soft and tell him thank you (even though he hated all that shmoopy shit.)... They were One, him and his big froofball, poufter, tights-wearing, over-gelled nonce of a progenitor, and if the Tortured One went down for the last time, he was fairly damn certain he would go down too, and Boobalicious or Weasley would come in the next morning to find nothing but a big pile of dust on the bed as the only reminder that they'd ever existed.

Christ. He was starting to wonder if he was going nutters himself, thinking all this schizo crap. He did his damnedest to clamp down on the psychotic freight train in his brain as he helped the old sod to sit up, guzzle the shot, gulp down the water, and then lay back again.

This quiet was almost the worst part about the nightmares. Angel didn't bother breathing or really moving at all anymore, just laid there like the big corpse he was, mindless of Spike's continued petting and purring. He was statue-still, his haunted eyes shifted away to stare out into nothing... or maybe into the bits of Hell still burning in the front of his mind...

Spike never bothered to ask him if he was all right, because he *knew* the poor bastard was a good set of *miles* from that. He didn't bother to say anything, really, because... what was there to say? "Sorry you spent 500 years in Hell getting buggered by spiny demons?" He was never much for words anyway... what came naturally to him was communication by touch. Coincidentally, the one thing Angel really needed, right now.

So he lifted him higher in his arms and started blanketing him with feather kisses. Just the lightest caress of lips to forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and mouth. Angel sighed softly and closed his eyes again as Spike continued gently stroking his hair, purring low and soothingly in his chest and laid them both down so their bodies were pressed length-to-length.

Angel tensed and resumed his faint trembling at that first contact, but as Spike's hands smoothed over his damp skin, barely brushing the surface of broad shoulders and barrel chest, he relaxed once more with a barely audible moan, and lifted his chin -- a good sign-- and the blond complied with the unspoken request, laving long, soft lines under Angel's jaw, down his throat, across his collarbone and over his chest, pausing for a while to suckle the quickly pebbling nipples. But he avoided teeth... no nipping or nibbling...nothing quick or hard or sharp... this needed to be velvet soft, soothing... a way to call Angel back into skin that was still raw from the wrenching violence of the dreams.

Nights like these, Spike never gave a thought to power... to the games of dominance and submission they normally liked to play. Hell, it wasn't even about the insatiable lust he always felt for the magnificent creature beneath him. It was about reminding him: he was home, he was safe, and the demons couldn't get him anymore.

Angel was usually the one who preferred slow, soft lovemaking... gentle laying on of cool, strong hands, and the inch by inch kissing, but nights like this, Spike sort of liked it, too. His Master lay still and pliant beneath him, leaving him free to take his time, memorizing his cuts and contours... feel the muscles shudder in pleasure instead of anxiety under his attentions. Every square inch of him was perfect -- hard and pale and smooth, and he tasted like clean sweat, whisky, and just the tiny bitter remnants of fear... a combination like vampire chocolate.

It was so good... so good in so many damn ways, he didn't think even the most eloquent of Angel's beloved fruity poets could express it well. Feeling him come back to life right under his fingertips and tongue... and as he kept on, the sighs would turn to moans of a far more pleasant kind, muscles trembling more fiercely with growing hunger in place of the panic.

On some weird level, Spike enjoyed taking care of his usually indomitable Sire. Angel liked to play all self-contained for his humans -- the big, unmovable, ever-strong mountain of Dark Avenger. He never let them see his weaknesses or his pain... he liked to think it was part of his Destiny to be solid when all else around him faltered, crumbled, and fell. The perpetual walking stiff upper lip. As much Master savior as he had once been vicious demon.

But Spike knew better. In fact, he was probably the only one who did, with the possible exception of the Slayer. But even as close as the two of them were, now, he 'd bet his left nut that Angel would *still* never let his precious, unsullied princess Buffy see this side of him.

He finally reached the hardening apex of Angel's beautiful form, and turned his full attention to his very favorite part of the ritual. His Sire's thick member was already half at attention from all the petting, and as Spike softly blew a puff of cold air along its length, then followed with a slow drag of his tongue along the underside, it jerked fully to life, and Angel's fingers clutched at his scalp with a gasping, "Will..."

His own body jumped at that melodic sound, and it took all of his strength not to just dive in and devour him whole. Instead he kept his easy pace, firmly laving the length and breadth of Angel's cock from root to weeping tip and back again, until his sighs and soft moans turned to unnecessary panting and tiny, almost mewling coos. He wrapped his lips in a tight seal over the head and suckled softly, flicking the drops of salty dew from the tip, eliciting a still-deeper moan from the big chest above him, and an involuntary spasming thrust of hip. He cupped Angel's sack lightly in one hand, rolling his testicles and tickling the silken skin beneath, while with the other, took a firm grip around the girth of his cock, holding it still at the root as he sucked the length into his throat.

But the younger vampire was way beyond needing any encouragement. He was already too lost in the waves of want washing away the last of his own fear for that. This was the way it should be, the way it should have always been, the two of them like this. There were few things that made him happier than feeling the pulse of borrowed blood rushing under the heavy foreskin against his tongue, engorging the mouthful he held to its bursting point... the growing scent of rapture where there had been only agony moments before. And as Spike continued swallowing Angel down, tight and deep, he had the silly thought that he was a sorcerer, wielding power that no one else in the dimension could wield. Angel began to grunt softly in time with his quickening thrusts into his Childe's face, and he knew it was more than that... more than just magick. That he was a God -- nothing more and nothing less -- because he alone could drive back the very Hosts of Hell from his lover's mind with his touch.

"Oh God... Spike... that feels... so... good... Oh God... Yes!" Angel chanted, and with an final series of erratic thrusts, shot his seed deep into his Childe's willing throat, and Spike drank it all... sucked it up... swallowed the last of his pain away.

His own erection throbbed deliciously as he looked into mahogany eyes that were clear of any sign of night terrors or tears at last, and his Sire took his face in his hands, claiming his lips softly... giving thanks he knew Spike would never except in words with a deep, wet kiss. Once awakened, his passion quickly acquired all the ferocious fire that the nightmares had abandoned, and he gathered the smaller vampire close in his embrace, continuing to kiss him as he reached between their bodies and claimed Spike's fairly aching erection, stroking it hard and fast, just the way he knew he liked it.

Nights like this, Spike was so full... saturated with things he knew damn well he didn't really believe in... all conjured by the flashes of electric bliss generated by Angel's fingers: waves upon waves of love and completion... true knowledge of eternity and oneness, being cared for utterly, and that their bond would last until the last sunset. All flickering illusions in the ecstasy, but he didn't care...

He had been about to say something... something... soothing... something comforting, something... but it was gone, and he thrust into the big hand that engulfed him, feeling Angel's erection butting against his pelvic bone. He reached for it automatically, matching him stroke for accelerating stroke, and their tongues flicked, twisting and dancing in time as they caressed one another, sighing and moaning and whispering their pleasure.

Forget Hell. His Sire's touch was nothing less than Heaven... the only thing that Spike would willingly die for... and had, a century and a half ago, when they had laid down just like this in Angelus' bed, pulling and sucking and fucking each other into ecstasy eternal, beyond the moon, beyond the stars, beyond even flesh and bone. Where there was nothing left but nerves tingling and blood rushing, time suspended and young William's heart thundering.... when he had done exactly as he did now... arched into the embrace once cold, but burning now with friction all around him... throwing his head back to beg...

The guttural moan in response from his lover echoed somewhere deep inside him -- maybe in that hollow where a soul might once have been, and the cool breath on his neck was the last call of the Reaper... the gentle tongue against his flesh the gates of Paradise swinging open, and when razor sharp fangs slipped into his vein, he exploded and died all over again... heard himself screaming from a million miles away...

And heard the answering call of his mate roared through teeth clenched tight, and the wet, sucking sounds of blissful feeding as they came together, rocking into one another... blending, melting, bursting into flames of blinding white that never had anything to do with Hell at all...

And after... on nights like this... Angel curled up next to him with his face nestled tight in the bloody hollow between throat and shoulder, lapping gently and purring until he slipped back into sleep. Spike held him, watching... always watching, because even if he was a big, flaming pansy with serious mental problems, he was *his* big, flaming pansy with serious mental problems, and no damn demon from Hell, whether real or hallucinated, would touch the nonce, so long as Spike walked the Earth.

Nights like this, he bet he could probably pretty easily talk Angel into getting him cable... and maybe one of those digital internet hook-ups, to boot, if he could just find the energy to speak. But... he usually ended up kissing him... holding him close... and forgetting all about it as he joined his Sire in sweeter dreams.