She thinks she might be a pervert now for real, and this is so much more than the whole fucking vampires thing. That’s old hat. Buffy accepted that kink because she had to, and because of love.
Through the bedroom wall (which is too thin—a fact which is probably a serious burden on the neighbors next door) she can hear the cheerful noises of Spike, going about his normal business. If what you consider normal is blood cocktails paired with frozen Tater
Tots and Footie on cable. Which she does. Unfathomable and male, but normal in Buffy-land.
There is ice clinking in a highball glass and happy boy mumbling and then a stream of weird British curse words as he burns his fingers on the oven. Then the murmur of TV sports punctuated by enthusiastic vocal participation from the audience (of one).
Yep, this is domesticity. This is commitment. This is a nice but not too nice flat and matching house keys. Fluffy towels and laundry day and picking up blood at the butcher shop on her way home from the Council. Taking turns doing the dishes.
But perhaps there is such a thing as too much truth-telling, baring-it-all, I-need-you-to-know-everything-about-me, loving honesty and maybe she can’t handle it yet. Or else she’s just a perv.
Because since Spike told her that about him and Angel, it’s a steamy, sordid place in the mind o’ Buffy. Filled with a riotous intermingling of beautiful man parts that she’s loved so hard, each in their own way. It makes her dizzy, and guilty, because she can’t tell him. He’s worked so hard for boyfriend status (Hello, save the world much?) and so she just can’t.
But that doesn’t stop her now from shoving her hand down her stylish, velour, drawstring pants, knowing she’ll be covered by Spike’s unwavering attention to the soccer game.
Buffy fingers herself quickly and efficiently, as if somehow getting off fast will make it less of a transgression. And then she lies there on her back, in their bed, panting and heaving, with images of Spike on Angel and Angel on Spike burning behind her retinas.
She doesn’t tell him. Later that night she wants it on all fours, knees poking into the mattress and eyes squeezed shut. She doesn’t tell him that she is thinking about Angel and wondering (hoping) that he too knows what it is like, to have this slight weight pressing down, made heavy by passion.
He is murmuring her name into her hair, calling her love and sweetheart and his pretty, pretty whore. She wonders if he called out Angelus’ name or if it was all stoic and manly and whatnot. She knows they were evil then, but in her head it’s just a flood of hotness and maybe she’s not just a perv but an emotional freak, because she should be jealous, right?
But after all this time, Buffy doesn’t know how to be jealous of them, or differentiate between how she loves them and how she knows they love each other. Even if they won’t talk about it, won’t admit it, and in this reality, it isn’t sustainable. They’ve hardly talked since LA except to grunt in Vampire Man Code on the phone before she picks up the receiver and makes pleasantries.
Maybe domesticity isn’t their thing.
And then there’s the inexplicable rush of heat to her groin when she thinks of them, mashing mouths, pulling hair and maybe (guh!) touching each others’ faces tenderly.
“Buffy, love, are you here with me?”
She whispers, “Yes, of course,” feels guilty, and turns around, lets him fuck her AND see her eyes.
He is so sweet, sometimes, her tamed monster.
So was Angel.
But William the Bloody and Angelus?
Spike’s eyes are flaring blue and when he comes she can see the wildness he suppresses. He repeats her name in a growling litany and it is good; it is enough. So why can’t she stop thinking about this?
Afterwards, she lets him smoke in bed. There is kissing and cuddling, but Buffy’s mind is still not quiet after Spike’s flick of the lamp switch and “Good Night, Pet.”
Too much wine will make a good Slayer honest.
Buffy pushed away and suppressed her traitorous thoughts for weeks, but now the word from Giles is that Angel’s coming to London. About some whoseywhatsits about demon spawn in LA. Or something. It isn’t Buffy’s job to know everything about everything anymore.
But she should know about her vampire ex-boyfriends!
Buffy’s quickly getting smashed. But it *is* Saturday and her night off from patrolling.
“Woah, easy now, Pet. Don’t wanna be extracting you from the toilet bowl later on, all right love?” Spike wrests the bottle from her fingers gently and flashes that crazy grin that still makes her puddle on the inside.
Buffy feels her chin begin to jut out petulantly and knows there is no escape from the verbal diarrhea that is going to ensue. Wheee! Goodbye, healthy relationship.
“Was it good? With you and Angel, I mean?”
Spike gives her a dumbfounded look and then collects himself. Tries to size her up with his eyes.
Apparently, he decides that it’s safe to proceed, because he says quietly, “Sometimes—when he forgot to hate me. An’ it was even good when he did. But not in a way that’s acceptable for tea parties like this one and polite conversation.”
She is looking at him with rapt eyes and it seems to unnerve him. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep throatful of whisky.
“Why do you want to know about this, Buffy-love? It’s in the past now. Don’t want you actin’ all queer when old Grandsire comes to visit.”
“It’s OK, Spike. It’s…I don’t…mind.” The blush that crosses her cheeks is the mother of all blushes. She can feel it burning, radioactive and hot.
Spike cocks his head and tilts an eyebrow both. Is he *trying* to make it worse?
“What’s this? Are you…are you having naughty thoughts in there, Slayer?”
Buffy meeps. That’s the only way to describe the terrible, horrible way that her mouth betrays her.
And then Spike does the most surprising thing. He laughs. Deep, guffawing chuckles that make him grab his stomach and nearly lose hold of his still-burning cigarette.
Buffy’s indignant. Her mouth gapes and nothing comes out.
When he calms down, Spike pulls her close and touches her cheek with his knuckles.
“You really are a wicked girl, aren’t you?”
“You…you don’t mind?”
“Well, it’s not like you weren’t thinking ‘bout me, now is it?
Look at that smirk. Who’s wicked now?
“S’long as you stay here with me, in this flat, in our bed, I don’t give a rat’s ass ‘bout much else.”
Buffy snuggles in closer and speaks softly into his chest, “And Angel?”
“We’ll have ourselves a nice visit, now won’t we?”
It’s like a quickening—how the promise of his words pings through to her extremities and back inwards.
Buffy pulls him close and kisses him, and on their tongues she tastes Angel too, and knows that love is love, and it doesn’t always come in the expected formations.
And so maybe she will accept this kink too, because of love.
Together Again for the First Time
It’s sick, in a way, how Spike rather enjoys an awkward moment. And this has been an awkward hour. For Buffy, because she’s been rollin’ about in her nasty little thoughts for weeks. And for Angel, well, because he’s Angel and he’s trying to do the right thing as is his way, and because the tosser really has no idea what’s swimming in that pretty blonde head of hers. Apparently, in Angel-land, the “right” thing to do in this particular situation is to make pleasant conversation and to flash the pretty, pretty smile that makes all the birds swoon. Bastard knows it, too. This one’s not quite the grin that floods the whole of that big, handsome mug of his from time to time. Call him sentimental, but that one’s Spike’s favorite.
So, yeah, here they all are, sittin’ about in the parlor for Sunday tea. Actin’ like they’re old friends. Which, Spike muses, they are now, all three of them—old friends and sometime lovers who’ve each tried to kill one another at least once or twice. Ain’t life grand?
Spike kicks his boots up on the coffee table, tucks his hands behind his head and sits back to enjoy the show.
Just look at my girl, all nervous and fidgety. Nigh about blushing, all right. Must be real worked up—hasn’t said a thing remotely connected to dirty footwear and/or the sanctity of furniture.
It’s so rare that he sees Buffy flustered these days that Spike’s feeling a wee bit nostalgic. Although this is utterly different than before, when he used to just get her flustered paired with murderous, or agitated with a side of irritation, and then there was always rattled put together with angry, hot, gonna-fuck-you-Spike but don’t you dare tell my sis or my pals.
The good ol’ days be hanged—this is better.
Spike cocks his head to one side, the better to size up his Grandsire as he exchanges pleasantries with Buffy about rebuilding his operation, cutting losses, and strengthening the team, or some such rot.
(He rather misses being a part of that team.)
But this is good work too—being the training vamp for the wee girlies. Not many who’re qualified for that gig.
And then there’s Buffy…
As it tends to do, the whisky calls his name. So Spike goes to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of Jack that is exactly what this occasion calls for. When he comes back, Buffy is looking up at him, pleading with her eyes for him to *do* something. Oh, how things switch about. But the waiting is good too, and Spike leans by the doorway and continues to watch them, taking glugs from the bottle as necessary.
To say that Angel’s a pretty bloke is just about the platitude of all platitudes. But it’s true.
And no one can ever say that the fellow isn’t brave. Apocalypses be damned—coming here to this flat has got to be the most civilized thing that Spike’s ever seen Angel do. Because the old man thinks that he lost the contest—that Buffy chose Spike and only Spike.
But it isn’t a contest anymore, Peaches, can’t you see?
Spike can almost smell the blood rushing to Buffy’s cheeks as she blushes. Her gaze is flitting over to his at an ever-increasing rate until she marches over, grabs the bottle indignantly from his willing hands, and sits back down across from Angel, taking a sip that’s far too large for her still nascent boozing capacities. It’s an action that causes her to make that adorable “euaargh” face of hers, and prompts a massive eyebrow lift from Angel, who stares at her with a look of utter confusion until he finally wrests his eyes away to meet Spike’s and asks point blank, “What the hell am I missing here, Spike? You two are acting even weirder than usual, and that’s saying a lot. Especially of you, William.” Spike cocks his head and grins. This is going to be good.
“Well, y’see, mate, the long and the short of it is—the bint’s sopped her knickers thinking about you and me…together-like.”
Both Angel and Buffy shoot Spike the requisite outraged glares. He loves it.
The two people he gets the most fun out of irritating in one room together. Now that’s a party. And it feels good to be at a party that he’s welcome to—not as a crasher or hanger-on, but a bleedin’ invited guest; lord of the manor, even, so to speak.
Spike ignores them both and reclaims the bottle from the now even more tomato-red Buffy.
“So have a drink, mate, and think on how far you’re willing to go for the love of your unlife.” Before bringing the bottle to his lips once again, Spike graces Angel with an eyebrow lift of his own and concludes, “Cheers.”
Angel first looks massively surprised and then slits his eyes, “I don’t drink.”
“I seem to recall a time when you could knock ‘em back with the best of us.”
“Things are different now.”
“They bloody well are,” Spike insinuates meaningfully.
Fuck this. If things are gonna get rolling around here, the old Poofter had better get socially lubricated. And that dirty pun just about makes Spike giggle out loud.
When the other two catch him smiling—apparently spoiling their for-old-times-sake pensive air—Spike groans and thrusts the JD in Angel’s face.
“Oh, just have at it, old man. You didn’t used to need to get sloshed to take a shine to my pretty arse, but I promise not to be insulted. It’s been awhile for you, I know.”
Immediately after the last bit exits his lips, Spike feels sorry. Blast. Stupid mouth always gets the better of him and now the stupid soul makes him care.
It’s just that he’s realizing now that he wants this as much as Buffy does, and that makes him feel the teensiest reminder of what it was like—hoping Daddy would love him back, and the bitter disappointment when he wouldn’t show it, no matter how hard poor William tried to win Angelus’ favor.
So he watches as Angel takes a swig, and Buffy looks on nervously. Angel’s looking like they’ve just told him that pigs can fly, and it’s fucking hilarious, and rather sexy to boot.
And now the whisky’s doing what it’s supposed to do—heating his tepid blood, making him brave. So Spike lopes deliberately over to where Angel is sitting on the couch, Armani-clad legs slightly apart and dumbstruck expression on his face. And that? Might be better than any possible arrangement of naked bodies they might end up with tonight.
All the same, Spike kneels triumphantly in front of the motionless Angel and forcibly wrests his knees apart, turning to flash his girl a grin before he reaches for the big lug’s tailor-made fly.
Angel’s protests are gone now, and he simply gulps and watches as Spike removes his cock from inside the posh trousers and cradles it with deadly white hands.
It’s a rush like none other—how Angelus is letting him touch like this, how Spike owns this, and how he can feel Buffy’s eyes burning holes in his back and smell how her sweet, anxious cunny perfumes the air.
Because—as with the soul—she may have spurred him to do it, but this is him—Spike, William—taking action.
Sucking Angel’s cock is so familiar; he’s done it a thousand times, and it always made him hot, made him hard, but now it makes him feel powerful, wanted, useful. And just look at how Peaches is getting into it, even if he does keep sneaking looks at Buffy, perhaps to see if this is really all right with her. In that moment, Spike feels sorry for Angel, that he hasn’t gotten to experience it yet—what she’s like now that she’s all grown up.
When he’s finished, Spike turns to a breathless Buffy and says, “C’mere, love.” It’s not right anymore, for her not to be a part of this. Because it is through her, because of her, that they’ve become better men—better able to love one another.
She walks over to them, shaking, and god he loves her. Loves her all the more for giving this to him.
And Dru? Well, he couldn’t blame her for loving Daddy best. (They all did.)
But this is different.
Because he isn’t quite the same bugger he used to be…and neither is Angel.
And so it is all right, to supervise from behind while Angel’s cock slides into Buffy. To see her moan and shudder as his Grandsire fills her up. To know that only half of Angel’s guttural throat sounds are because of the way that Spike’s own cock is nestled inside of that greek-statue arse, and that the other half are because she is perfect for them.
Spike feels a teensy bit magnanimous about “letting” Angel screw his Slayer (even though she is not really his—she is hers—and the idea of owning her finally seems archaic). Besides, he gets to fuck her every day. Yes, every day—because real heroes are like that, not just villains.
And later, when they are all three lying naked and tangled and sticky on the carpeting, Angel turns to look at him with a shit-eating grin almost reminiscent of the carnal Angelus of yore (only with the viciousness parceled out) and says, “Why exactly was it that I came to London again?”
Because we were waiting for you, you bleedin’ pillock.
She speaks so easily with Spike.
Angel watches as Buffy twists the phone cord and smiles, rolling her eyes, most likely at some off-color remark told in the idiosyncratic British accent that haunts Angel’s dreams sometimes.
It’s a strange thing—these two people that he knows so well in such different ways, and he pretty much missed it—all the blood and angst and sex and tears and world-saving they went through to end up where they are now.
Of course I’ve had all that with both of them myself.
Buffy’s looking over at him now and she mouths, “I’m almost done,” apologetically.
Angel nods and leans against the wall, feeling the silky-thin partition of his shirt press against his shoulder blades.
They’re talking rent checks, and bills and Giles and Slayer Academy and that’s not his world…but he does like to visit.
“You’re really lame, you know that, Spike?”
A pause and then she’s laughing. Tossing her shiny, shiny blonde hair like the shampoo commercial that she is (yes, Angel’s watched some TV this century).
“Goodbye, Mr. Lame-O Vamp.” A beat. “Yeah, me too.” Click.
She turns to face him. “Spike had to leave in a hurry but he says that I should be nice to you.”
Angel’s bemused, and wondering how on earth he got into this crazy situation and not entirely caring. The jealousy’s like habit, but he’s not even sure what it’s for or if it even really exists at all (or who he’d be jealous of).
“You really do love him, don’t you?” he says in a measured tone.
Buffy opens her mouth and shuts it, like she’s about to be uncomfortable, and then he sees the kind of determination that just keeps getting stronger in her every day wash over her face and the pretty-girl features go smooth once again.
Buffy catches Angel’s gaze head on and says quietly but firmly, “You know I do. Don’t you?”
There aren’t really words for how Angel feels about Spike. It’s something. It’s something big. But he’s never really tried to name it before. So he looks at Buffy and his jaw goes slack and all that comes out is, “Ah…”
And then he sees her melt, and has the uncomfortable realization that she really does know both him and Spike far better than he usually acknowledges. And that perhaps knowing them both helps her know each one individually. She pretty much *is* the expert on souled vampire/human relations, after all.
“This isn’t where I thought we’d be when I was sixteen.” Buffy toys with her hair.
“Buffy—” He doesn’t really know what to say, because it’s true—Angel had never imagined this either. But back then, he hadn’t been able to think much further than the next day, the next hour, the next minute—the next time he’d see her. She’d been his whole world, his whole reason for “living”—and it’s a bittersweet place to revisit.
Buffy had always been the one—so innocent then—to say that the future didn’t matter. But it did—does—matter, and the future is now. And they’re together…right here, right now.
It’s the first time he’s been alone with her for any length of time since this whole thing got started. And suddenly Angel feels nervous, like he’s a young man, and not what he really is—a very, very old vampire. The weight of the intervening years hasn’t lifted; Buffy just…does this to him.
She finally looks up, with *those* eyes, green and glinting bright in the low light of his apartment. He still prefers the dark.
“But…this isn’t so bad, right?” There’s an almost-tremor in her voice, and his heart aches with love for her. This is the girl, no, the woman who changed him more than any curse.
“No, Buffy, it isn’t bad at all.” He risks a smile, and is rewarded with a dazzling, timeless Buffy grin.
“Well, he does have that annoying sexy accent thing going on that you girls all seem to like so much. *I* used to have an accent too, you know.” Light grey storm clouds roll over Angel’s face. But he’s teasing…mostly.
Buffy rolls her eyes. It’s an action that can speak volumes with her.
“Yeah, so what? You’ve got the tall, dark and handsome thing working for you. Besides,” Buffy’s eyes gleam wickedly, “you know you think it’s hot, too.” She grins again and waggles an eyebrow.
He has to laugh at that.
“You really are something, Ms. Summers.”
“Yep, ‘something,’ that’s me. I am chock full with all kinds of ‘something.’”
She’s had two glasses of wine, but said no to a third.
He made her dinner and watched her eat. Saw her dig in with gusto and a passion she usually reserved for slaying and…other things. Buffy’s got a bit more meat on her bones again.
It makes him want to fuck her.
“It’s weird. It’s kind of like he’s always with us…at least a little.”
Angel looks across the table and meets her eyes. Says nothing, but gives her a whisper of a nod.
One thing that can always be said about Buffy is that she doesn’t give up easily, because the next words out of her mouth are, “Because you *do* love him too, don’t you?”
This time the nod is a little bit more perceptible. He hopes it’s enough.
“We’re too old for ‘perfect happiness’ now, aren’t we?” Buffy blushes but carries on, “I mean, you guys have always been old. Oh god, I’m sorry. Me and the serious talking thing? Not always the mixiest.” She looks a little worried and a little apologetic.
Angel smiles indulgently and more than a tiny bit wistfully. “You helped us grow up, Buffy. I know—I know I’m more thankful for that than you know. And Spike—well, Spike would say the same too, I’m sure, although probably with more expletives and possibly in freeform verse.”
They both laugh then, his deeper chuckles harmonizing with her somewhat unladylike snicker. It makes things easier—and the air becomes a little less thick. Teasing Spike is just another thing that they share.
And then she looks up, with those eyes that have been stirring him at the core for what *can’t* be just a few mortal years.
The lust kicks in, the rumbling and growling in his inner sanctum that he’s put on hold, pushed away for so, so long. But they’ve rescued him from his loneliness, if only for a weekend at a time.
With Spike, no matter what Angel feels about him, there will never be perfect happiness, because the other vampire reminds him of what he is, and what they are both working toward. (But that’s what makes it hot.)
And with Buffy…it’s not her—it’s just that that time has passed.
But Angel doesn’t want perfect happiness anymore, because that kind of joy is blind and blinding; it keeps you from seeing the things that matter. Duty, sacrifice, the struggle, the things that come closest to making Angel feel proud—the things that make him feel like a man. Not to mention the fact that it’s dangerous (and keeps him from getting laid).
In this moment, what he most wants is to be touching Buffy.
They bridge the table with desperate lips and hands, like they did that one precious day that only belongs to Angel now. So Buffy doesn’t know that when she’s lying beneath him on the wooden slats of the table, whimpering and grinding her pelvis into his, it’s déjà vu.
But that’s OK, because he gets to share this new memory.
When Angel grips Buffy’s hips, she pushes back—hard—as if to remind him that she is a woman now, not a girl.
Her body’s so much smaller than his underneath his hands, but she’s strong, so strong and can go on like this for hours, boiling like a tea kettle at full blast.
This deluge of her wanting him, wanting him, wanting him is making Angel dizzy, and happy, and for once in his unlife, he’s not thinking about much else.
Buffy wants him everywhere and tells him as much. Dirty words spilling from her pretty mouth and she probably learned a lot of that from Spike, but he doesn’t care, because she’s here in his too-often-lonely bed with him now, and later it will be all of them, and sometimes it will be just him and Spike and when he comes it’s her name that falls from his mouth.
Afterwards they lie panting and naked on his high thread-count sheets—black because they match his wardrobe (and Spike’s too, come to think of it). And she’s beautiful—his golden girl. The original golden girl. Buffy—the Slayer to end all slayers (or the beginning?).
“What am I to you?” His voice comes out quiet and low. When did he turn into this sentimental fool? Oh right, the first time he saw her face, round and bright and pink-cheeked.
Buffy looks up at him and smiles wistfully, cups the side of his face with her powerful little hand.
“Oh Angel, you’re my lover. You always have been.”
The word “lover” on her lips almost makes him shiver in a way not befitting his stature. It’s romantic and sexy and timeless. Because “lover” is not “husband” or “boyfriend”—it’s outside of space and time…like this love.
All the same…
“What if I want the rest of it too?”
“But you don’t, Angel, not really. You have to save the world, in your way, on your turf…and—and so do I.” They’re big eyes that she has, and they might swallow him whole. “But I’ll come running like that,” she snaps her fingers, “if you need me.”
“Spike’s not like you. He’s not meant to lead and even he knows it, I think.”
She’s a smarter girl than he’d ever realized—and Angel’s in love with her. Plus, there *is* something incredibly hot about “timeless.”
“So I’m your lover.”
“Uh huh. There could even be lingerie and assignations.” She’s making a goofy face that doesn’t quite mesh with the image he’s procuring for himself of her kitted out in black lace and red satin.
Angel just smiles back dazedly for a second and scrubs his hair with one hand.
“And me and Spike?”
“Well, that’s up to you.” Buffy face takes on a terribly serious expression before she continues, “But you know I like to watch.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
Buffy trills a giggle and leans downs to kiss him, covering his chest with silky strands of her hair. And it’s kisses like this that make it all worth it.
“I’m going to visit more,” she breathes into his mouth.
“Bring Spike too…sometimes.”
And then they’re boiling again.
What I See
Their hips grind together as though out of habit. Fluid. Magnetic. Slippery-hot.
They both seem so young in this moment. In a way that’s not possible for him.
Spike’s cooing nasties into Buffy’s ear. Or maybe jokes too, since she’s laughing.
And it’s not just Angel’s eyes that are trained on them, because they glow. Blonde on blonder.
He wonders if they do this often.
But Angel doesn’t dance.
He’s teaching her to cook this visit. It’s a project.
Secretive looks, longing sighs and fluttering lashes
Over the sauce pot.
Ol’ Spike just smokes and looks on.
They are dark and light. Past and present. Here and now.
Some things he can’t touch. Doesn’t even want to anymore.
They’re beautiful, in a fairytale way.
Guess Angel doesn’t know that it’s pizza every other night here.
Bastard doesn’t eat.
“Hey, I was watching that!”
“Well, bugger that. Passions is on. And besides, your team is losing.”
Glower. Smirk. Sideways glance.
Hand meets hand over the remote control and Buffy can just about see the sparks go off.
The silence is electric.
Because they don’t always say what they want and don’t always want what they say.
From the doorway, she watches and shakes her head.
Boys are weird.
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