A/N: Set in L.A. starting at the end of "Destiny," Angel season 5. Spoilers (if such a word pertains to a show this old) for all of Buffy and Angel.

For JWAB because I thought thudding onto the floor in solidarity was the best belated birthday gift I could offer. And for EML because Spangel. And, selfishly, for me because I needed to write this.

I couldn't do this, any of it, without CreepingMuse's incredible support and talent and enthusiasm. *shoulder bump*

You Say Please and I Say Yeah

"Spike!" Angel yells from the floor as he wrenches the stake from his shoulder with a grunt. "That's not a prize you're holding."

Spike turns to look at him, still holding the golden cup filled with his destiny. Not Angel's. His.

He thought it would be heavier, what with being filled to the brim with torment and all. Then again, looks can be deceiving. He drank plenty of torment from the chalice between her honeyed thighs. Knows exactly how tempting torment can be.

He didn't used to put stock in prophecies and notions of destiny, not like the rest of them. Wankers, the whole soddin' lot, with their dusty books full of cryptic half-truths and rubbish. He's more of a here and now sort of bloke. But if there is such a thing as destiny, so far Spike's is sortin' out Angelus' broken toys and piecing them back together. Dru. Her. Even Angel, taking himself so seriously, even before the soul. Taking all the joy out of a thing and beating it to bloody death. And not in the fun way.

Not this time.

'Course this cup, this destiny, is a prize. S'what they just nearly killed each other over, and it's his.

"It's not a trophy." Angel struggles to his feet. Broken ribs make it hard for him to talk. Spike's nose fills with the familiar scent of his grandsire's sweat and blood. "It's a burden. It's a cross. One you're going to have to bear until it burns you to ashes. Believe me, I know."

Only Angel doesn't know, does he. And ain't that the bitch of it? Spike never gets any respect, no matter what he does. Angel ran away when she needed him at her back, blubbering about protecting his precious soul, never mind that he should have been protecting hers. He didn't fight the trials and win his for good and for always. He didn't paint the Nibblet's toenails or put up with endless bloody Scooby scorn. Angel wasn't brave enough to love her proper.

Sure, they all died saving the world, and then they all come back again. The Powers That Be are fickle. Only like everything else, Angel takes the credit, but what's he really done other than stand about with stupid hair and scowl?

She swan-dived from Glory's tower, arching her spine into the pulsing light without hesitation to close that portal and save her little sis. Spike sent her away and stood his ground as he burned, kept his eyes open and watched the Hellmouth collapse until the very end. Angel got run through with a sword. It shouldn't count when your blood averts the apocalypse if you're the one who started it in the first place. Besides, he wasn't even man enough to do it himself. Made her do it. Damn near broke her, and then he expects a heroic destiny when the capricious fuckers spit him back.

"So ask yourself," Angel continues. "Is this really the destiny that was meant for you? Do you even really want it? Or is it that you just want to take something away from me?"

Spike looks at him. Cocks the scarred eyebrow because Peaches never slayed a slayer either. Spent his time torturing children and ripping apart nuns, didn't he, pretending mucking about in the guts and the gore made him great. On his best day, he isn't half the man William the Bloody is, and Spike holding this cup proves it once and for all.

"Bit of both, really," he says with a grin and a shrug before deeply drinking.

Yeah. It's torment all right. The syrupy-sweet torment of yet another lie. There's his destiny for him: played for a bloody fool. Again. Still. Always.

"Fucking hell!" he screams as he throws the cup. It breaks through a crumbling wall and keeps going.

He doesn't realize he's sobbing until he feels Angel's hand on his arm. Spike snaps his wrist so fast Angel doesn't have time to gasp in pain before Spike wrestles him to the ground. Spike straddles him and holds the stake to Angel's heart. Could end it faster than a blink. Angel goes very still, tips back his head to look into Spike's eyes.

Angel isn't afraid. Grumpy git almost looks relieved.

"When will it be enough?" Spike asks, throwing the makeshift stake away. He grips Angel's shoulders and pounds the great poofter's head into the splintered floor. Angel doesn't move to stop him, so Spike bangs his head into the floor again, but his heart isn't in it. Not this time. Not anymore. "When?"

"Never," Angel quietly says. He wraps his fingers around Spike's wrists and strokes where the pulse would be, if Spike's heart were beating.

"No," he argues even though he wants to cry again. Or kill something. "I won."

"Yes," Angel whispers. "Claim a victory." His fingers fumble with Spike's belt.

"No," he says again, leaning back on his heels.

He doesn't want to pillage that heroic arsehole even if Angel did lose fair and square. Tearing Angel apart isn't a consolation prize. But then Angel leans forward and kisses him. Hard and fumbling but not hesitant. Spike tastes Angel's blood on his lips, and it's been so long. Spike was ready to kill him just a minute ago, but now he wants this taste. Wants him and his kiss and everything else.

"Yeah?" He pulls away long enough to ask.

"Please," Angel breaths into his neck.

That night, after everyone else has gone home, Spike comes to him in his office.

"Go away, Spike," he sighs from behind his desk, pretending to look at the file in front of him, rather than the uncharacteristically silent figure in the black leather duster.

He gingerly shifts his weight to lean back, but he can't get comfortable that way. Angel refuses to look at what he knows will be a gloating smirk, the way Spike's tongue is surely teasing from between his teeth, some smart comment ready to sting. He keeps his eyes on his desk as he carefully leans forward again to take pressure off of the burn of torn tissue mending.

Angel doesn't want to admit that there's never been anyone before tonight on that ruined opera house stage. Not like this. He's spent his various lives taking, in every sense of the word. He's not been taken until now.

He wanted it. He asked for it. He swatted away Spike's spat-upon hand and said he didn't need any of the niceties, to just do it already. But limping back into the office, his blood and Spike's semen still dripping down his thighs, brings new-found respect for the man Angelus spent two decades debasing. Back when Angelus did as he pleased, and William, because he wasn't Spike yet, couldn't raise a hand to stop him, Spike had never complained. Never once. He'd kiss his own blood off of Angelus' cock before sucking it into his mouth with a force that put Darla to shame. And he refused to break.

In those days, Angelus called him Willy because he knew Spike hated it, but in his own way, he loved Spike. As much as Angelus loved anyone. Because everyone always broke. Usually far too quickly for Angelus' taste, and then they were useless because it was over. Spike was different. He'd never met someone who hadn't bowed to his will and begged for his fangs to end it until Dru brought home her new pet.

Angel knows there's no amount of good deeds now that can ever make up for all the bad he's done. And Spike was right when he said Angel's the one who'd made Spike what he was. What he is. He fascinated Angelus, and he didn't stop until Spike was a monster too. And what a beautiful, terrible monster he'd become. Only unlike Angel, Spike found his own way back to his soul and fighting for the Powers That Be.

Spike is suddenly before him. On his knees. Very much not smirking. Not gloating. His face as solemn as a man at prayer. His eyes are too big and too blue, burning with an understanding that makes Angel squirm.

"Please go," he whispers, shutting his eyes so he doesn't have to see him.

He hates that he's begging. But Spike stole the last shred of the delusion too: Angel is not special. He alone is not destined for greatness. His life and unlife do not, in fact, matter. All the death and all the misery has been for nothing.

He just wants to be alone.

"Please," Angel says again.

And Spike doesn't say anything because his mouth is otherwise engaged. As brutal as he'd been before, he's gentle now. The tongue that cleans the blood from Angel's skin is as soft as whispers. As if Spike knows exactly how long it's been, he's tender as he releases all the tension that has been building and collecting and festering. As if he has all the time in the world to coax first one release, and then a second, and then a third that Angel doesn't think is possible but Spike makes happen anyway. It feels so good, so much, it almost hurts, these lingering climaxes that haven't completely stopped their shudders before the next one's building. Climaxes that leave Angel feeling raw and weak and exposed.

Angel blinks tears from his eyes at the unexpected kindness and buries his hands in Spike's hair and misses William's longer brown curls.

When Spike's done, he cups Angel's spent cock in his hand as gently as he would a broken bird and cleans lingering traces of spit with the soft hem of his own t-shirt. Spike tucks him back inside his pants and rolls to his feet as sinuously as a cat.

"'Night then," he says, not even looking over his shoulder as he leaves, closing the office door behind him.

Spike doesn't understand why Angel only wants to get a leg-over in his office. Always late, after everyone else is gone, and Angel leaves weapons lying about. Within reach and on his desk, swords and battle axes and fancy wooden stakes with silver handles sharp enough to be daggers. He insists on heavy chains that bolt into the floor under the couch.

Spike isn't brimming with tenderness and the need to protect Angel, the way he was with her. But he doesn't want it like this.

"Tighter," Angel says as Spike reluctantly restrains him.

Always tighter. Doesn't seem to care that the metal cuffs bite into his wrists and ankles, drawing blood. Always saying he doesn't want the tube of slick Spike pulls from his pocket. Claims he doesn't want fingers or tongue teasing him open first, stretching him and getting him good and ready so he doesn't tear again.

"Just do it," Angel says, his eyes already closed and muscles clenched, anticipating Spike's assault.

'Course, once you're chained to the floor, you don't have a lot of say in what happens. Occupational hazard of bondage the bugger would know about if he'd ever been on the tied up end of things before.

Spike learned the peaceful perfection of submission in his grandsire's bed. Always tipped his hat to the bloody sadist for that particular lesson. The indulgence of surrendering yourself to someone else's pleasure. Someone else making all the decisions. Not being in control. But even now, he doesn't think Angel really gets it. Just like she never did.

Spike's only consolation in all this is that he usually isn't as rough as Angel demands. But there are plenty of times Spike closes his eyes to keep from crying and thinks of Queen and Country. Plenty of other times Spike's so angry he could hit Angel for making it this way. Considers but never actually does fuck the bastard bloody. It'd serve him right, too, for forcing Spike's hand. For making it hard and cruel when it doesn't have to be. For acting so much like her.

Their world is ugly enough. They could use a bit of softness here and there. And Spike is the first to admit he likes a cuddle on the back end of things. No shame in that.

It takes a few weeks, Spike wondering all the while why he keeps coming back for more, before he sees. The way Angel clenches his jaw so tightly it's a wonder it doesn't break. Braced for impact. Spike could kick himself for not twigging to it right away.

Angel, big softie that he is, doesn't like it to hurt. Doesn't need it to hurt. He just thinks he does because Angel's afraid. Afraid of losing control. Of losing himself again.

Spike's gentle when he unlocks the cuffs. He won't need to slay Angelus. Neither one of them can be truly happy, no matter how good Spike makes them feel for an hour or two or three.

"What are you doing?" Angel sounds more than a little panicked. "No. Finish."

"I'm not that good, Peaches," he says as he massages Angel's wrists until the angry red marks are gone.

"Dammit, Spike. You're going to do what I tell you," Angel demands, furious. "You'll do it how I want."

"Shh," Spike soothes. "You don't want this."

It could be a question, but they both know it's not.

"Please," Angel says.

"Yeah."

Spike bends Angel's knee back, exposing him. Smooths his hand along the thick line of muscle in his thigh. Traces his fingers down the vee of his side. Dips his tongue into his soft belly button and makes Angel squirm because it tickles.

He prefers it this way. Loves seeing Angel in motion. Feeling him move against him. Spike loves shifting these powerful limbs for his own pleasure, posing Angel to suit his fancy. The tepid hulk of him wrapped around him. Draped over his back like a heavy blanket. Spike especially loves that Angel stays put. Not because he's forced or tied or held down, but because he wants to. Because he doesn't want to leave right after.

Nothing changes.

Everything changes.

They're just as antagonistic during the day as they've always been, Angel threatening and insulting and sulking as Spike says all the things no one else has the bloody stones to say to the Hunk o' Brooding Bossman. Ponces, the whole lot of them. Puffing themselves up with importance but as useless to him as the Scoobies were to her.

But there's that look Spike lives for. That golden flash in Angel's eyes before he leaves to go to his flat for a little while, to soak in the tub with a pint and watch that day's taped Passions. It's the look that keeps Spike in L.A., keeps him from throwing caution to the wind and hopping a plane and finding out, one way or another, if she meant what she said as the Hellmouth crumbled around them.

In less time than it takes one of the human hearts to beat, his grandsire is unguarded. Without words, he does what he's never done before: begs. The mighty Angelus, brought to his knees. At least metaphorically during the day. He's not on them literally until nighttime, savin' the actual begging for when everyone else is gone.

It feels good to be wanted again. Spike'll admit that much. But every night, broody bedroom eyes or no, the lure of just-fucked tousled hair or not, he tells himself he won't go. Not tonight. Not ever again. Only then he does. He finds himself outside Angel's door like his own feet didn't bring him here.

He imagines this is what she meant. That year that was both heaven and hell. Her so close. Her gorgeous stink thick always in his nose and lingering on his fingers. His lips slick with her. The taste of her blood and her tears on his tongue.

He didn't listen then, to her insistence that it wasn't real, that she didn't love him when he knew he was the only one she trusted. It wasn't the soul, or lack thereof. It was his own inexperience. Fancy that. A little girl more experienced than William the fucking Bloody.

But he understands now what she was saying. The wanting. The bloody need. But also the pain of knowing that in the end, no matter how much you care and crave, you'll never be enough, and neither will he, and all you're doing is postponing the inevitable despair.

But you go anyway. Because you can't stop. Because you can't stand the empty sound of your own breaths. Because you can't bear to be alone. You can't help but hope this time will somehow be different.

He wants to tell her he gets it. Gets how, no matter how good it feels, sometimes the doing of it's enough to kill you, but it's better than feeling like you're already dead.

"You could go to her," Angel casually says as he eases the Zippo from Spike's hand.

They're laying next to each other on the floor of his office, their backs resting against the sofa. He knows all the demons can smell it after one of their trysts. He imagines them mocking him behind his back. But he keeps Spike coming to his office anyway because he can smell them too. His scent and Spike's layered on top of each other, keeping him company during the long days and nights when sitting behind this desk is worse than being in hell.

Angel can't look at him. Not now. Not after he's given his blessing when the last thing he wants is for Spike to leave him. Not with rug burns on his knees and elbows because Spike fucked him so hard he slid across the floor. Not while Spike's hair is mussed, and Angel's loose and limp and relaxed. So Angel concentrates instead on thumbing the flame to life, not the easiest feat when your fingers are so big and strong enough to inadvertently crush the worn bit of metal.

"In Rome," Angel unnecessarily adds, the words thudding hollowly with their carefully polite minimalism.

He's careful not to say Buffy's name because he's noticed Spike never does. To Spike, Buffy's always she or her. Like she's the only girl in the entire world worth talking about. For Spike, she probably is.

"So could you, Peaches," Spike replies around the unlit cigarette.

He leans in, steadies Angel's unshaking hand with his own as he lights the damn thing that will stink long after Spike has left and he is once again alone. But he enjoys playing the gentleman and lighting it, the simple intimacy of Spike's fingers on his, too much to ask him to not smoke.

"She doesn't think you're dead," Spike says. "Got that going for you. And ol' Rupes insulted you, yeah, but he didn't try to do you in. At least not of late."

"When did Giles try to kill you?" Angel asks, shocked that no one mentioned such a thing.

"Used an intermediary," Spike says with a shrug. "Suppose it doesn't really count."

"You could surprise her."

Spike looks at him with a mixture of disgust and pity. "Hates surprises, doesn't she. Got enough things that jump out at her in the dark."

He doesn't want to admit he didn't know that about her and wonders if it's his fault too. Angelus, after all, was quite a shock.

He thinks of the last time he saw her, that night in the cemetery before Sunnydale was destroyed. Her hair reeked of Spike and she tasted like cherry-flavored lip gloss when she kissed him so differently than she ever had before. It was a woman's kiss, not a girl's.

"You heard what she said," Angel says. "You weren't exactly trying to be sneaky about it."

"Lurking's for perverts and thieves. Don't fancy myself either." Spike taps out the cigarette and immediately lights another, not waiting for Angel to be chivalrous. "Well, not a thief anyway," he adds. "Mostly."

His cheeks sharpen when he inhales, and Angel thinks, not for the first time, that Spike should never not be sucking on something.

"She didn't want me," Angel says.

"S'not what she said."

"Please tell me you didn't take the cookie dough business seriously."

"I took her snogging you seriously enough," he snaps. But then Spike shrugs again and drags deeply. "Just her way," he says around the cigarette, not bothering to exhale the smoke. "Never was good with talkin' 'bout feelings. More a girl of action. You two are a match made in heaven."

"She sent me away," he argues.

"You're the ponce who left."

"You're the one she wanted by her side. When she thought maybe it was the end."

"How thick are you? She's the slayer. S'always the bloody end, isn't it."

There's a long silence broken only by Spike's smoking.

"Filthy habit," Angel pretends to complain.

"Dangerous too," Spike agrees with a grin. "We're right flammable, mate. Especially you, nancy-boy, with all the slime you rub in your hair."

Spike inhales, holding the smoke in his lungs too long before exhaling perfect circles that slowly dissipate into the ceiling.

"Show off," Angel mutters.

"Had time to practice," Spike says. "Dru could watch me do that for hours."

Angel, lounging on his side, doesn't pretend anymore that he's not studying him. This is the essence of Spike. He clings to the very things that could kill him and makes them his own. Hunting slayers. Brawling outnumbered without weapons, only fists and fangs, to use his words. Dancing home seconds before dawn. Driving across the desert during the day. Smoking in bed. Falling in love with a slayer.

Never halfway. Never tentative. All or nothing, Spike jumps first and maybe looks later.

There are times Angel hates him so much he thinks he'll explode.

"Honey, I'm home," Spike teases as he flops onto the sofa. He's completely dressed, including the leather duster and boots, which he promptly puts on the cushions as he settles into a comfortable sprawl.

Angel carries over a cold beer from the little refrigerator in his office that mostly just holds blood, not bothering to put down the file he's reading. He doesn't say anything, just swats at Spike's feet on his couch with the folder before walking back to his desk. Spike doesn't move his feet. Instead, he pries off the cap with his thumb and first finger.

"Life's too short to drink crap-beer, mate." Spike curses after a long swallow.

"You're immortal," Angel says.

"No one lives forever," Spike says. "You should know that, having been dead and all. Or more dead, anyway. What's the point of selling out if you don't enjoy it?"

"I don't drink beer," Angel replies.

"But I do," Spike argues.

"Buy your own then."

Spike throws the bottle cap at him.

"Dammit," Angel snaps. "You're bugging me."

"That's the point, isn't it."

Angel doesn't answer, but Spike knows it's because Angel knows his silence will prompt Spike into action. She used to play the same game. Pretending to be annoyed when really she wanted bothering.

Spike swallows the last of the beer before squeezing between Angel and the desk. He perches on the edge and rests his foot on one of the wheels on Angel's chair. Spike leans forward and kisses him, his tongue teasing Angel's before sucking gently on his bottom lip.

"I'm feeling peckish," he says. He rests his forehead against Angel's.

"Blood's in the fridge."

"Didn't say thirsty, did I? Said peckish."

"We don't need to eat food," Angel reminds him.

"Doesn't mean it's not fun, you lug," Spike argues. He leans back and cocks his head as he studies Angel. Getting out and having something tasty would be good for him after being cooped up all day in this place. "Want something hot an' spicy. Thai, I 'spect, will hit the spot. We orderin' in, or do you fancy going out?"

"I don't eat," he says. "And I'm busy."

"Always busy, unless I interrupt." Spike gives Angel his most lascivious grin and squeezes his cock through his trousers. "Tellin' me you haven't been thinking about this?"

"Spike." But Angel's voice is soft. Distracted. As needy as she ever sounded as she told him off for offering a break when she was so busy saving the bloody world.

Spike nods. "Yeah. Been thinking about it, haven't you? Decidin' whether or not you want to come before I fuck you good and proper?"

"Spike," he whispers as sure fingers make short work of the buttons on his shirt.

"Spike," he says again as Spike pushes the shirt off of his shoulders and runs his hands over his chest, teasing and pinching his nipples.

"Spike," he moans as Spike drops to his knees and opens his slacks and reaches inside, working the fabric down.

Angel lets his head fall back against his chair and closes his eyes.

"Eyes on me," Spike demands.

He knows Angel really doesn't want to miss the show. He won't last long. He never does, not the first time anyway, but he'll want to watch Spike's cheeks and Spike's throat. The leather coat'll feel buttery soft when it brushes against his bare thighs.

Next time, Angel'll be naked on his back underneath, Spike wearing only the coat as he fucks him.

"Scoot," Spike says around his cock. "Ass to the edge."

Angel shifts in the chair to do as he says because Spike never really asks when they're together like this. And, once again, Angel smiles his gratitude for the command when Spike reaches between his legs with teasing fingers.

"Well," Angel says, standing just inside the door. "This is it."

Maybe he's making a terrible mistake, inviting Spike here. It feels even more awkward than the first time he had Buffy over to his basement in Sunnydale. At least that he'd furnished himself. Filled it with the things he cared enough about to carry around for over a century. This, while bigger and much nicer, is impersonal. All dark, masculine wood and high thread-count linens. Angel can already hear Spike's tauntingly thrown out "posh."

And unlike Buffy, Spike will notice that it doesn't smell like anyone but him. He should've had Wesley up first. Or Fred. Someone.

"Going to invite me in?" Spike asks as he leans against the opposite wall, not crowding or rushing, as if he doesn't care one way or another if he never sees where Angel sleeps. Like he'd shrug and walk back to Angel's office without comment if Angel suddenly changed his mind. When Angel hesitates, Spike quietly adds, "S'good manners, Peaches."

Angel suddenly remembers standing on Buffy's back porch, back when Spike was hell-bent on killing her, and telling her the same thing. That it wasn't magic, just common courtesy.

"Oh. Right. Please come in."

Angel watches Spike look around the suite as if he's seeing it for himself the first time. It's lavish and impressively furnished. Special glass that lets him keep the drapes open to the sun. Thick, luxurious rugs over shiny wood floors. Solid furniture originally built for very wealthy men when Angel was still Liam.

"Short leash, mate," Spike finally declares. He shakes out a cigarette and moves to light it, but at the last minute, he pockets the lighter instead and sticks it behind his ear.

"Doesn't matter," Angel says with shrug. The Senior Partners. Spike's cigarettes stinking up his rooms. None of it really matters.

"Nice view though," he nods towards the glass and the glittering lights of nighttime Los Angeles.

"Darla would have liked it," he agrees, wanting to take the words back as soon as he's said them.

"Want to talk about the missus, then?" Spike asks.

"Do you remember the time Dru got you up like a French maid?" Angel asks instead.

He remembers those long, slender limbs covered with silk. Lean lines of muscles. Pale, soft skin made all the more perfect for its occasional, enticing mole, like a target for bites and bruises.

"Christ. Took ages, her lacing me into the corset. Could've done without that."

Angel imagines there's lots of things back then Spike could've done without. But he wonders if there are things he misses too, if he's in the missing kind of mood. The sound of Dru's skirts swishing when she danced to the stars singing. The way sometimes Angelus felt generous afterward and would gather Spike into his arms. How he'd gently run his fingers through Spike's mussed hair and tell him how much he pleased him.

He's afraid to ask if Spike remembers that too, but Angel hopes he does.

"I almost pissed myself when I came home and found you, wigged and perfumed and petticoated, dusting the parlor."

"Darla'd run off again," Spike adds. "Second time that first year I was with you. And you'd been in a terrible temper for days. Dru'd hoped me acting the strumpet would amuse you."

Back then, it seemed like Darla and Angelus always raged, breaking apart furniture and rooms and each other. They had stamina back then. Could be at it for days. She was older and stronger, but he was so much bigger. That, and neither one of them really wanted to hurt the other. Not permanently, anyway. It almost made for an even fight.

"God, you made a pretty girl," Angel says with a smile. He strokes Spike's jaw with the back of his hand. "And you played it up, too. All wide, innocent eyes and acting like you only spoke French."

"Your accent was rubbish," Spike laughs. "Bloody awful business, it was. Damn near broke character when you started up."

"You were the only one who'd been to university then," Angel says. "Mon français est beaucoup mieux maintenant."

"You attended American college, mate," Spike teases. "I'm still the only one who's been properly schooled."

"Really?" Angel asks, not able to keep the incredulity out of his tone. "You're going to be a snob when you run around talking and dressing like that?"

"S'all still in here," he says with a grin, taping his platinum head.

Angel shakes his head. There's so much about Spike he just doesn't understand. Doesn't think he ever will, no matter how long they both live.

"Took you over my knee," Angel fondly adds. "And you were bare underneath all those skirts."

"Beat me bloody with the soddin' feather duster." Spike rolls his eyes. "And then poked me with it a few times for good measure before you had your way. Could've done without that too."

"What could you have done more?" Angel quietly asks, ashamed of Angelus' many cruelties but curious. "Back then?"

"Kissing," Spike replies without hesitating.

"Kissing?"

"Yeah. Was all biting and fucking back then." He turns to Angel. "Still is, really. Like that too, mind. But I enjoy a good snog." He shrugs, unabashed. "It's under appreciated."

Angel remembers Buffy's kisses. Kisses he never wanted to end. Now that Spike has mentioned it, he realizes she's the only one who took the time to really kiss him. Just to kiss and no more. Not to take or to weaken or to wound. Just kiss for the sake of it. Because she wanted to.

"S'nice couch," Spike says, flopping onto the middle of the sofa and stretching his arms over the back. "Know all that reminiscin's left you brimming with guilt. Come here and make it up to me, yeah."

Spike can't believe he'd forgotten how big Angel is. Christ, the breadth of his shoulders. How heavy he is slumped and spent across Spike's back. He'd forgotten how small and safe he feels nestled between those endless thighs, engulfed by thick muscles. His hand is a bloody mitt, big enough to palm his hip when they drift off to sleep.

Did she lick here? He sometimes wonders. Did she lean back when she was on top of him too, bracing herself on legs as strong as tree trunks, full to bursting with him thick inside her? Did she learn how to open her throat to take all of him into her mouth without gagging? Harder for her to pull off, he imagines. Needing to breathe and all.

Spike doesn't think so. Can't decide if that makes him relieved or not, that she never got around to exchanging tastes with Angel. Girl should savor her first. Should be tended to like the fragile blooms they are at that age, their tender little-girl hearts indulged and left unbroken as long as possible. Leave it to the grumpy bastard to spoil it for her.

Back then, in Sunnydale, Angelus wouldn't stop yammering about the slayer's magical quim, but for all his boasting, Spike's almost sure it was just the one time between them. Just enough to take her innocence and leave her nothing but bloodied sheets and misery. Wanker. And she would've had to be careful not to hurt Captain Cardboard. No way a corn-fed lad like that could keep up with the likes of her. She plays prim an' proper all right, but the girl likes to suck and fuck and scream. Her honey-pot's a luscious little thing, always quivering and hot and ready.

But the first time she took him into her mouth, she did it like a girl who was pretending it wasn't a big deal even though her hands were trembling. After that first taste, she didn't hide her curiosity. Held the precum on her tongue the way some people try a new wine. Carefully. Thoughtfully. She licked at first like he was a lollypop, poked the pointed tip of her tongue into the hole at the tip. Rolled his foreskin between her fingertips like she'd never seen one before. Like a child with a new toy she wanted to figure out.

God, if he lives another thousand years, he'll never forget it.

Of course, bloody poof is almost as mercurial as she is. Worst parts of a woman, this one, with his moods and his tempers and endless hair products. Like her, Angel always thinks he wants it fast and hard. Making up for lost time, Spike 'spects. He's greedy, always grousing for his orgasms. It's gotten to where Spike gets the first one over with right quick like just to get him to lay back and relax while he stokes the fire and gets him simmering and bubbling like a little tea kettle.

And what really gets him is when Spike takes his time. Tender but relentless. Like her, Angel comes harder when Spike holds him out on the precipice. Takes skill and patience to keep him right there, so close but not let him fall. Spike holds him right on the edge until the pleasure feels so good that it's just this side of pain. Only then does Spike relent.

That's when she'd haul off and punch him. Run off with her fluttering virtue. But Angel pulls Spike into his chest instead and they go to sleep.

The nights he sleeps alone in his own bed, he still dreams of falling. The creak of metal. The smell of frightened girl tears and his own blood. His leather coat impotently flapping in the wind, not slowing his descent. Broken bones and a broken promise and his broken, unbeating heart.

The nights not spent in Angel's arms, Spike fails her all over again.

Fred's the one who suggests, after the latest close-call, that they stop using the wooden sparring sticks. Just in case. Angel quickly agrees because sparring with Spike is different. Angel knows Spike was young when he killed that slayer in China, but he always thought that was just luck. Now, he's thinking Spike's always just been this good. But he does credits Spike's current fighting prowess, at least in part, to spending so long with arguably the best slayer in the history of slayers. Spike was with Buffy in Sunnydale longer than Angel, both as her friend and her foe.

Not that Wes and Gunn aren't good practice. Wesley, with his precision and knowledge of species and catalog of weaknesses and, inevitability, tricks and toys up his sleeve. Gunn with his simmering rage and long history of having nothing to lose. It's not exactly like Angel's gone soft since he came to L.A..

But Spike. There's a reason Spike beat him the cup, even if it was a fake. Spike fights like he fucks. Angel never knows what to expect except that it will leave him breathless and satisfying sore and wanting more. Spike fights like Angel remembers Buffy fighting. Not against him during those training sessions that were really just excuses to be together, to touch when they'd decided it was too dangerous but couldn't stop themselves anyway. No. Spike fights like Buffy the way Angelus remembers her, the natural grace that makes slaying in halter tops and high heels seem like a politely choreographed dance.

Angel suspects the Wolfram and Hart gym is wired somehow, that they're studying him so they know exactly how to take him down when the time comes. He's searched for cameras and found nothing each time, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. It makes him smile to know all studying Spike will teach the Senior Partners is to come at him with your best and be prepared to lose anyway.

Spike's intuitive. Doesn't have a weak side even though he's left-handed. He's never the same twice. Doesn't have a special move he relies on. And most of all, Spike just enjoys it. He seems to really love a brawl, even just for practice.

"Bring it, old man," he taunts with a grin as he dances just out of reach.

But the slap of flesh and the zing of striking metal are most often the only sounds. Spike's making him a better fighter already, pushing him to bring everything he has and then some to every workout. If only he could get Buffy on the phone. Or Faith. Anyone other than Giles. It'd be good for the new slayers to have an L.A. rotation. He and Spike could really help out with the girls, if only Giles would let them.

"Stop," Angel finally gasps, nursing a split lip and a swelling eye. He drops the dull practice sword and holds up his hands. "Enough."

"Uncle?" Spike teases. "Or maybe you should just cry sire."

"Yes," Angel says. "You win. You're better. Go ahead and gloat already and be done."

"S'no fun unless your knickers are twisted over it." Spike shrugs and immediately begins stripping out of his clothes.

"What on earth?" Angel asks, but before he can finish the question, Spike is walking away from him, all tight ass and long legs.

Spike seems so much bigger than he really is when he's swaggering around, swinging his fists or brandishing a sword. But he's slight. He has long, elegant toes. Spike can curl up in his lap or tuck into his side, his mussed hair tickling Angel's cheek.

Like Buffy, being with Spike makes him feel big. Huge. He feels strong enough to buffer the wind. Never mind that neither one of them needs his protection. He knows that. But it's an illusion they allow him to have. A gift they both give him.

Spike lowers himself into the whirl pool and leans back with a smile and a groan of satisfaction.

"That's for the humans."

"Still feels good, doesn't it." Spike sinks up to his chin in the roiling water and closes his eyes. "Never did see why you feel the need to deny yourself every little pleasure. You joinin' me?"

"I can't." Angel walks over and stares longingly into the water. "What if someone?" His voice trails off. "The door doesn't lock."

Angel thinks he sees Spike flinch, but it happens so fast, maybe he imagined it.

"Yeah," he finally says. "Heroes fucking the hired help. Can't have that. What would your friends think? Got your reputation and all."

Angel's shocked by the sudden bitterness in Spike's voice.

"Spike."

"Only good if no one knows 'bout me. Got it, Peaches."

"Spike," he says again.

There's a ringing phone, one he doesn't recognize, and Spike leaps out of the hot tub. He pulls a throw-away cell phone from a coat pocket and stands in the middle of the room, steam rising from his skin and water dripping onto the floor.

"Whatchya got?" he says by way of greeting when he flips it open.

Angel stalks closer to listen in. It's Wesley on the other end. He can tell it's a back-channel type of call, the ones they're still getting from people around the city even though Angel and Co. officially switched sides when they came to Wolfram and Hart.

"Gotta go," Spike says as soon as he hangs up.

"I'll come," Angel says.

"Bad idea," Spike replies. "Wes and I'll take care of it."

Angel hesitates before nodding at the wisdom of staying behind.

"Will you come back?" he quietly asks.

Spike raises the scarred brow before reaching for his jeans. He doesn't take his eyes off Angel as he pulls on his clothes without drying off. Doesn't look away until he's lacing his boots.

"Please come back when you're done," Angel whispers.

Spike stands up, ready to go and defend the people Angel betrayed when he made his deal with the Senior Partners.

"Please," he says again.

Spike sighs and finally looks away. He reaches for his lighter and closes his eyes. "Bloody hell," he mutters to himself as he lights a cigarette. "Yeah," he says to Angel. "I'll come back."

"You're late," Angel grumbles.

"Didn't realize I had an appointment, mate," Spike replies, shutting the door behind him.

"I was waiting," he snaps. "And I'm busy."

"Uh-huh," he says. "You're in a mood, s'what you are."

Has been, too. This isn't about Fred turning to Blue or Wes moping about like a dead man. This isn't the usual messy tangles of evil and the law and running a too-big high profile law firm filled with too many untrustables.

No. This is something all together different. He recognizes the look. Seen it before. Angel can sometimes hide it, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders, but only because they're so broad. He actually manages the bearing worse than she did.

Something Big and Bad is brewing.

"Shut up, Spike," he snaps.

"That an order?" he goads, cocking his head.

'Course Angel doesn't answer, bloody coward even in this, waiting for Spike to make the first move. He shakes out a smoke and lights it, staring into Angel's eyes the entire time, daring him to blink. Takes his time dragging on it, knowing how much Angel hates it. He crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and grinds it into the expensive carpet. Because he can.

Christ, he hates this part of looking after champions. When they're bristling with the injustice of it all. When they're weary of saving the world. When they're so scared they can't see straight but can't admit to being scared 'cause the second they do, the second they let their mouths form the bloody word, they think they'll crumble. Think they'll never get up to keep fighting the good fight.

Spike knows his role. Knows just how to make Angel feel powerful and in control, if only for a little bit. His specialty, really: playing the handmaiden to heroes. How many times did he tend to her split and swollen knuckles afterward? Naked and bloody himself, usually with cracked bones or worse, but covering her little uglies with pristine white bandages so she could feel clean and justified kicking him on her way out? So she could go home and sleep safe and snug in her bed, never mind he limped alone to cry in his?

That one night, she lost her shit and damn near did him in. Would've let her too, if he thought it would've given her a moment's peace. Love isn't brains, after all. It's blood. Hers. His. And now, it's Angel's too. Love's why he puts up with it. Lets them both treat him like they do, flipping between clinging and trying to toss him away so fast it makes a man's head spin. It's why he's ever done anything, really. He didn't die saving the world because he's a hero. He did it for her.

'Course, Angel isn't her. She is death. Beautiful, righteous death. Angel pretends he's two different blokes with two different names. But really, he's just himself. Ashamed of Angelus. Afraid of his own darkness. Punishing himself. So bloody careful all the time.

It's a wonder Spike can roger him, what with the stick so far up his arse already.

Deliberately still looking at Angel, he takes off the coat and and lays it across the back of the chair. Only then does he lower his eyes while he pulls off one boot, and then the other. Undresses slowly, folding and stacking his shirt, and then his jeans, the belt clinking softly in the thick silence.

Angel isn't her. No one will ever be. But he's someone, and right now that's what matters to Spike.

Spike wonders who'll see to the ruined linens when Angel's through with him. Wouldn't have thought about it before those months spent looking after the Niblet. Stripping beds and hand-washing tiny knickers printed with hearts and flowers and rainbows. William the Bloody matching socks and tucking neatly folded unmentionables into Dawn's drawers while she was at school.

Feels badly, looking back. How he dropped Dawn when she came back from the dead. Stopped being babysitter and tutor and manicurist to play nursemaid to the soul-sick slayer. Wasn't fair, now that he thinks on it. Wasn't fair at all.

"Bullocks fearing for your soul and all. S'not the sex. Obviously." Angel looks up from Spike's lap and glares. "Don't have to stop," he says. "It's nice."

"Shut up, Spike."

Always with the talking, even at the most inappropriate time. His voice can be an extension of him, of his fingers and his tongue. It can be a poem. A caress. What dirty thing he's just done, what he's doing now, what he will do, how it will feel and exactly what will make him scream. Filthy bastard is always right, too. He uses the most obscene words to make whatever depravity he's describing or doing sound beautiful.

Or sometimes, it's just annoying running commentary. But by now he's used to Spike feeling chatty at moments like this. Angel suspects he saves up the big things he wants to say for these times, when Angel can pretend he isn't listening. When he has a good excuse to not answer.

Spike nods towards his cock, hard and glistening with Angel's spit. "You can use your teeth a bit there. The blunt ones, mind. Won't bother me."

"I don't need pointers," he sulks, mostly because he's afraid he does.

Unlike Spike, who seems to remember all the old tricks and secrets of success from a century ago, this is new for Angel. Wasn't his cup of tea before, being on the giving end of things with the lads, and then, after the soul, he spent too long by himself. He wouldn't admit it, not out loud and certainly not to Spike, but he worries sometimes that he's not doing it very well.

"We all can use tips, mate," Spike says. "I know my way around that department, and never fail to please, but still, no shame in taking away something new."

"Shut up," he says again.

"School you right an' proper," Spike teases with a grin. He nods towards his cock. "No rush then. Take your time."

With a final glare, Angel settles back between his sprawled thighs.

"Yeah," he encourages, his hand soft in Angel's hair as he arches his back, easing himself even further into Angel's mouth. "Like that, luv. Christ. S'good."

Angel doesn't think Spike realizes that's what he called him. He tries not to put meaning into the endearment Spike might not have intended. Spike wasn't saying that he loves him. It's probably just one of Spike's stupid words. Like pet or bugger or bullocks.

"No way you lose the soul again," he continues. "Could have it magicked out, of course. But you'll not lose it. Not like that."

He pops Spike out of his mouth with a huff and glares again. Spike glares back, and Angel sighs in resignation before picking up where he left off.

"Didn't know, did you. Bloody gypsies. Least they could is warn a bloke. And it doesn't even make sense: you spend all that time feelin' the guilt, but then you find your way out, and they take it back? What kind of stupid curse is that?"

Angel wonders if Buffy did this to Spike. Her kisses were never as tentative as the rest of her could be. Angel sometimes imagines her hot mouth. He remembers how even her tongue was strong. But Buffy was young. She didn't realize she only loved what he'd allowed her to see. She was older when she was with Spike. Wiser. Angel wonders what important things Spike chose talk about while she was sucking him off.

"You'll always worry 'bout losing it," Spike says. "But it'll never be that simple again. There's everything else, of course, all this life and mission and such you didn't have then. That and you'll never be able to completely relax, knowing now what you know."

It's eerie, how Spike always seems to know things. Everyone assumes they know how it happened, but they always get it wrong. It wasn't the release that did it. He's had sex since. Not a lot, before Spike, but enough to know it wasn't just that. It's was lots of things.

It was everything.

That night was so perfect. Buffy was his whole world then, and he knew he'd made her happy. It was her birthday, and he wasn't going to have to leave her, and she insisted she wanted him. All of him. She said she loved him and he believed her. For the first time, he felt it in his bones. That he was loved.

She'd come once. And then he joined her the second time before tucking her into his side. Her leg draped over his, and her hand warm over his unbeating heart, and he hadn't felt that alive since long before Darla killed him in that alley.

That was what made him happy. All of that happening at the same time. That was his moment of peace. That was right before he realized the real curse was losing the soul he'd spent so long suffering with.

"Christ," Spike murmurs again. "Yeah. That. Don't stop."

Spike isn't Buffy, but his hand is soft again in Angel's hair. Not guiding or pushing or forcing, just touching.

He cups Spike's hips in his hands, his thumbs stroking the smooth line of lean muscles. He shifts him higher, reaches with his mouth lower. Swipes broad strokes against the ass he used to abuse for hours at a time. Laves it with his tongue before delicately tracing around it. Poking just the tip inside, wishing for a moment that he was warm.

"You should go to her," Angel says. "Buffy."

Christ, he went and said her name. Spike closes his eyes in annoyance. Thought they had an understanding, he and Angel. He's here now. End of story. No need to discuss the particulars. All the times the grumpy git is silent and brooding, just when Spike's enjoying the after-glow, he wants to chat. About her.

"Not this again," he mutters. "Shut your gob and get some sleep."

"You should leave L.A., Spike," Angel insists. He props up on one elbow so he's closer and harder to ignore. "I don't want you here anymore."

"You never wanted me here," he points out, fluffing his pillow and hoping Angel takes the hint.

"Spike."

Something about his voice makes Spike sit up and look at him. All the times he's tried getting rid of him, but this is different. He cocks his head to the side while he takes it all in.

"Oh bloody hell. What have you done?"

"Go, Spike. Just." Angel sighs. "Go to Rome. I want you to."

"We both know that's a lie," Spike says. "Don't want me leavin' and certainly don't want me with her. Fess up." Angel broods beside him. "Fess up or I walk." Angel doesn't speak, so Spike shrugs and reaches for his pants. "Suit yourself, Peaches."

"I had a second chance," Angel confesses, his voice even tighter than his hand on Spike's arm, keeping him in bed. "I was human. With Buffy."

Spike drops the pants back to the floor and looks at him. He doesn't believe it. No way she doesn't mention a thing like that.

"Sod off."

"It's true. It was a thing with a demon, not long after I moved here, and I was human. Heart beating and hungry and out of breath and everything. The Oracles," Angel continues. "They're not around anymore, but they prophecized if I stayed human, she'd die."

Spike narrows his eyes and reaches for the pack of cigarettes Angel keeps for him in the bedside table drawer.

"You mean to tell me you've been going on 'bout this bloody Shanshu business, tried to kill me over it, and you already had what it's promised, only you threw it away? This prophecy's you getting a second bite at the apple?"

He snorts. Another rousing chorus of Angel's the Best We Love Him So then.

Bastard.

"Right daft for someone your age," Spike says instead of breaking shit, which is what he wants to do. Tear apart all the nice things the Senior Partners put in this suite 'cause making deals with devils has its perks.

He drags on the cigarette, ashing delicately into the bowl Angel left out for him. It looks ancient and expensive. Spike wants to smash it against Angel's thick skull.

"'Course she'll die. That's not prophecy. It's biology, mate, or did you skip that class when you went to college? She bloody well did die. Only came back 'cause of Red, and what a disaster that was. Supposed to die, isn't she."

Angel's quiet while Spike smokes and fumes.

Spike decides he doesn't want to know. The details will just infuriate him.

"What happened?" Spike finally asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He doesn't want to know, but now he can't not know.

Git.

"I took it back," he answers, at least having the decency to sound ashamed. "I asked the Oracles to undo the day."

Yeah. He didn't want to know.

"Thicker than I thought," Spike says. "And I thought you were thick before. What'd she have to say about that?"

Angel silence tells Spike all he needs to know.

"Christ," he snaps. "You didn't ask her. You just did it."

"Like you're one to talk," Angel argues. "She doesn't even know you're alive."

"That's different," Spike replies, even though he knows it's really not.

There's nothing she hates more than other people making decisions for her, and that's exactly what he's done. What he keeps doing every day he doesn't board a plane or pick up a phone. But everyday he's here with Angel it gets harder to explain. Seems more impossible. So he doesn't even though he knows he owes her that much.

He'll face the wrath of a righteously pissed slayer if she ever susses it out.

"I knew what she would say," Angel says with a resigned sigh. "It was before. Before that Riley guy."

"Wanker," Spike mutters aloud, not sure which one of her exes he means.

Angel or Riley. Both, really. Or maybe he means all of them. Xander and Robin, too, even if it never came to anything. And that asshole who fucked her once and ran out on her after Angel left. That one's definitely a wanker. Giles too. Just because.

"It was before the tower. Before all of that. She would have said that she loved me anyway. But laying in bed next to her, smelling my own stink." Angel shrugs and shakes his head. "It's hard to explain. But I made the right call. My sweat was disgusting. I hurt. I wasn't strong enough to protect her. Human me couldn't keep up with her. I wouldn't have been enough for her."

"Made you feel weak, did she. Liam." Spike spat out his name like a curse. "Didn't want to live, not even for her, if you couldn't be the champion. Arrogant, bloody bastard. How could you do that to her?"

"She doesn't know." He swallows. "I'm the only one who remembers now. For her, it never happened."

"Christ. Think takin' away people's memories makes you strong an' mighty?"

Spike watches him carefully, knows the look of withheld facts and half-confessions too well. Only just learned about his boy and the spell that made everyone forget. Why he sold everyone out to Evil Incorporated. Bloody liar. Never clears the air. Always holding onto his secrets. Like they'll somehow make him stronger.

The fool. Just makes him sadder and more lonely.

"Why you spilling now?" Spike finally asks. "What's this really about?"

"There's a plan in motion," Angel whispers. "I can't stop it now, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. But it's not too late for you. You can still get out."

"What about the rest of 'em? Your Wesley, huh? Or Charlie and Lorne? What about Blue? You givin' them escape hatches too?"

"You can eat freshly baked cookies," Angel says instead of talking about the rest of the team. "Whatever she meant by that. I'm sure it's a good thing. Her cookies. Everything about her is good. You can be with her. Have your second chance. You've earned it, Spike. And you won't ruin it like I did."

"Never learn, do you? Not about earning or deserving or fair. Never has been. Not for me." Spike takes a final drag on the cigarette before smashing it out. "I had my second chance," he quietly adds. "She dug out of her grave and crawled into mine. Did my best to watch her back. Died saving her world for her. Did my part so she's not the only chosen one. Not alone anymore. Made mistakes, yeah, but I did right by her, in the end. I can't do better than that."

"You should go to her. Please go."

"Made my bed, didn't I."

"You can make a new fucking bed. With Buffy."

"And be like you?" Spike snaps. "Turnin' my back and saving my own skin when you have a bloody plan? Leavin' when I'm needed most? What sort of man do you take me for?" Spike shakes his head. "What does it bloody take? Have you not twigged to the notion mine is not a fickle heart?"

"Spike."

"I'm the best fighter you got. Including you. Not going anywhere, and we both know you can't make me."

"It's the same thing Buffy told me that night in the cemetery: If I fail, I'll need her to lead the second wave. If I fail, she'll need you by her side."

"Ever consider you won't fail if I'm by yours?"

Angel kicks his heels onto the bed.

"You're making this harder than it needs to be."

"You're one to talk about that, Peaches. Pots and kettles, mate."

"You love her, dammit," Angel hisses in frustration. "You're so in love with Buffy you can't even say her name unless you're asleep." Angel looks at him. "You call for her most nights. Did you know that?" he quietly asks.

"Man's not responsible for his subconscious," Spike says, hating that Angel's known this for months and never said anything until now. Sneaky, secretive bastard.

"You love Buffy," Angel repeats. "She makes what you had with Dru look like a passing crush. Go. I know you want to. Go be safe. Love her over there."

"S'got nothing to do with her," Spike argues.

"Dammit, I won't be another Dru," Angel snaps. "I won't be some burden you think you need to look after or some mess that's not yours you have to keep cleaning up. I don't need you. I don't want you. Go away, Spike."

Spike swallows and stares at the wall. He knows Angel doesn't mean it. Sure, he picked the worst thing he could have said and said it. But he said it to hurt him. To push him away. Just like she tried to do. It wasn't until the very end that she was desperate enough to say aloud that she needed him. Wasn't until everyone else turned on her that she allowed him the privilege of sticking around with her blessing. Of holding her while she slept.

Spike's not going anywhere.

He doesn't know how to properly explain it, why he's still here. He only knows he's supposed to be.

"She's my heart," Spike finally says. "She's my soul. But I'm here now. I'm with you."

"Fine," Angel snaps.

"Fine," Spike agrees.

"Fine," Angel says again, more softly this time.

"What have you done, you dunce?" Spike asks again. His thumbs are strong but gentle on Angel's cheeks. "Tell me. Let me help you."

"Please," Angel says, shaking his head.

Always the same. Good enough for a shag. A fight. Good enough to stoke the fires of the righteous, but not good enough to share the plans with. Not until the very bitter end, when their hearts are on the verge of bursting with all their terrible secrets. Angel won't tell him what's going on until they're all about to burn.

Spike sighs and rests his head on Angel's shoulder. The shoulder Angel thinks should be broad enough but isn't because no one can bear everything alone.

S'okay. Spike knows he's not a champion. There's not a prophecy written about the likes of him. But maybe he has a destiny after all. He's the lover of heroes, easing the burden for a bit and clearing the way so they're strong enough to save the world.

"Yeah," Spike agrees.

finis