Resurrection (1 of 2)
Part: 1 of 2
Characters: Spike/Angel, Lindsey
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Summary: Some years post-series, Spike receives a surprise in the post.
Author's Notes: Posted in two parts due to length. Based on my April nekid numbers prompts Lindsey, Easter card, thunderstorm, and Daddy!kink. Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, silk_labyrinth , and to angelstoy who made the fabulous banner!
Spike rarely bothered to check the post—the only things that ever graced his box were bills or pizza delivery adverts—so he didn’t know how long the pastel envelope had sat there before he found it. Spike tossed the adverts in the red plastic rubbish bin, shoved the gas and electric bills in his duster pocket, and turned the lavender envelope over in his hands.
It was not addressed to William Lydon, the name on his forged passport. Instead, careful block letters read:
There was no return address, but the stamp was from the USA and the postmark from somewhere in California. It was too smeared for him to make out where.
He considered just throwing the bloody thing away. Nothing good was bound to come to him from California. But after his hand hovered over the rubbish bin for a few moments, he sighed and tucked the envelope in with his other mail. Then he went outside into the falling dusk to trudge the mile or so to his job. William Lydon worked as security for a car park. Hardly a glamorous position, but it was at night and his limited grasp of the local lingo wasn’t a major impediment. Besides, sometimes he caught sight of something genuinely nasty skulking about in the streetlights’ shadows, and he’d have the opportunity for a spot of violence. Most of the time, though, he sat in his little booth and read. And at the end of the week he had enough dosh to pay for some blood and fags and whiskey. His tosser of a grandsire took care of the rest of his expenses, wiring a sum into Spike’s account each month as if Spike were his kept boy.
Tonight’s shift was as tedious as ever. One bloke yelled at him over a scratch on the side of his Fiat Multipla, as if anything could possibly make that vehicle any uglier. Spike let the bloke bluster on at him for a time, and then shifted his face just a bit, just enough for a hint of fang and a yellow glow in his eyes. The man abruptly shut up and was quickly on his way. Spike grinned with satisfaction. His victories were small nowadays.
Halfway through his shift, curiosity finally got the better of him. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and gave it another look. It appeared innocuous, aside from its offensive color. Whatever was inside felt stiffer than paper. He wondered if he were somehow about to trigger another apocalypse, and remembered how it was the post that had brought him—inside the amulet—to Angel’s office, and that another parcel had made him corporeal again.
He sniffed at the paper but caught nothing except the faint traces of the postman’s odor and a bit of grease, perhaps from one of the machines that had processed the envelope during its journey. “Bleeding coward,” he said out loud, and tore open the flap.
The heavens didn’t rain fire and the ground didn’t open beneath his feet. No dark horsemen rode into view. Nothing happened at all, actually, apart from an Opel whirring by on the street, KUD Idijoti blaring from its speakers. But Spike was still cautious as he stuck his fingers into the envelope and pulled out the object inside.
It was a card. A card illustrated with a cartoon rabbit and a cartoon chick, each carrying a basket full of decorated eggs. The animals were skipping across an unnaturally green lawn full of smiling daffodils, while a Technicolor rainbow (its colors in the wrong order, Spike noted) streamed overhead. HAPPY EASTER!! was emblazoned across the blue sky in puffy white letters. “What the fuck?” Spike muttered.
Well, nothing for it but to open the sodding thing. There was a printed greeting inside, something trite about enjoying the season, which Spike largely ignored. What caught his attention was the note handwritten in tiny letters.
Sorry about the card. I realize that this probably isn’t a big holiday with you. Or maybe it is—the resurrection theme might feel familiar to you like it does to me. Anyway, it’s the only stationery I have. These religious guys handed them out last week. We’re supposed to send them to our families at home, like maybe that’ll help save our souls. Ain’t got no family, and it’s kinda late for the soul thing.
I’m doing ten years at Corcoran for manslaughter. My neighbors are Juan Corona, Charlie Manson, Phil Spector. All in all, a safer bunch than at the old law firm, you know? The manslaughter rap was bullshit—the guy was one of W&H’s old stooges, and the fucker had brought me back out of hell just so what’s left of the firm could use my ass again. Screw that. Hard to convince a jury of my story though, so here I sit. It ain’t heaven, but it’s better than where I was after Angel had me shot. You still talking to that asshole? If so, you can tell him I’ve forgiven him. Could be part of my 12 Step Process for Recovering from Evil. Maybe he even did the right thing. I wouldn’t have trusted me either.
The good thing about being in prison is it gives you plenty of time to think. I’ve been here a few years now and I’ve done plenty of thinking. And I decided I wanted to apologize to those I’ve wronged. Now, I ain’t getting on the redemption bandwagon or anything; I figure for me, that bandwagon has sailed. But I’ve been given a second shot at living, and I want to spend this time able to live with myself. Another Step, right?
There’s a couple demons in here, passing for human. They got connections, and I asked them to have their pals look you up. Well, asked ain’t the right word. I traded. But they found you.
At this point, Spike had to close the card and continue reading on the back.
I’m sorry, Spike. I’m sorry I lied to you and used you.
If you’re ever in California again, you can stop by and visit. You can yell at me and call me names; I don’t care. I never get visitors. Or, you know, you could just drop me a line. Tell me you hate me, whatever. It’d be nice to get some mail.
I truly am sorry. I hope unlife is treating you well and you’ve conquered your demons.
There was no signature under that, just a printed name and address:
Corcoran State Prison
PO Box 3471
Corcoran, CA 93213
Spike re-read the card three or four times, looking for some sort of hidden meaning. A veiled threat of some kind, an evil scheme perhaps. But he couldn’t find anything but the plain meaning of Lindsey’s words. Bloke was sorry. Spike could understand that. If there had been some way to write letters to the thousands of people he had hurt and killed, he would have done so. Just a short note: I know I was wrong, shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry. Not even a please forgive me, because that would be too much to ask. Lindsey hadn’t asked it of him either.
He meant to tear the silly card into little bits. But instead he stuffed it back in his pocket.
He didn’t write to Lindsey McDonald. Had nothing to say to him. But he kept the bloody card and over the next several weeks he re-read it many times. It was the first real correspondence he’d received since he died. Even when he’d maintained an address for a length of time, people just didn’t become pen pals with vampires.
Anyway, he reckoned that nowadays everyone communicated electronically. He had a laptop and even an email account—email@example.com—but it wasn’t as if he was stalking Facebook or following idiots’ tweets. He used the laptop to read the classics and surf porn and do his banking. He’d mostly obtained an email address so he could open an Apple account and buy music for his iPod. Just like his physical postbox, his email-box was usually empty, save for messages telling him he’d won the UK Lottery, or offering in Russian to increase his business, or promising to improve his sex life. The latter would be brilliant if it were true; for ages, his sex life had consisted of YouPorn and his left hand.
He kept the card until he had the sodding thing memorized, and even when he wasn’t looking at it he was often thinking about it. And thoughts of the card led to thoughts of other matters: of Angel and of closure, of regrets and being able to live with oneself.
In August, he stopped at a newsstand and bought a card. It had a red heart on the front with little white and blue flowers, and, in curly letters it read, “Čestitam!” Which he was fairly certain meant congratulations, but he reckoned that was at least as appropriate as someone sending him an Easter card. He took the card home and on the inside wrote a brief note. He snorted at his own penmanship, which after all these years was still careful enough to have pleased his old schoolmaster, as if nobody had bothered to tell Spike’s fingers that the twenty-first century had arrived.
Congratulations on not being dead anymore. I expect you’re right—alive and in prison is better than dead in hell.
I haven’t much to say to you, apart from thank you. Not for the apology. You owed me that. It’s cruel to pretend to believe in a bloke, to make that bloke nearly believe in himself, all for sport or for your own stupid revenge. But I expect you know that.
No, I wanted to thank you for making me think. I haven’t done much of that. Perhaps I should have spent some time in gaol. But now you’ve prodded me and I’ve come to some conclusions I should have reached long ago. So thank you for that. You deserve at least a bit of post for it.
Don’t bother writing to me again in Zagreb. I won’t be here much longer.
I hope your demons are conquered as well.
The trip to the post office to mail the card was a bit of an adventure. There were a dozen different windows, each with a specific purpose he couldn’t quite decipher, and it took him three tries and a ten-minute queue to find the window where he could purchase stamps. He watched as the bird behind the counter carefully chose the right ones and affixed them to the white envelope, along with a blue Air Mail sticker.
Walking back to his flat, he felt pleased enough to stop at a bar and to sit at a sidewalk table, people-watching as he drank his Karlovačko. For once, the sight of all the humans laughing and holding hands and stopping at the street corner to snog didn’t fill him with envy.
The next night he emptied his account at Zagrebačka Banka. Two days after that he packed up his meager belongings—a few changes of clothing, his laptop and iPod, a couple of favorite books—and got on a night train to Venice to begin his journey west.
Traveling in darkness was a particular challenge during summer and Spike cursed himself for not waiting until December. But by various means—trains, lorries, hired cars—he managed to get to Rotterdam. He lay low for a few days, trying to get a feel for things, until finally he approached a bloke whose shipping company had been having some issues with Graffink demons. Spike wasn’t surprised at that—Graffink demons were always trouble. Spike offered to sort the demon problem in exchange for a ride in a container ship. The bloke agreed. Spike killed the demons, which was a bit of fun, and a few days later he was stowed in a big metal box full of chunks of metal machinery. It wasn’t the most comfortable accommodations, but his mate in Rotterdam had supplied him with a cooler full of blood and Spike had brought an electric torch to read with. He managed.
When the ship arrived in Baltimore, Spike discovered that his Dutch contact had kept his word, and two men got him out of the container well before sunrise and before the customs inspectors arrived. Spike hired a car and spent two tedious nights on the freeway. As he drove through Ohio he thought about Buffy. The last news he'd heard of her was five or six years back, when she was reported to be in Cleveland. Spike was fairly certain Angel would have informed him if the Slayer were dead. But Spike kept the car moving west on I-80 all the way through Illinois.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Spike smirked. “Chicago is my kind of town.”
Angel scrunched up his eyes and rubbed his enormous forehead with both hands. “Spike—”
“’T’s a nice place you have here.” Spike looked about at the wooden beams, the stained glass windows that were probably stunning in the daylight, the stone fireplace. “Wright or a knock-off?”
“It’s— You didn’t come here to admire the architecture, Spike. What do you want?”
Spike wrapped his arms about himself defensively, unable to form an answer that would make sense. “A bloke can’t just get an urge to visit family?”
“We’re not— Money. Is that it? You need more money?”
“I didn’t come crawling here for pocket change,” Spike snarled. “If it was more dosh I wanted I wouldn’t have dragged myself halfway around the world. Wasn’t easy to get here, you know. I haven’t a private jet.”
“Neither do I. Not anymore.”
Spike stood just inside the doorway, waiting. He could feel the sticky heat of the air outside—where the slight tingle on his skin had promised a storm—and the cool dryness of Angel’s air conditioning blowing in his face. He hadn’t been lying; it was a nice house. A bit sterile, maybe. No signs of the occupant’s personality. But handsome nonetheless.
Finally Angel heaved an enormous sigh. “Come on in, I guess.”
“Such gracious hospitality. Ta.”
Angel glowered at him and then led the way down the hallway and through a wide doorway, into a room that appeared to be a library. There was another enormous fireplace there, and dark oak shelving full of books, and a pair of plush leather chairs. Angel gestured at one of the chairs and, while Spike seated himself, opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle and a pair of glasses. Spike could smell Bushmill’s as it was being poured.
“Here,” Angel said ungraciously, shoving a glass in Spike’s face. Spike took it and Angel plopped himself into the other chair. “So?”
“Still the Irish, then?” Spike said after taking a sip. “A quarter of a bloody millennium and your drinking habits haven’t yet left the island.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Spike drained the glass all at once. It was good whiskey. He focused his eyes on the bookshelf over Angel’s shoulder; the shelf was stuffed full of boring shite in French and German. The sort of shite that some people read because it made them feel cerebral and serious. Never mind that it was all just loads of pompous brooding. “I’ve been thinking,” Spike said.
“Well, there’s a first.”
Spike didn’t bother to glare at him. “Been thinking about the past…and about the future. About what I want to do with myself.”
“I thought you liked Croatia.”
“’T’s all right. As good as any other place.”
Angel looked quizzical. “Why did you choose Zagreb? You could go anywhere in the world.”
“It’s…it’s a nice enough city. And it’s a bit obscure and…and it was far enough away from other things.”
Angel sipped thoughtfully. “Like California? Or Cleveland?”
“Yeah. And…and Chicago.”
There was a long silence. Spike could just make out the rumble of thunder far away. Angel stood and fetched the bottle, refilled Spike’s glass and his own, then set the bottle on the little table beside him. Spike resisted the urge to chug his second drink as well. He turned the glass slowly in his hands, watching the amber liquid tip this way and that, admiring the way the lamp made the whiskey gleam.
Angel cleared his throat. “But now here you are. And it wasn’t easy to get here, you said.”
Spike nodded. Suddenly unable to sit still any longer, he set his glass on the polished wood floor and began to pace. His boots were noisy. “I’ve been thinking about how a bloke never knows how much time he’s left. They call us immortal but that’s a lie. I’ve dusted before and likely will again, probably next time for good. Christ, even gods die.” And they did, expending the last of their energies to destroy dragons and legions of demons. “So maybe I’ll last another night or maybe another thousand years, I don’t know. However long it is, though, I expect…I expect I ought to do what I can to be able to live with myself. Unlive.”
Angel’s brow was furrowed in puzzlement and Spike growled slightly with the frustration of finding the right words. Words. He’d always struggled with them, fought them as if they were enemies, trying to conquer them, to make them bend to his will. Occasionally he was even successful.
After a few more circuits of the room, Spike threw himself to his knees in front of Angel and put his hands on his surprised sire’s thighs. “I’ve enough regrets already, Liam. Don’t want any more. A long time ago…we started something. Do you remember?”
Angel didn’t say anything, but the widening of his eyes said he understood.
Spike nodded. “We never really finished, with Dru and Darla there, and then the curse…. We could try again, though, couldn’t we? See if…if it’s meant to be.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny.”
Spike shrugged. “I don’t.”
Angel turned his head and looked away. He was chewing on his lower lip a bit. Considering. After what seemed like a very long time he looked down at Spike again. “You’re wanting to come home, boy?”
Spike’s breath caught in his throat and he could only nod.
Part: 2 of 2
Characters: Spike/Angel, Lindsey
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Summary: Some years post-series, Spike receives a surprise in the post.
Author's Notes: Posted in two parts due to length. Based on my April nekid numbers prompts Lindsey, Easter card, thunderstorm, and Daddy!kink. Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, , and to who made the fabulous banner!
Angel’s bedroom was large. A king-size bed was in the very center of it, the bedclothes a navy that was almost black. There were matching curtains on the windows, thick enough to keep out any stray beams of sunlight. The walls were painted a very pale beige and ornamented with a few abstract paintings that Spike thought didn’t suit the house at all. But he didn’t say so. He simply followed Angel across the thick rug to the bedside and then, when Angel sat on the mattress, knelt in front of him.
“Tell me what it is you want, boy,” Angel said with more than a hint of a brogue.
“I want…I want to be cared for,” Spike replied, knowing the phrase had two meanings and intending them both.
Angel reached out and placed a heavy hand on Spike’s head as if offering a benediction. Spike closed his eyes and didn’t move.
“I can’t care for someone who fights with me all the time,” Angel said. “Who’s goddamn stubborn. Who won’t listen.”
“I’ll mind. Most of the time, anyhow.” Spike opened his eyes again and gazed upwards. “Please. Sire. Daddy.”
It had been so long since they'd played this game—and Spike wasn’t at all sure it really was a game—but as soon as he said the last word a thrill went through his body, a sense that something was going to happen. He didn’t know if it would be something good or not, but even the promise of change seemed suddenly very welcome.
Angel’s pupils had expanded, but his body betrayed no other signs of emotion. He nodded slowly, sagely. “All right. I can give you a try. I’ll have to…teach you some manners first, I think.”
“I’ll be an eager student.”
“And also…. You’ve been bad, William. Very, very bad.”
Spike felt sincerely chastened and he hung his head. “Yeah. But sometimes I was good. I saved—”
“I’m not talking about that! And no arguing, boy.” His grip on Spike’s head tightened. “Even if you weren’t always wicked you need to be punished for the times you were. How else will a lad learn proper behavior?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Spike said obediently. His cock was hardening already, uncomfortable in his tight jeans. A thunderclap resounded unexpectedly close, making him startle a bit.
Angel took his hand away. “That’s better. I think we can begin the punishment now. And later, if you’re very, very good—”
“I will be!”
Angel tapped his head firmly. “If you’re very, very good we can talk about how a good boy might earn rewards, and what those rewards might be.”
Spike wiggled a bit, trying to alleviate the ache in his groin. And then, feeling a bit daring, he bent forward and kissed the inside of Angel’s leg, halfway between his knee and the juncture of his body. “Thank you, Daddy,” Spike whispered.
Angel groaned slightly, then shook his head to clear it. “Stand up,” he ordered loudly.
Spike scrambled to his feet at once.
Spike slid his arms from the sleeves and tossed the coat into a corner.
“Unbutton your pants.”
Fingers moving quickly, Spike obeyed. When the jeans were unfastened, Angel yanked them down to Spike’s knees, creating an effective fetter. If Spike had entertained second thoughts, it was probably too late.
“Tsk,” Angel said with a shake of his head. “Still wayward. Here you are, supposed to be in trouble, and your little penis is all hard.”
It’s not little , Spike thought, but was wise enough not to say. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said, trying to sound contrite.
Angel tapped the offending organ quite hard. Spike hissed and barely managed to keep himself still. “You’re not supposed to be enjoying this, boy.”
“If you enjoy too much I’m going to have to get more…creative. Do you remember how creative I could be, Willy?”
Oh, Spike remembered very well. He swallowed thickly and nodded, but his erection didn’t flag at all.
“Fine, then,” Angel said. “Bend over my lap. But if you come, boy, I will be very unhappy.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Spike answered, and draped himself over Angel’s lap.
Angel was good at this. He rearranged his legs so that Spike’s cock was in the space between them, denying any friction against the cotton of his trousers. Then he smoothed his hand over Spike’s bare buttocks, his touch so gentle as to be barely there. Spike shivered and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Rain began to fall against the roof, first pattering tentatively but within seconds pounding hard, as if an army were rushing overhead. More thunder sounded and Spike expected that if the drapes were open and he were looking out the window, he would have seen quite a light show. But the curtains were closed and Spike kept his head down, his eyes seeing only Angel’s blue duvet.
Without any warning at all, Angel brought his hand down very hard on Spike’s arse. The sound it made was louder than the thunder and just as startling. Spike flinched a bit, more from the surprise than the pain, and Angel tsked. “Don’t shirk your punishment, boy. You know you’ve had this coming a very long time.”
“Yes, Daddy,” said Spike, and then tried to remain still as Angel spanked him again and again and again, each time harder than before. Angel’s hand felt huge as it made contact with Spike’s skin, and the coolness of it was soon replaced with the warmth of friction. Angel had callouses, skin hardened long ago from holding reins and hauling his father’s heavy parcels of linen and silk. And Spike had to bury his face in the blanket to hide a laugh about that. Fathers. Liam’s was an overbearing, ever-critical bastard and William’s was cold and distant. Look where that had got them: one or two centuries later and neither of them had worked out their daddy issues.
But Spike’s impulse to laugh went away as the hits came faster and harder, until his backside was in such pain that he could no longer distinguish the blows, and as his cock throbbed more and more urgently. He fought desperately not to climax, not to move into that heavy hand or away from it. Just to take it, to take his punishment.
And then, as Angel paused for a moment, Spike began to cry.
The sobs came as violently as a dam bursting; one moment he was fine, the next he was wailing uncontrollably, his throat immediately raw, his eyes blinded with tears, snot streaming from his nose. He wasn’t crying from the pain—yeah, his arse was sore, but he’d endured infinitely worse agonies with a firm chin and dry eyes. This weeping came from loss, from grief and loneliness, from regrets and repentance, from disappointment and frustration and exhaustion, from one hundred fifty years of being wronged and wronging others. He cried and cried until his chest ached.
Dimly he became aware that Angel had stopped spanking him. That Angel had begun using his big hand to soothe instead, sliding it under Spike’s shirt and rubbing gentle circles on his back. And then Angel flipped him over so that he was cradling Spike in his arms like a small child, and Spike was snuffling into the crook of his neck, the long-familiar scent finally calming him. Angel crooned at him: “There’s a good lad” and “Good boy” mixed in with scraps of Gaelic and wordless humming. Old sod still couldn’t keep a tune, but for once Spike didn’t mind.
When Spike had finally subsided into silence, his face still hidden against Angel’s body, Angel kissed the top of his head. “You took your punishment very nicely, Will,” he said softly.
Angel carefully transferred Spike from his lap to the mattress. Spike lay on his back with his eyes closed, feeling the comforting twinge of his buttocks against the bedding. The bed shifted as Angel stood, and then Spike heard a tap running. The mattress dipped again as Angel sat beside him and washed Spike’s face with a warm, damp flannel. He was as gentle about it as if Spike were a baby, and it felt lovely. When was the last time anyone had touched him softly, had taken care of him?
“There now,” Angel whispered. “All better. And you were so very good I think you deserve a reward.”
Spike’s erection had wilted during his outburst, but the purring tone in Angel’s voice reawakened it. Angel noticed and chuckled. He stood again, unlaced Spike’s boots, and pulled them off. They hit the floor with muted thuds. Spike kept his eyes closed as his jeans were drawn off, and he listened to the rustle as Angel undressed as well. The storm had lessened, Spike realized. Raindrops were still tapping on the roof, but lightly, like fairies dancing. Spike snorted at himself—seemed he was channeling Dru this evening.
Angel didn’t bother asking what Spike was thinking. He pulled him upright, and as Spike sat as limp and compliant as a rag doll, Angel tugged off his t-shirt. Spike didn’t protest as he was maneuvered back onto the mattress again, this time belly down, legs splayed wide. Spike inhaled deeply at the sheets, drawing the scent of his sire into his nose, into his dead lungs. Then he exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
Delicately, Angel’s palm slid over the reddened, bruised flesh on Spike’s bottom. It hurt, but in a pleasant sort of way. When Angel paused, Spike waggled his arse a bit.
“Is there something you want, my boy?” Angel asked.
“Please. Please, Sire, Daddy. Please.”
“Want you, Daddy. Please?” Spike had been too overcome to be ashamed at crying, but now a knot of humiliation formed in his stomach over the begging. It wasn’t his need that filled him with shame, or even the fact that he was expressing it so baldly, so pitifully. No, he was mortified by the memories of all the previous times he’d felt this way—when he’d craved sensual touches as deeply as he craved blood—and had been turned away. By those who knew he wasn’t good enough for them; by those who wanted someone else.
But Angel didn’t turn away. He resumed his soft caresses and Spike sighed again and relaxed. “Thank you, Daddy,” he rasped.
“My good boy,” responded Angel. A thick, blunt finger drew a circle on the tender skin just above Spike’s cleft, and then that finger moved down, tracing infinitely slowly between Spike’s cheeks until it came to his tight little hole. Spike spread his legs even wider and was satisfied to hear Angel’s breath hitch a bit. Then the finger went away and Spike opened his mouth to complain, but before he could get a word out he heard the tiny pop of a plastic lid being opened, and then felt liquid pooling slightly above the swell of his buttocks and running between his cheeks. Click went the lid and Angel’s finger returned, this time nicely slick.
Angel teased him for a moment, tracing the outline of Spike’s sphincter, just barely tapping at the edges of it. And then he slipped his finger inside. The stretch was welcome enough to make Spike groan out loud. He considered begging for more, but he was afraid his sire would call him greedy and stop, so instead Spike waited as patiently as he could while that single finger worked in and out.
Eventually, Angel added a second finger. He stretched Spike as carefully as if Spike were a virgin, which in a way he was. He’d been one when he was turned—had never shagged a woman, let alone a bloke. And although Spike had buggered a bloke now and then over the decades or been buggered by one, mostly when Dru was in the mood to watch, the last time for that had been ages ago. He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be opened, to be filled, to have something brush against his prostate just like that.
“Bloody hell!” Spike said. Keeping his shoulders pressed to the mattress, he folded his knees underneath himself.
“Language!” Angel said, slapping Spike’s arse hard enough to make him yelp.
“Please, Liam. Daddy. More?” Spike finally opened his eyes to bat his eyelashes pathetically.
Angel hesitated, as if his cock wasn’t stiff between his legs, red and angry-looking, the tip trailing a thin stream of precome. Then he nodded and positioned himself on his knees between Spike’s legs. He kneaded Spike’s cheeks a few times, no doubt enjoying the marks he’d made. Finally, to Spike’s enormous relief, he took his cock in hand, pressed the crown to Spike’s ready opening, and pushed inside.
It hurt a bit. Angel’s cock was a lot thicker than two fingers. But Spike willed himself to relax because he knew the burn would disappear soon. And it did, replaced instead by sweet, torturous friction, as Angel slowly moved all the way in and then dragged himself nearly all the way out. “Is this what you wanted, my boy?”
“God yes, Sire.”
“And will you be wanting it again?” Despite the lust that thickened Angel’s voice, Spike caught a hint of anxiety.
Spike was so relieved that Angel wanted this too—that the old man had no plans to throw him out on his ear once he was through with him—that he grinned widely. “Yeah! Please, yeah.”
Angel let out his breath with a whoosh and angled himself exactly right to stimulate Spike’s prostate. “Then you’ll have to be a very good boy.”
“I will,” Spike grunted. “But perhaps…perhaps sometimes I’ll be naughty instead?”
Angel actually laughed at that and slapped Spike’s arse again.
After that they stopped speaking. Spike couldn’t find proper words anyhow, just incoherent moans and guttural sounds of need, and when Angel pulled Spike upright on his knees and, still pounding away, wrapped a busy hand around Spike’s cock, Spike howled and came so hard that bolts of lightning flashed in front of his eyes.
Angel cleaned them both up, wiping Spike front and back with a warm damp flannel again. That was good. Spike felt as boneless as a jellyfish, spent and knackered and completely relaxed for the first time in recent memory. Angel gave himself a cursory wipe-down as well, then crawled into bed beside Spike. He pulled the covers over them both and gathered Spike in his arms, his breath tickling against Spike’s ear.
“Liam?” Spike said with a bit of hesitation.
“I mean to stay.”
“You won’t toy with me, with you? Aside from the fun games, that is.”
“No. I won’t. I’m…. This is good like this.”
Spike nodded. “There’s one other thing.”
“Erm…I owe someone a good turn, I reckon. Without him, I wouldn’t have come here.”
Spike winced slightly. “Lindsey McDonald.”
There was a long silence as Angel processed that. “The little shit’s not dead?” he finally asked.
Spike waited out another long pause.
“Fine,” Angel said with resignation. “You can tell me about it tomorrow.”
Spike smiled and wiggled against him. “Ta.” He listened to the beat of the raindrops and was almost asleep when Angel stroked his belly.
“Yeah?” he answered with a yawn.
“Maybe next time…can it be my turn to be your boy?”
Spike rolled over and leaned his forehead against his sire’s. “That’d be brilliant.”
The San Joaquin Valley hadn’t had a drop of rainfall in months. The weeds at the roadside looked parched, the fine sandy soil coated everything, and the buildings in front of Spike wavered in the heat.
He was crouched in the back of an SUV, the tailgate open so he could watch but the vehicle carefully positioned to keep the sun’s rays angled away. The windows were necrotinted—Wolfram & Hart may have dragged its sorry ass to a more hospitable dimension, but Angel had his old Rolodex, still sporting some good contacts.
Spike had been waiting perhaps fifteen minutes when the metal gate squealed as it rolled slowly open. Three men approached from within: two in uniform and one in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. The bloke in the jeans had a cheap-looking knapsack slung on one shoulder. The trio paused at the gate and spent a few moments conversing with someone inside the white gatehouse. Then the man in jeans took a few steps out while the other two remained inside. The gate screeched again and clanked shut.
Lindsey McDonald just stood there for a time; not looking behind him at the prison, just looking up at a sky faded and yellowed from smog. He turned his head a bit to smile at the miserable-looking little lawn in front of the gatehouse. And then he began to walk toward the bus stop, his gait as wide and easy as a cowboy on his ranch. He looked a bit older than when Spike had last seen him, but even more muscular. Prison was good for that sort of thing.
“Oi!” Spike called.
Lindsey froze and looked about.
“Over here!” Spike risked his skin long enough to stick a hand out of the tailgate.
Lindsey cocked his head, shrugged, and ambled over. He stopped just in back of the SUV and peered inside. “This ain’t really vamp weather, is it?”
“Wankers wouldn’t release you at night. Bloody regulations.”
“I was wondering who the hell managed to get me sprung early. How’d you do it?”
“Wasn’t me. Peaches has a few of the right connections, knows how to pull the right strings.”
Lindsey’s eyebrows had flown up. “Angel did this?”
“Yeah. He…. Well, I asked him when he was in a position to be granting requests.” Spike chuckled to himself, remembering exactly what position that had been, and how it had really been more of a command. Angel had been motivated right then to be very, very good.
“Okay, but why?” Lindsey asked.
“Twelve Step Program for Recovering Big Bads.”
“Well, you mean to climb inside so I can put on the air conditioning and get us the fuck out of this place?” Spiked asked. “Or would you prefer to melt into a lawyer-sized puddle of goo?”
“AC sounds pretty good,” Lindsey answered. He tossed in his bag beside Spike. As he walked around to the passenger side, Spike slammed the tailgate shut. As soon as Lindsey was seated and the passenger door shut, Spike scrambled into the driver’s seat. “Where we headed?” asked Lindsey.
“Hog butcher for the world.” Spike started up the engine and turned on the AC full blast.
“What’s the Windy City got to offer me?”
“A comfortable bed,” Spike answered as he pulled out of the car park. “No bars on the windows and fewer worries when you drop the soap. A bit of a paycheck. A fulfilling position battling evil. Charming companionship.”
“And Angel. Well, he’s not so charming, but he’s better than Charles Manson. Most days.”
Lindsey rubbed the back of his neck. “And he doesn’t mind me…what? Moving in with you guys?”
“Wouldn’t say he’s thrilled about it, but that’s all right, innit? Keeps him from getting too happy.” Spike looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Look, mate. You’re a free man. If you don’t want to go, I can drop you off right here or anywhere along the way. Maybe you’d fancy Denver or Omaha. I’d avoid Vegas if I were you. But it’s your life. ’M not going to tell you what to do with it.”
“But you think I still got a shot at redemption.”
Spike shook his head. “I know fuck-all about redemption. But I think when someone offers a chance at a new life, a better life, only a fool would turn that down.”
Lindsey’s frown slowly melted away, replaced by a wide grin. “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no fool.”
William Pratt had rarely dared to hope for anything, and later, well, hope was hardly an emotion familiar to the evil undead. But now Spike reckoned he knew what hope felt like, growing in his heart like the first green shoots of spring. Hope for second chances. Hope for love. Hope for the kind of existence in which he could finally live with himself.
Spike smiled back and turned the car away from the setting sun.