Nothing Else Matters

Story Notes: Mild spoilers for BtVS S6. Set after "Dead Things"; Spoilers for S3 of A:tS. Set before "Waiting in the Wings" - Spike loves Buffy, Angel loves Cordelia. Doesn't mean the two vampires can't have sex.

If anyone had told me a few months ago I'd add changing diapers to my otherwise ignominious list of skills, or read myself through a pile of parenting books to learn everything about 'potty training' and the 'phase of defiance' I would have filed that comment under 'bad joke'. And if anyone had told me I'd be having sex with Spike... Nah, nobody would have even dared suggest such a thing.

I don't know if he's deliberately punishing me for the century I didn't get in touch with them (or him), or if the thought that I might like to hear from him just never occurred to him.

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me..." I sing. Okay, I know I'm a bad singer, but Connor doesn't seem to mind. And, I know Christmas was six weeks ago, but it was the first song that came to mind, okay?

Lorne's back and he gives me a funny look. I stop in mid-verse. I don't want him to read me, not now. He already knows how I feel about Cordy. He doesn't need to know what happened between Spike and myself.

"Lorne, actually, I'm glad you're here. Can you look after Connor? I think I need to work out. Now." Just cause I'm dead it doesn't mean there isn't room for improvement... and I really need to clear my mind of certain images. Images of Spike's lean body, his erect... I guiltily wrench my thoughts off that particular track.

"Oooh," Lorne swoons, full of mischief, "I'd love to watch you pump those irons, pumpkin, all those rippling muscles. But," he proclaims in a silly voice, bending down to offer the baby a green skinned finger to play with, "if daddy needs someone to look after you, then your Uncle Lorne says yes, yes, yes."

Maybe he expects me to call him. I can't do that, of course. Seniority. I'm the sire of his sire. Also, he doesn't have a phone. I checked. (And no, I didn't check telephone directory for 'Bloody, William the' - I used some of my old contacts in Sunnydale.)

Why doesn't he have a cell phone? Even I've got one of those damn things. I find them much too small. They make me feel clumsy. But if I stick to the numbers Cordy has programmed into it, then I can manage. Unless of course I forget to charge it or I leave it in the wrong pocket.

So, why hasn't Spike got one? I'd have thought he'd cope with them better than I do. He always took a shine to new things. Unlike many of our kind he was flowing with the times rather than resisting them. I only knew him for twenty years, but in that time he eagerly embraced new inventions, fashions, countries, languages even human food.

I'll never forget how we stepped off the boat in Shanghai during our trip to China in 1900. The first thing Spike did was eat some noodles from a street vendor. The first thing Darla and Dru did, was share the vendor.

What was the first thing I ate? Rat. Raw. Now people, they taste different if you travel. What they eat affects their scent and even to some extent the flavor of their blood. But wherever you go, the rats taste the same, strange isn't it?

I know I told Buffy that I left Darla and the others after those gypsies cursed me. But in truth I left them two years later, when we were in China. And I'm not sure I'd have left them if Darla hadn't disowned me.

I slowly lift my left leg to achieve the Crane Stance. For several minutes I hold that position, trying hard to clear my mind of all thoughts of Spike. It's no good. I give up and bring the exercise to an end.

I didn't keep tabs on Spike, after I was cursed with a soul; or on any of the others. James, Penn, Drusilla and William the Bloody - in some perverted way they were like my children. The knowledge that they went on killing, while my own murders weighed heavily on my conscience - well, let's just say I shied away from the reminder. I severed all links and banished the memories of my creations as far from my mind as I could. Hoping I'd never have to set eyes on them again.

But you know what it's like, nothing will stay buried forever. The past isn't gone. It's just hidden, waiting to catch up. The planet is just not big enough to run from it. And like flotsam and jetsam Darla, Spike and Drusilla ended up at the Hellmouth, a place with its own kind of evil gravity, and we met again.

James and Penn are both dead. I've seen them turn to dust before my eyes. Punchpunchpunch. I've set fire to Drusilla who is probably the most painful walking memento of what Angelus was capable of, a reminder of what I've been. Punchpunchpunch. I've witnessed Darla sacrificing herself for our child and I have once again shared a bed with William the Bloody.

The mere memory sends shivers down my spine. It fills me with hunger and yearning. It also gives me an almost painful erection, no matter how hard I will it to go away. All those meditation techniques I studied to keep the hunger in check, and those other... desires - not working. Not this time. I think back to Christmas morning and I am way past what a cold shower can cure.

Anger. Disdain. Brutality. Vindictiveness. All those I would have understood, maybe even welcomed. Not because I yearn for pain. I don't. But sometimes I wish it were the currency in which to pay for what I've done. Pain is easy; it's the fear of failure that's hard to endure.

I move to the bedroom and pour myself a whiskey, from the bottle I keep hidden in my wardrobe. The bottle Spike gave me for Christmas. Irish Whiskey. Pretty old, too. I sip it slowly, almost guiltily enjoying the mellow flavor.

I choose a new set of clothes and carefully lay them out on the bed, and then I strip. My arousal has dulled a bit. I eye the shower and ponder my options. Hot or cold, what's it gonna be?

How can it be, that after a hundred years - with both of us utterly changed - one thing has remained the same? How can it be that I still want him? How can it be that I want to feel him inside of me, or surrounding me?

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool tiles of the wall. It doesn't take much to evoke the memory how Spike touched my cock, how one-by-one he slipped his well-oiled fingers into me to prepare me, oh, so carefully, stretching me. I remember the slick head of his hard cock prodding my opening. And then the burning sensation as he slowly pushed inside of me, his eyes widening in wonder, blue, not a spark of yellow in them... the way he panted as he began to thrust... oh yes... thrusting faster and faster, as the passion overwhelmed us both...

I wonder what part of me decided it was good enough to feed on scraps. Cause it just isn’t. Being a vampire is about being voracious. It’s about drinking, and shagging, and fighting and obsessing. About wanting. And taking.

Lately, everything’s happenin’ to me in slomo. I don’t know if it’s the chip or my love for Buffy that has slowed my life to an agonizing crawl. Seems like I’m always waiting for something. Like waiting for a shag, waiting to be needed or waiting to be just talked to.

It’s been 18 hours since Buffy left me lying in that alley, outside the police precinct. I know she’s not in the slammer cause I still have connections. She never came back to tell me she was off the hook or to… Well, I managed to get up and drag myself back to my crypt without her help, thank you very much.

I’m through with waiting. I get my bike out of its hiding place, hop on and I drive. As fast as I can. I don’t have a plan. I just need to unfreeze. It works, too. By the time I reach L.A. I’m seething with rage.

One by one they appear in the lobby: The Ex-Watcher’s first. I recognize him from some of the photos Angel showed me at Christmas. He steps out of the office, looking grim and aiming a crossbow at my heart. Then there’s a black guy, brandishing a mean looking axe.

“Cordelia! You look absolutely…” I give her an appraising look and am rewarded with the involuntary beginnings of a smile, “tense! Celibacy’s a bitch, innit. No wait, you are. When was the last time you had a nice shag?”

“Mr. I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder! No wait, it’s in your head, isn’t it. You look absolutely trashed,” she replies almost cheerfully. “Jeez, looks like Buffy and her groupies finally got fed up with Mr. Ex-Big Bad and sent you packing,” Cordelia observes. "Did Buffy run out of stakes?”

“Rumor has it you’re saving yourself for a nice office romance. Let me remind you, shagging the boss is a no-no, unless you all want to bend over. Angelus unleashed is more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

There he is, barefoot, wearing pants and undershirt, hair wet, holding a towel, and boy, he looks royally pissed off. He tosses the towel away and marches down the stairs. There’s a green-skinned fellow in a camp suit following him.

“I’ll have you know that I am the boss here now,” the ex-Watcher pipes in. As if I didn’t know. I give him a once over, with all the brazen sexuality I can muster. He blushes. And then I turn it off dismissively. “Does it help you get laid? Guess not. Yeah, well we all know what Watchers have instead of--“

“Whoever he is,” the green skinned bloke says, sounding a right nancy boy, “he’s quite delicious, at least he would be, if the goods were undamaged. You just gotto love the bad boy vibe.”

“What?” I exclaim in mock surprise. “You mean, peaches didn’t tell you guys? Got an invite to the batcave from Mr. ‘tall, dark and lonesome’ himself.” There. The seeds of strife and all that rot.

He’s driven a motorcycle inside my hotel! And he’s insulting my friends. And he’s back to insulting me. This is so typical. I mean, what did I expect? That Christmas changed everything?

So, is this the big moment where he tells everybody that he and I ‘shagged’? They’re all here, for maximum impact. Was that his plan all along: to humiliate me in front of my friends?

He’s sitting on his bike, obnoxious smirk in place. But he’s nervously picking at his nail polish. Like he’s itching for a fight. Or maybe like he’s embarrassed. I can’t quite tell. But as he’s not wearing his injuries like a badge of honor, I’m beginning to suspect that the hurt isn’t just physical.

He doesn’t say anything. That in itself is totally out of character. I mean, normally, he never keeps his goddamn mouth shut. He has that wounded look. The same expression of pride and hurt he wore whenever Angelus tried to break him. Just without his usual obstinacy.

And why can't I say ,“I killed so many people and I’m sorry,” but when I want to even think “I treated Spike worse than an animal, and I’m sorry” it comes out as “Angelus tried to break him”?

“What happened?” I ask and walk towards him. He relaxes, minutely. He gets off his bike and stands before me. His eyes flicker to my hands, noticing the bruised knuckles, then up again.

“Upstairs,” I suggest and vaguely point upwards. I have a brief but extremely visual flashback of Spike crawling up the stairs half naked, singing. He’d been so funny, vibrant and – okay, I’ll admit it – drop dead sexy…

Spike wordlessly gets back on his bike and starts the motor. Its roar is deafening in the confines of the lobby. He turns the bike with a spin that leaves a black smudge of rubber on the floor and drives up the stairs. A moment later he’s gone.

“Angel, you can’t possibly think of driving somewhere with him,” Cordelia complains. “Have you forgotten what he did to you the last time you two met? He made you into shish-kabob.”

Okay, I know, I shouldn’t play the Lone Ranger all the time. I’m supposed to connect, let them in, strengthen my ties to humanity, but how can I tell them what happened last Christmas? Well, I can’t. Even if I wanted to. Plus I don’t think Spike would like me to fill them in. But I can’t let them worry about my safety, either. Cordy always berates me for keeping things to myself and perhaps she’s right.

Cordy’s a great friend, honest, funny, astute - I already mentioned ‘honest’, didn’t I – and also fiercely loyal. Even so, there are things I can’t tell her. I can’t tell her how I feel about her and that my feelings for her scare me. And I can’t tell her how I feel about Spike, because I don’t quite understand it myself.

Roaring through the night on our bikes, we break every speed limit. Spike’s an idiot to flirt with disaster like that, but I do my best to keep up with him, so I guess that makes me an idiot as well. Eventually he leaves the PCH and I follow him along a winding trail. We end up on a nice secluded beach, of all the places.

We walk quietly for a minute or two, heading towards the water. I’ve got sand in my $300 shoes, and I worry about what salt, tar and sand will do to the leather. Maybe I should take them off.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” I finally say, slightly unnerved by the fact that he’s so uncharacteristically quiet. “Do you want to talk about it?” I wince at my own words and the ‘Vampires Anonymous’ vibe they evoke.

Suddenly, I get it. “Buffy? Why, what did you do to her?” I blurt out, still feeling that protective surge in my belly. I’ve moved on, I had to, for her sake. That doesn’t mean I don’t care anymore.

I grab him by the lapels of his coat, and growl at him. “What did you do to her?” Suddenly I’m scared that the behavior modification chip in his brain malfunctioned. That he killed Buffy and that he dragged me here to brag about it, to tell me that he ‘bagged’ himself his third Slayer.

“Nuthin’. Slayer’s all safe and sound, if that’s what you’re wondering about. She’s probably selling greasy burgers to fat junk food addicts, as we speak.” He snickers and runs his tongue over the cut, ever so teasingly, tasting his own blood.

“Come on, Angel, tell me: what is it that made you her lapdog?” he asks, his voice dripping with venom. “Her hair? Her tits? Her Slayer strength? Her scent? She smells nice, doesn’t she? All the pheromones leakin’ all over the place when she’s fighting…”

I turn to keep my eyes on him. I wish he’d stop yapping. It’s getting harder to control the rage. I could let it all out! Lay it on him. It’s tempting. He’s evil, he’s a vampire and whatever I do to him will heal, anyway.

Sometimes I’m really slow on the uptake. This must be one of those cases. He’s pushing my buttons, but I don’t know why. Is this what he’s been aiming at all along? For me to get so mad that I finish what Buffy started? Does he even know?

And suddenly I understand. Light bulbs and everything. He’s not going to tell me what’s going on until I force him to. He’s practically inviting me to beat the story out of him. Part of him wants to talk but he can’t or isn’t allowed to or promised not to. Whatever.

A kick and a swing later I have him knocked over, lying sprawled in the sand. He tries to get up, but I press my advantage and catch him with a calculated punch before he can. I quickly straddle him and pin him to the ground. He struggles perfunctorily. If he really wanted to fight, this would have taken much longer. Maybe I was right and he really wants to talk.

And I? I feel myself growing hard. Because I’m lying on top of him, holding his wrists above his head, using the weight of my body to keep him down. His resistance only serves to increase my arousal. Our faces are mere inches apart. His lower lip is still bleeding.

Having him writhing underneath me like that brings back memories of the days when breaking William the Bloody into tiny little pieces was like a piece of art. The memory disgusts me. But deep inside of me something wicked stirs, almost languidly, and tries to urge me on.

I stare up into feral eyes. Inscrutable. Appraising me. Dunno what it’s like to have a soul. Must be like a thick blanket, smothering the demon that lurks underneath. Right now that blanket’s pretty threadbare, I’d wager. So, maybe Angelus will come out to play.

Feel like I’m trapped in a pattern: Get kicked, get shagged, get hurt, not necessarily in that order. Can’t say I care. Right now I don’t care about anything. Must’ve been insane to drag him out here. Dunno what I was thinking. Nothing makes sense.

His erratic behavior is beginning to wear me out. I never thought Spike might be capable of such self-loathing and despair. Was it presumptuous of me to think that those are properties of a soul? I’m reminded of stories where a trapped animal gnawed off its own limbs to escape. Only, this feels like I’m supposed do it for him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I say harshly, tapping reluctantly into my nemesis, that dark well of deliberate cruelty that gave Angelus his reputation. “For me to throw you around a bit and fuck you like the worthless demon you are?”

With an anguished howl he resumes his struggles. He bucks and squirms and thrashes around frantically, trying to dislodge me. “Let go, you stupid wanker! Get off me…you and your stupid soul, you sanctimonious fuck…I don’t need you, don’t need anyone…” An almost incoherent stream of insults and foul language issues forth. He struggles and rants for what seems like ages, but strangely enough he doesn’t shift to his vampiric features, not once. Eventually, his outrage is spent and he goes limp underneath me. His gaze wavers, then he turns his face away.

Like I’ve ever known what goes on inside her head (or anybody else’s). I’ve been around for over 250 years, but when it comes to dealing with people, I usually feel like I’ve only just reached 25. If you count Whistler’s appearance in my life as a coming of age that’s probably a fair assessment.

I think I’ll just tackle this like a case I’m trying to solve. He witness, me detective. I think professional detachment will prove helpful. “Tell me what happened,” I say, poker face firmly in place.

And then the story comes out. Slowly, haltingly. Some of it he told me already, six weeks ago. But he never mentioned that he and Buffy actually have sex. I can’t believe she actually got involved with him. What I do believe is that she kept the whole thing secret. Obviously, that’s one of the things that are eating away at him.

After a while I release his wrists and get off to sit beside him. Spike sits up. He pulls a flask out of his coat, drinks, then offers it to me. I can smell it’s bourbon. I accept, take a sip and pass it back. He puts it back into his coat pocket and hunts for his cigarettes.

I hear him work his lighter and there is the crackling sound as the tip of his cigarette is consumed by fire. I feel briefly like I’m trapped in a Marlboro commercial. Except they don’t do beaches, they do deserts and canyons. He inhales deeply.

What I hear makes me both sad and angry. He doesn’t go into great detail, for which I’m grateful, but it’s obvious enough that their relationship makes both of them deeply unhappy. I don’t even pretend to understand what makes these two do the things they do to each other and to themselves. I tell myself it is not for me to judge. After all, that mess is at least partly of my own making. In a way, both are still licking wounds made by me.

He pulls out his flask again and offers it to me. I shake my head. I get up and fetch my bag. When I open it he gets a good look at my favorite broadsword. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I rummage around until I find the container of pig’s blood. I know its healing properties are next to nil, but it’s all I have. He makes a face but drinks it anyway. Like me, he doesn’t even go into game face anymore, when feeding.

He tells me how Buffy thought she killed an innocent girl and how she was going to turn herself in. This is one instance where I could have actually told him she’d behave like that... because of that thing with Faith. Spike tried to keep her from going to the police. Doesn’t he know Buffy is the most stubborn girl… What am I saying? Of course he does. So, she wouldn’t let him stop her. And then Buffy beat the crap out of him.

There is a long silence. Finally, just when I think that he’s done getting all his defenses back into place he says in a small voice: “Dru may have been crazy, but we could talk for hours. Or just watch telly, you know, do normal things. Sometimes I miss that.” The memory softens his face.

I’m not much for talking. But I’m a great listener. And as for advice, well, I’ve read so many parenting books I’ve got good advice practically coming out of my ears, but Spike isn’t exactly in his terrible twos. There is, however, one thing I can do.

He doesn’t make a move. I take that as a ‘yes’ and push the duster off his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation he helps, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves. I slowly and carefully unbutton his shirt and push it off.

I unzip the first aid kit and get to work. I start with his face. There’s not much I can do. I carefully wipe off some dried blood, cleaning minor cuts and wondering if he can actually see out of his black eye. It’s almost swollen shut. His cheekbone is heavily bruised but the bone seems whole.

“I’ll be honest with you, Spike,” I say as gently as I can, while checking the rest of his body for broken bones, “I never liked you. At least not until I got to know you better last Christmas. I wanted you, certainly, but I didn’t like you.”

“You’re not exactly making it easy to like you.” I elaborate. I start cleaning the cuts and abrasions. “You know, Spike, you’re vindictive, selfish and spectacularly rude. You’re a liar, a rogue and a killer – albeit on a leash. You’re also one of the most annoying persons I’ve ever met.”

I find myself smiling. He’s still silent. I give him a nudge and he lifts his arms a little to allow me to bandage his ribs, so the bone will knit properly. That brings me pretty close to him, especially whenever I reach his back, where I have to change the bandage roll from one hand to the other.

He blinks at me in surprise. He studies my face. The look of desolation slowly fades and is replaced by his usual smirk. “So, you want me then, do you?” he asks with a leer that’s not quite back to its old strength. I can sense the underlying question.

Okay, I just paid Spike a compliment (how poof-y is that?) and the earth didn’t open and swallow me. Well, it wasn’t really a compliment, more like the truth. He IS irresistible and I do want him. But it’s foolish to think anything could happen after everything I said to him. Actually, I’m amazed he hasn’t donned his old attitude—telling me to fuck off and then driving off to Sunnydale, already. He needed to unburden, so now that it’s happened he should be on his way. Instead he’s still here.

I stare at him and all I can think of is that I want him. I can smell him. Leather and tobacco, plus the scent of his blood. He still hasn’t put his clothes back on. I want to touch him... want him to touch me.

I take off my coat, shirt and undershirt, fold them neatly and pile them up next to me. Shoes and socks are next. I take my time, giving him every conceivable opportunity to change his mind.

I run my fingers across his bandaged chest to his shoulders, caressing him. His gaze never wavers. His pupils dilate. I wonder what he’s thinking behind those blue eyes. What is this to him?

I bury my hand in his hair. I lean towards him and kiss him, slowly. My tongue plunges into his mouth, savoring him. He responds willingly. My hands roam over his back, his hands roam over mine. I push forward and he lets himself fall backward. I follow him down, our lips never losing contact. I slip one of my knees between his legs and grind my erection against his hip. My left arm has to carry my weight but my right hand is free to explore his body. I use it to slide inside his open pants to cup his buttock.

Such a nice ass! I give it a squeeze. Then I proceed to pull his pants off. He cooperates by lifting his hips. At last he lies before me, totally naked. He’s totally desirable - and he knows it.

I take the time to admire his lean limbs, the mixture of lithe grace and strength. Even bruised and battered he still exudes a brazen sexuality. He’s like a rapier, sharp, built for speed, lethal but smooth. Flexible, too. He bends and bends until you think he snapped, but when you release him he springs back unharmed and is as deadly and beautiful as ever.

Me, I’m more of a broadsword, big, heavy, with a nasty cutting edge. Next to him I feel slow, clumsy and rigid, in more ways than one. It took me a hundred years and a prodding by Whistler to set me on my path. Took him a chip and two years. But this is not some kind of contest or race. At least not to me. And this is not the right moment to dwell on such things.

He basks in my admiration. His cock is already hard and erect, but now that he feels my eyes on him he undulates his hip slightly, making it bob up and down. He smirks, folding his arms above his head and sprawling around like a large tom-cat. A horny and rather shameless tom-cat. I stare at the way he displays himself.

I grab my duffle bag and start rummaging around in it. He rolls over and reaches for his duster and searches the pockets. We succeed at the same time, triumphantly holding a little tube in the air.

Two words that aren’t as callous as they sound. My throat constricts. He trusts me. After everything I did to him four years ago, when I was Angelus and he was stuck in that wheelchair, he trusts me.

I think he expects me to take him on his back, but as nice as being able to look at him is, I want both of us to be more comfortable and relaxed. I coax him until he’s lying on his side and then I position myself behind him, spooning him.

We’re both facing the Pacific. I gently kiss his shoulders and his neck. I make sure I have no sand on my hands before I unscrew the little tube and squeeze some lube onto my fingers. I push my left arm underneath his waist so I can hold him tight or reach his cock if I want to. Then I move the lubricated digits of my right to the crease between his cheeks. I find his opening and probe it gently. He inhales sharply.

As Angelus I never cared about his pleasure. I just took what was mine to take. Not anymore. I nibble on his shoulders as I slowly push a slick finger into his tight hole. Okay, according to how this felt when we were doing it the other way round and according to everything I’ve read on the subject since then, the magical spot should be about … here. He bucks against my hand.

I don’t give him an opportunity to answer. Instead I wriggle my fingers and make him gasp. I trace the contours of his shoulder blade with my tongue and breathe on the moistened skin. He moans. I can feel him relaxing again.

As I continue to prepare him, I talk to him. I tell him that I’ve been thinking about him these past six weeks. That I’ve been dreaming of this, of burying myself in him. The fact that he’s looking the other way makes it easier to say these things.

My cock twitches, as if to underline my words. My hips undulate against him with growing urgency. The friction of my leaking cock rubbing against his back sends shivers through my whole body. I leave a moist trail on his skin.

“Tsk, tsk, more respect for your elders,” I chuckle, but I fumble for the little tube and carefully lubricate my length. I align myself properly and coax him slightly forward. He hitches up his right knee and leans on it. I place the swollen head at his opening and prod him with minute little thrusts.

I reach for his shaft with my left and slowly start to pump him. He pants. I position my cock with my right hand and start pushing again, teasingly, each thrust a little bit more insistent, until the anticipation becomes unbearable for us both. There. With a suppressed groan I push inside. I pause halfway to give both of us a chance to adjust.

I’d almost forgotten how tight he is. How good it feels to be inside him. I always shied away from the recollection because of everything else that memory entailed. But tonight we’re making a new set of memories.

I sling my right arm around his waist. And then I push until I am fully buried in him. I can feel him tremble at the sensation. Not in pain, though, but in a good way. He clasps my arm.

There’s nothing wrong with a good hard fuck. And pain, well, it can become an acquired taste and we’re vampires, for god’s sake. I can take pain. Doesn’t mean I’m in love with it.

Angel’s slow, languid thrusts send waves of pleasure without pain through my body, making me shiver. Making me gasp. Meanwhile he’s also jerking me off. If he goes on like that I’m gonna… yes…oh yes… oh bloody hell! He pauses. I can feel him shudder with the effort to control himself. I try not to move, not wanting to push either of us over the edge. Cause I don’t want this to end. Ever.

God I never thought this could be THAT good. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be filled like that. For a whole minute he just holds me tight, burying his face in my shoulder, then he’s moving again. Again those long deep thrusts, almost torturously slow. He’s groaning, as his movements become more erratic, and then, as we’re nearing release he finally picks up speed.

He pounds into me, Angel, not Angelus, and it’s what I need, everything else is far away, there’s just him and me and the waves, and only the stars are watching as I thrash around under his thrusts, coming forcefully all over his fist. My spasms are enough to send him over the edge, too. Two or three more thrusts and he spills his seed into me, calling my name.

I’ve done lots of things in my time. Me and Dru, we tried out everything; not to mention the stuff that went on when Angelus was around; shagged Harmony with her unicorn obsession and her Barbie doll brain; even did a robot. And passionately and wildly made love to Buffy.

We’re lying in the sand, spent, relaxed. We’re both sticky and sand is clinging to us in several places. I’m still spooning Spike. I guess one could call it cuddling. Not that I have any experience in that area. Spike hasn’t moved in over five minutes. Not even to grab his cigarettes. He hasn’t said anything either. It’s not like him to be so still. He’s not asleep, is he? If he doesn’t say anything soon, I will.

As for myself, I can’t help thinking that sleeping with William the Bloody – again – was not the smartest of moves. No matter how good and right it felt, we’re rivals - with plenty of history. Plus we’re playing on different teams. What happened tonight and at Christmas was just a time-out that’s all. The way I see it, he’s currently on his team’s substitutes’ bench, but sooner or later that chip will come out. I used to think he’d go right back to being a killer, now I think he might not want to. Maybe not at first. But I have no reason to expect that he’d get a chance to change. This is not a nice world we walk in.

“So,” I finally blurt out. “How did Buffy and the others like their Christmas presents?” I’m such a dork. We just had great sex and I’m making stupid conversation. I think I just killed the moment. But I can’t think of anything more appropriate to say, so I plod on relentlessly. “Did you give them the stuff you bought?”

“If it wasn’t for that friggin’ chip I’d rip their heads off and eat ‘em for supper,” he answers sounding bitter. I can feel his body tense with anger. “Except for Harris. Stupid sod’s gotten so fat lately, he’d probably give me indigestion.”

My life has changed over the past few years. I’m not the same person who helped Buffy from out of the shadows. I have ties now. A home and more importantly, a son. But most of all I have friends. Friends who put their lives on the line to help both my cause and me, who know me and still choose to fight at my side. Where would I be without Cordy’s honesty, Wesley’s loyalty and Gunn’s enthusiasm? And now that I think of it, I realize how much I’ve come to depend on Fred’s trust and Lorne’s tolerance, too. That is more luck than I deserve.

“It takes time,” is the incredibly clichéd response I come up with. “Making friends. When I got my soul back, I spent almost a hundred years alone. I just drifted around. No aim, no purpose. Indifferent to anything and anyone. Wrapped up in my own misery,” I say, not quite sure if I should continue.

I hate it when he makes fun of my soul. Also what he says is not true, because my soul has given me all kind of things, suffering, misery, guilt, self-loathing, and a nightmarish fear of failure, but never wisdom.

Spike pulls away, out of my arms. He gets up and walks over to where his clothes and mine form an untidy pile. I hide my disappointment and sit up. Maybe he’s right, and it’s time to get dressed.

But he just picks up his duster and goes through the pockets until he comes up with his cigarettes. He drops the coat again and sits down cross-legged. “Right,” he says, affecting an exaggerated sigh as he lights up. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Cause if you’re finished,” he continues with a leer, “Maybe we can do something more useful with our time. I’d say we have at least another three hours before we have to head back. We could… um…” He nods at his growing erection.

I don’t answer him. Instead I turn away to look at the waves, the stars, the sand, my hands, the waves again – anywhere but that pale hard body next to me. The silence soon turns into a contest. If Spike thinks he can out-brood me he has another thing coming. Patience? Oh, I can wait. I’m good at waiting.

He tosses his cigarette butt away and makes a great fuss lighting himself a new one. “Alright,” he finally concedes. “Go on then. Tell your little story. What happened when you came to Sunnyhell?”

“What did it matter? I didn’t plan on mingling with Buffy and her friends,” I say defensively. “I used to watch them. At the Bronze, on patrol - they all appeared so young and superficial. School. Shopping. Dating. How was I to know I’d fall in love with her? Or she with me?”

“We were in love but most of the time we weren’t happy. There were always secrets,” I explain, knowing that he of all people will understand. “Things we didn’t tell her friends, her Mom or Giles, even each other. Also, I never had a connection with her friends. But then I never fully realized how much they are part of her.”

“‘Was?’ So the little weasel’s snuffed it? I’d wondered where he’d gotten to.” Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Shit! Now Angel’s getting up. He turns his back on me and starts getting dressed. His movements are stiff from barely concealed anger. Shit. When will I ever learn?

I scramble to my feet as well. “How did it happen? Did he go down fighting?” I hasten to ask, because I’m suddenly desperate for him to stay. And also, because I really want to know. God knows why.

He studies my face. I hold his gaze. Something gives. And there it is again, that rapport. Thank God. “Yes,” is all he says. Like me, he’s thinking about how we’re gonna go once our number’s up. I pick up my duster, dig out the flask and offer it to him. He lifts it in a silent salute and drinks. When he hands it back. I follow suit.

“You know, I got an invite to Harris’s wedding,” I tell him, trying to change the subject. “Wasn’t going to go, but maybe I should.” I sit down again, hoping he’ll join me.

“Can’t stand the sanctimonious twit. T’is mutual, too. We got on well enough last summer, but not since Buffy came back. You know what the tosser said to me? Only a complete nutcase like Dru or a total loser like Harm would ever consider ‘hooking up’ with me. Nutcase or loser - what are you Angel?”

The subject of Xander Harris is soon exhausted: According to Spike he’s a self-righteous sanctimonious nerd of the first water with an inferiority complex the size of California, who’s not even funny anymore. That pretty much sums up my own impressions. Except, for one thing: Whoever said Xander Harris was funny?

“An’ I do wish him and Anya would stop yapping about that damn wedding,” Spike adds as an afterthought, dismissively tossing a handful of sand into the dark. “They should do the deed in Vegas and blow the whole dough at the poker table instead of that stupid reception thing. Or go on a cruise or something. Have fun.”

Does he even know what he just said? William the Bloody, who once told me that killing and eating people is our raison d’être, talks like he’s actually given thought to the question of how a bunch of humans should go about their wedding. There’s a twist.

We sit, side by side, gazing at the waves, the moon’s thin sickle and a pitch-black, star-dotted sky that is unblemished by city lights. Occasionally, I steal a glance in his direction, acutely aware of the fact that he’s still very naked. I feel like a right poof. We share the last drops of his bourbon. Somehow, neither of us is making a move to leave. Maybe we’re both trying to hold on to this strange, fragile feeling of kinship that has sprung up between us since Christmas.

“I better call them.” Connor! The first night I’m away from him and I forget to check on him! Okay, I didn’t plan for this ‘excursion’ to take so long. But that’s no excuse. Cordy and the others are probably extremely worried right now. I pull my coat towards me and go through the pockets. Just like I thought. I forgot to turn my mobile phone on. I do so now. Six messages! I hope to God that Connor’s okay. Raw panic surges through me. While I listen to my messages, Spike turns away, but I know he’s eavesdropping.

“Angel, are you still un-chained and un-skewered? Spike knows you smashed the Ring of Amara, right? Call me, so I know you’re okay.” Again Cordelia. Sounding slightly more agitated.

“Angel? It’s me, Fred. If you listen to this, can you please call us back? Don’t worry, Connor is safe and so is everybody else, it’s just… Cordelia. She is kinda nervous and she told me all about how you and Spike hate each other and how Spike tortured you, and it’s really none of my business, but I can’t help being worried. I mean, I know of course that you can take care of yourself, and Lorne said he doesn’t think Spike was out to kill you or anything, but I’d feel a lot better if you’d just call and let us know that you’re alive and well, you know, figuratively speaking.”

He’s okay! Connor is okay. I’d have never forgiven myself if anything had happened to him. While my panic slowly subsides into the normal worry that’s always present in the back of my head, I listen to the last message, another one from Cordelia.

“Angel! If I don’t hear from you within the next few minutes I’m going to assume that Spike lured you into some kind of trap to torture you again. And I will alert the cavalry, the National Guard, the Powers That Be, you name it.”

Spike raises one eyebrow insolently and silently voices ‘Yet.’ He places his hand on my knee, proving just how irritating he can be. Cause this is obviously not a good time! Nevertheless, I feel a tingle race through my body. Why can’t he just wait? I’m on the phone! Talking to Cordelia. This is important. Consequently, I ignore him and his touch.

“Don’t worry. Spike’s behaving himself,” I say. Naturally, that’s Spike’s cue to misbehave. His hand glides to the inside of my thigh. Okay. No more ignoring. I frown and shake my head at Spike. I really don’t need him to distract me right now.

Spike gives me an evil stare that clearly says ‘If you want me to stop – make me!’ Then his hand wanders upwards. To where my body betrays me. He smirks. I should have known. If there’s one thing William always hated with a passion it’s being ignored or passed over. Some things never change. His fingers close around my erection, stroking and squeezing it through the fabric of my slacks. For a fraction of a second my mind goes blank. Cordelia is lecturing me on our always-keep-your-mobile-on policy, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on what she’s saying, with Spike touching me like that. Which is why this has to stop!

I could disappear for weeks and not one of the soddin’ Scoobies would notice, let alone give a rat’s arse. Not unless it’s the end of the world. That’s the only time I’m good enough for ‘em, when the shit hits the fan. Then it’s all ‘Spike, we need you,’ or ‘Spike, guard my back’ or ‘Spike, look after Dawn for me.’

But, if I caught fire not one of ‘em would even piss on me to put it out. Cause I’m an evil disgusting thing. Why I keep tryin’ to be something else, something I’m not, is beyond me. The soul’s the thing. Makes all the difference. It’s the big Get-out-of-jail card.

All these things rush through my mind as we stare at each other. Suddenly the sobering realization hits: I’m brooding and what’s more, part of me wishes I was in the poof’s place.

Spike snatches the phone out of my grasp. “Yeah, everything’s just peachy,” he tells her with fake cheer. He ducks my attempt to retrieve the phone. “Look here, cutie, we’re kind of in the middle of somethin’, family business and whatnot. So, be a good girl, an’ leave us to it, right?”

I make another lunge for the cell phone. This time he allows me to wrench it out of his hand. I catch the last words of Cordelia’s threat: “…you’ll wish you’d never been turned!”

“Cordy? Angel. Spike’s right, we’re kinda tied up right now, so don’t wait up. I’ll leave the phone on, so if there’s any problem, give me a call.” It takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep talking like everything’s normal. Cause suddenly Spike is all over me, hugging me from behind and groping possessively. He’s licking my right shoulder blade, tracing the tattoo with the tip of his tongue. My fake indifference only spurs him on. He sneaks his hand round my waist, tugs down my zipper and reaches inside my pants. This time I don’t stop him. His fingers close firmly around my engorged shaft. I suppress a shudder when he pulls me out.

“Listen, Cordelia, can’t talk now. I’ll be back by sunrise.” I refrain from cutting her off in mid-sentence and pretend I’m listening to what she’s saying. At last she says her bye byes. I slowly put the phone down, making sure it doesn’t get to lie in the sand but on the nearest piece of clothing, which happens to be Spike’s coat.

“You done talking?” Spike asks. There’s a wicked edge to his voice. He’s slowly jerking me off. “Cause if you are,” he murmurs while nuzzling my neck, seductive powers on full wattage, “Maybe we can get to the fun part where I lick and bite you, till you beg me to fuck your brains out.”

His words bypass my brain, tingle down my spine and shoot straight to my groin, causing my shaft to swell even more at the threat. Promise. Whatever. He presses his mouth on mine and forces his tongue between my lips. He’s possessive, rough, almost feral, the way he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. The cut in his half-healed lip opens again and I can taste his blood. Much more potent than pig’s blood it sends a wave of ferocious, undiluted arousal through my entire body. My fangs itch to come out and rip into his neck, but my barriers are holding. My senses are heightened and I am momentarily lost in a barrage of sensations: the incessant murmur of the waves; the tingle of sea shells unsettled by the tide; the fresh salty smell of the Pacific; the feel of Will’s skin on mine; his hands touching me; his scent of bourbon, tobacco and leather, spiked with a heavy dose of arousal. I can also smell my come on him.

Through the intoxication though, his words finally register in my foggy brain. Beg? Who, me? He must be joking! Over my dead body! ‘Shagging’ is one thing, but begging? This is so like him. Always pushing the envelope. Angelus would have flayed him for even suggesting such a thing. “No!” I pull back with a start and disentangle myself with as much dignity as possible.

“Why not?” Spike finally asks, somewhere between amiable and petulant. “It’s easy enough. Two small words, Angel. Three, if you count my name. Go on - try it on for size. Want me to spell it for you? F-U-C-K. Fuck. Say it a few times an’ it’ll feel real comfy. Come now, if you can do it, you should be able to say it. ‘Sides, it’s not like I want you to say something you don’t mean.”

“Two out of three. Not bad, Angel.” He grins, apparently not offended. “Relax. Trust me. Let your old pal Spike take care of you,” he says, echoing what I said to him earlier tonight, adding, “It’ll be fun.”

He puts his hand on my chest and gives me a nudge that’s supposed to coax me on my back. Except, I don’t budge. I let him ‘shag’ me before. ‘Reminisced’ a few times, too. But that was different. I was in control then. Desperate maybe, but always in command of my actions. I have no desire to let go. Or shag for fun. Only for love. Or comfort. Relief, even. But not for kicks. Fun’s overrated, anyway.

He smiles and opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead, he kisses me, hard and hungry. I run a hand through his coarse hair, secretly wishing he hadn’t murdered it by bleaching it to death. I always liked William’s natural color.

Moments later, I’m lying flat on my back. Straddling me he reaches for my hands and very firmly pins them over my head, wrists crossed. There’s nothing to tie me down. No chains, no cuffs, nothing to coerce me into acquiescence or submission. I’m not sure why I’m agreeing to this. Certainly not because I think being tied up is fun. But I comply, nervous, curious and surprised at the intensity of my arousal.

Beginning with my fingers he licks, nips and bites his way slowly from my wrists to the ticklish insides of my elbows to my shoulders and neck. He rubs his cock against my thigh, while my own straining erection has nothing to rub against. He strokes my chest and starts tracing my muscles with his tongue. A moan escapes me. It requires considerable effort to leave my hands where he put them.

“He’s fine. Listen, we’ve got kind of a situation here,” a loud crash can be heard, “You wouldn’t be able to identify a few demons for us, would you? They’re scaly, look like giant roaches, except with more arms, dark green and pretty tough.” Another crash punctuates Lorne’s words. “Plus they’re trashing the lobby. Sword’s aren’t helping much, so we were wondering…”

I listen nervously, as he hurriedly passes on the information. There are more sounds of fighting, voices shouting at each other. Even Spike seems to listen intently. I search frantically for my pants. Spike shakes his head. “You won’t get there in time, anyway. Wait for it. Your mates will fry the critters extra crispy.”

He’s right. There’s nothing I can do. Except work out from the sounds what’s happening. A few agonizing minutes later, I can hear several people coughing and the phone is picked up again.

“Tell Spike it worked a treat. We touched them with a torch and they went ‘foomp,’ burnt up in seconds. But boy, they stink! We’re airing the lobby now. Don’t worry, everybody’s fine.”

Once I’ve talked to Cordy and heard that Connor slept through the whole ruckus I kill the connection and put the phone down. “Thanks,” I say sincerely. Spike just waves his hand dismissively. “There’s nothin’ like a good bonfire. Shame we missed out on it. Now, where were we?” he asks with a leer.

“Right,” he drawls, smiling roguishly. He trails a teasing, feather light fingertip from my chin, along my throat, over my sternum and abs, past the bellybutton, lower, down to my groin, and along the length of my straining cock all the way to its tip. That’s all it takes and I’m hard again.

He doesn’t continue where we left off. Instead, he starts all over again: arms, neck and shoulders. Then he reaches my chest, licking and blowing streams of cool air over moistened skin. He takes his time, sucking on one nipple while pinching the other. When they’re both swollen and sensitive he scrapes over them with blunt teeth, stimulating them almost painfully. By the time he moves on to my belly and then southwards I’m moaning and arching into his touch.

I’m getting more and more desperate to touch myself - or him. I’m not accustomed to being at the receiving end of torture, however pleasant. Not used to being at someone else’s mercy. Spike studies me. My reactions. I’m not sure I like that kind of attention. I feel exposed, more naked than ever. I know there are no chains. I can stop this any time I want to. I can – and I want to. Except, what I really want is – more! I’m vaguely aware that my hips are moving as my cock becomes more and more desperate for any kind of friction. All I can think is that I want him to touch me, there.

He moves down, giving my knees a friendly nudge. I comply and spread my legs for him. He kneels between my thighs and pays attention to my belly, the crease between my hips and my thighs, before brushing away some sand that’s clinging to my skin and starting to work on the insides of my thighs. Where he scrapes the sensitive skin with his nails, my body feels like it’s on fire. I hope I’m not whimpering.

“Cupcake, huh?” he snickers, his voice deep and silky. However, his rapid breathing gives away his own arousal. I feel his fingertips brushing against my cock. I gasp, straining into his touch, but he just uh-uhs and lightly touches the leaking tip, spreading pre-cum over the swollen head. He keeps his stokes light and teasing.

I buck and moan. All conscious thoughts and concerns, even those regarding Connor, are rapidly spiraling out of my consciousness as his hands and lips set me on fire. My arousal borders on painful. Part of me craves relief, part of me just craves more. It’s a hunger so acute and savage, it frightens me to give in to it.

Spike looks at me in deep concentration. His eyes are dark with desire and the tip of his tongue flits out to moisten his lips. He’s slowly pumping his erection with his left hand. His other hand is lightly resting on my hip. “Is there something you want? You can talk, you know.”

He searches my face, then nods once. He drops to all fours, covering me and prowls upwards, like a cat. Then he lowers himself fully on me, trapping our erections between our bodies. Our bodies grind against each other, as his hands brush over my arms and crossed wrists. He presses his lips on mine for a long hard kiss then slithers backwards until he’s kneeling between my thighs again. He gives me another long stare then stands up. Hey!

I close my eyes in relief when a slick finger teases my entrance and then forges inside. More! Spike adds a second digit. I can hear him panting. I open my eyes to find myself under close scrutiny. He’s watching me with dark, hungry eyes, chewing on his lower lip. Spike is clearly getting off on this, aroused by his power over my body. He begins to work me hard with two, then three fingers, while roughly jerking me off. That tiny twinge of almost pain just heightens the pleasure. My body presses against his thrusts automatically. I want more, want him to fill me completely, want him to push-thrust-pound into me. I’m beginning to unravel. Suddenly, his fingers are gone.

But the way that magnificent powerful body is sprawled in front of me, trembling and writhing; arms still stretched out above his head while his legs are spread wide; and that gorgeous cock all hard and urgent – that speaks volumes, that’s what counts. And god, there goes my patience. Poof! Gone.

“Right,” I mutter, taking a deep breath. “Was plannin’ on givin’ you the blowjob of your unlife. Reckon I changed my mind. Wanna fuck you now, this very minute. Guess that means you win.” I pick up the tube once more. “You know, Angel, it wouldn’t hurt for you to let go every once in a while. You worried about that pesky curse of yours? Well, we both know that there’s no way I can give you the big happy, don’t we. So, why don’t you just drop that oh-woe-is-me act. Have fun while you can. If you’re lookin’ for some kind of punishment, well, forget it. You’re not getting’ it from me.”

Angel just watches me, his face inscrutable, while I squirt some lube on my hand and swiftly coat my dick with it. I lift his ankles and place them on my shoulder. Then I align myself properly, positioning the head of my cock at his slick hole. Anticipation makes me shiver.

I pause. There’s a strange look on his face. Not the boring frown of martyrdom but a strangely unguarded expression. Almost laid back. Like he’s decided to let me in. Into his head, I mean.

After all this waiting it’s almost too much. One second I’m aching for him, the next moment there’s this stretching, almost burning, sensation and I’m impaled on long cool flesh.

He pulls out a bit, then slides back in, his movements fluid. When he starts an easy rhythm, I shake my head. “Harder,” I tell him. “Fuck me hard, Spike.” He draws in a shuddering breath and ploughs into me with more force, sinking in as far as possible. Hard and fast.

I cant my hips up. “That’s it, Angel, yeah,” Spike moans through clenched teeth. “Let go, you know you want to…” He spreads my legs wider and rams his cock into me, changing the angle until he’s hitting my prostate. At each thrust a rush of pure undiluted pleasure courses through me.

Spike continues to slam into me, but now my hands are on him, my make-believe fetters broken. I need… I grab a shock full of hair and yank him towards me. He has to let go of my legs to support himself. I need his lips on mine. It’s a fierce kiss, savage even. Need to devour him. I bite his tongue, and oh, the sweet taste of his blood... I suck greedily. He grunts in surprise, but doesn’t pull back. Need to be devoured. I bite my own tongue, mixing my blood with his. A tremor runs through his body when he tastes me. Echoing my own urgency he speeds up his thrusts, while fucking my mouth with his tongue. He shifts his weight slightly, freeing one hand. He grasps my cock and resumes his earlier rhythm.

Spike pulls back, wide-eyed, panting, drinking in the sight of my orgasm, but then he can’t hold out much longer. A dozen or so more thrusts and with a muted scream he convulses and shoots his own load into me.

Fun. Spike has given the word a whole new meaning. I’d be embarrassed about what happened, about how I totally lost it, except Spike won’t let me. He calls it therapeutic. Maybe he’s right. I feel good. Apparently, so does he.

He lights two ‘post-shag’ cigarettes, and forces one on me, claiming it’s part of the ‘fun’ and should endanger neither my health nor my redemption. Okay, why not. So, we sit and smoke, and stare at the sea.

“One time she wanted to see the sun set in the sea,” he continues. “So we drove here durin’ the day. We watched from behind the blackened windscreen as it set like a great ball of fire. Wasn’t the real thing, not the way we had to hide from the light. Even so, it was sort of grand.”

“So what. There’s plenty of water right there,” Spike nods at the waves. He’s joking. “Come on, mate, let’s go for a swim.” Or maybe not. He jumps to his feet and tosses his cigarette butt away. Oh no. No way. He grabs my hand and tries to pull me to my feet. Spike is crazy! If I didn’t know it before, now I do.

“Yeah, you got me there,” he concedes. “So let me rephrase that. When was the last time – other than tonight - that you did something purely for the fun of it. Sod the karmic payback?”

“Come on, Angel,” Spike gives me another tug. “You don’t expect me to go down on you when you’ve got spunk and lube sticking to your dick, do you? Not to mention all that sand.”

Looks like I found the right bait though, cause he’s tentatively wading into the water, lifting his feet high in a stork-y gait that looks utterly silly for a man of his powerful frame.

I wait till the water comes up to his thighs. He bends down to scoop up some water in his hands and splash it on his sticky privates. Hee hee. When I barrel into him there’s a hoot of surprise, then he splashes into the waves. What can I say, I’m evil. I jump after him and push his head under. Bye bye, Nancy boy hair gel.

He splutters and wildly flails his arms, hitting me squarely against my injured ribs. Ouch! Now that hurts! I gasp and almost swallow a pint of seawater. This calls for revenge. I dive at him and bite his bottom, causing him to gasp in surprise. I press my advantage and capture him in a tight embrace. We sink to the bottom in a tangle of limbs, groping and holding. It’s pitch-black and I can’t see a damn thing but I find his lips anyway. No thinking, no talking, just kissing and feeling - and being tossed around by the tide. So what. Don’t need to breathe, now, do we?

Even so he struggles, like he’s about to drown. I let go and he shoots back to the surface. “Spike, you idiot,” Angel pants as he frantically scrambles through shallow waters back towards the beach. But I sense mirth under the indignation.

I just laugh at him and cause him to trip and fall. I quickly pin him underneath me. We end up somewhere in the no-man’s-land between land and sea. The Pacific is pushing and pulling. Angel’s on his back, and I’m lying on top of him.

I crouch next to him and make good of my promise. I bend down and take his cock into my mouth. It’s soft and limp. I lick and suck, tasting the salt of the sea on my tongue, causing it to swell and harden. Every cold wave throws countless grains of sand at us that swirl and tickle against our skin and get caught in our hair. Feels great. And that feeling when the waters retreat with a rush, when they drag the sand from beneath you – really neat!

I’d laugh out loud, but I’ve got Angel’s cock between my lips. I start pumping him with one hand while fondling his balls with the other. Soon I have him thrashing like a stranded fish. I haven’t felt so good in a long time.

Angel doesn’t even reply, just gives me a pitying glance. I take it that’s a no. I walk to our pile of clothing and pick up my shirt. “Dry yourself with this,” I suggest and toss it his way. “Prissy.” I light myself a fag, then grab my trousers and put them on. Who cares if I’m still wet?

He takes a lot longer to get ready and dressed. Then he kneels in the sand to pack his stuff into his bag, even the empty jar that held the pig’s blood he gave me. Can’t litter, can we?

And with that he turns the ignition key and his engine roars to life. I do the same. We race back to the highway where we stop. He nods. I nod back. Very manly and all. And then we speed our separate ways. But tonight, neither of us was alone. Nothing else matters.