Annoying Other People
Rating: PG-13/T
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Their sex lives would drastically improve if I did.
Genres:Crossover with Smallville. Contains non-graphic SLASH! Spike/Lex, Spangel, and some hints of Clark/Lex. Slash isn't the entire plot of this thing, but it's there. If the idea of two people of the same gender getting groiny upsets you, then it's probably a good idea if you don't read any further.
Summary: Spike and Lex find each other in LA, with a little guidance from Clark, Angel, and Lorne. Early 4th season Smallville, POST-Not Fade Away Angel.
"Go away, Spike."
The refrain is pathetically familiar. So much so, that those particular three little words should have lost their effectiveness on Spike long ago. After all, Angelus had played that card like a broken record - back when the analogy was still new. And Angel? It was funny, in a tragically balls-twisting kind of way, that as much as Angel wanted to distance himself from Angelus, he did very little to change the nature of the relationship he held with the one man who knew how strikingly similar Angel and his old sire could be.
"Spike," Angel's voice interrupts, sounding as agitated as Angelus had been that night in Prague, when Darla hadn't been in the mood for nuns. "Why are you still here?"
The words shouldn't have the ability to affect Spike anymore. But, once love's bitch, always's love's bitch. Besides, the words have a different ring to them, following sex, than they do when Angel dismisses him during the day. Fleetingly, Spike recalls that the last time he'd actually cuddled - ridiculous, emasculating term that it might be - anyone, it had been Drusilla. And hell, he'd been evil then.
Well, there had been that one time with Buffy. But to Spike, the one lengthy cuddle in the face of imminent death didn't count - and he was pretty sure every sane person would feel the same way. Including Buffy.
Angel's sitting up now, his large form staring down at Spike with that annoyed look that the younger vampire has almost come to believe is Angel's own special way of expressing "concern."
Well, bugger that. Spike can take every mood swing Angel could dish out - but pity. No sodding way will he take Angel's pity. Especially not following a fucking session.
Spike swings his legs over the bed, and searches vainly for both the sense of sarcasm that had always been his defense mechanism, as well as his shirt. Where the hell has it gone?
Oh, yes. There - nicely shredded like the way the Nibblet had preferred the cheese on her garlic bread. Spike shakes the decidedly odd post-coital thought out of his head and reaches for his pants instead. His duster is the easiest to find, but his trusty snide comebacks remain out of his reach.
"Spike. . . I . . . I just meant. . ." the older vampire fumbles verbally in a manner that he never seems to, physically. For some reason, that's all it takes to jumpstart Spike's vitriol.
"I know bloody well what you meant, Angelus." Spike uses the name that seems equally appropriate. "You got what you wanted. . . and that just about does it, doesn't it?"
The fumbling is gone, and Angel's features harden. "Good night, Spike." He's certainly said much worse, but for tonight, that's enough. Spike doesn't return the sentiment before walking out the door.
On his way out of a barely restored Hyperion Hotel - a rather morbid source of nostalgia that serves more as a memorial to those that perished in the final battle - Spike walks past Illyria, hoping the nosey bint doesn't ask any questions.
It's too much to ask, of course.
"You are leaving?"
"Looks like."
"I do not understand."
Did the silly bitch ever understand anything? "What's that, Blue?"
""I do not understand why you are dressed in that attire. It is for attendance in the clubs, is that not correct?"
Spike is feeling more of a 'bars' vibe tonight, but doesn't feel the urge to explain that much to Illyria. "Sure thing, Smurfette."
"Is not the purpose of going to these clubs to gain sexual companionship? Do you not already have that with Angel?"
"Yeah, well, a bloke shouldn't stay where he's not wanted." It sounds silly, even to Spike's own ears. Every moment of his existence has been marked by staying exactly where he isn't wanted. His mum, Angelus, Darla, Drusilla, Buffy, Angel - they could all attest to that.
It's bullshit, and Illyria calls him on it. "If that is true, vampire, then why do you stay with Angel?"
"He's all that's left," Spike says, and wonders if Illyria can hear the lie as easily as he can. Spike contemplates how desperate he must be to use Angel's reasons for his own.
"For me to disgust you so much, Angel, you sure are awfully anxious to get into my bed."
"You're all that's left, Spike."
Spike shrugs, and walks out the door. He may be a lot of things, but he's never been the broody type, and an ill-advised fuck partnership with Angel wasn't going to change that.
The new and improved Clover Club - the post-apocalyptic version - welcomed Spike with open arms. Well, not exactly. The "arms" were actually very heavily guarded by a group of muscly men that Spike could have easily taken out blind folded, but in fairness, probably would have intimidated human men.
L.A. is definitely odd. The whole city just weathered a siege of demons, dragons, and other assorted big bads a mere four months ago. Here they were, in September, and their biggest concern is still who to let in their poncy little clubs that had been flattened like pancakes only months before.
Spike recognizes the absurdity, and tells himself it is for this reason, and this reason alone, that he steps into the club. It had, after all, absolutely nothing to do with the pretty, drunk, and flirtatious people that mingled inside.
Nope. None.
Not that it would have mattered if it did. Because he and Angel clearly didn't have any sort of relationship to merit being monogamous to.
Spike walks past the pretty, drunk, and flirtatious people surrounding the bar and those herded around the tiny tables on the main floor. All of them seem too . . . easy. Spike could have any and all of them with a snap of his fingers. All it would take is a few well placed words, a strategically placed lickage of his lips, and the appropriate pout. He might fight the good fight, but the vampire in Spike still lusts for the chase of a good challenge.
Besides, with their poofy hair and black leather jackets, they remind him just a little too much of someone else. Even if the leather jackets on these particular bodies were freshly bought, and clearly only trotted out when the pretty people in them were in the mood to seem "rebellious." Spike wonders, in a bought of particularly strong disgust, what any of them would do if a nice piece of fangy rebellion walked up to them and tried to take a bite out them. He's not sure, but he thinks crying like a girl, and ending up dead figure high in the equation.
Spike has nearly decided to ditch this place, and all the pathetic souls in it. He thinks about going to a more seedy section of downtown, to the place that used to be Caritas. Angel hates that the place exists, and has made several unsuccessful attempts to close it down. The very thought is nearly enough to make Spike go. But, as he rounds the balcony, he spies someone who captures his attention long enough to make him reconsider.
Maybe it's the fact that he's existed for over a century. Maybe it's the fact that he was born and bred a Victorian. Regardless, Spike appreciates aesthetically pleasant things. And the man before defined the word beautiful. He wasn't beautiful in the classic sense, of course. But thankfully, Spike had lived long enough to experience Warhol and Frederic Leighton. Either of whom, Spike was sure, could have appreciated the specimen in standing aloofly at the top of the stairs.
There was certainly nothing wrong with the man's fashion taste. The long black trench coat thrown over a crisp lavender shirt proclaimed both a desire for solitude and a discriminate taste. Spike wondered what the stranger was doing here, in this cesspool of the indiscriminate. Then it hit him- what all the pretty people had in common. They were rich, and by extrapolation, the pretty specimen must have been too.
As long as he didn't own a Viper.
The trench coat that beckoned to Spike served to accentuate a lean, but muscled frame. A very un-Angel like frame, both in height and bulk. All the better, in Spike's perspective. The light of the shirt only served to highlight the brilliant flash of the stranger's blue eyes. Blue eyes that were returning his curious gaze.
The stranger did have one visible flaw. He was bald. Nothing made Spike more content than the feel of his fingers through his partner's hair during sex. He had adored the feel of Drusilla's curls, cherished the stolen fingerings of Buffy's mane, and secretly treasured Angel's dear, floppy mop. There wasn't even so much as a shadow of a hair on the other man's head.
Still. . . the rest of the package more than made up for the lack of hair.
Spike slowly made his way up to where the other man was deflecting the apparently unwanted attention of a fairly attractive brunette.
"Lex," she drawled, managing to make the one syllable into nerve rattling four, "We'll have lots of fun. Just like in the old days."
Lex. Hmm. Nice, short, easy to remember. Hard to confuse with Angel. "You know, pet, from the looks of it, Lex didn't have as much fun as you did. So, perhaps you should sod off."
Lex's mouth twitches in a manner that might have shown amusement, if it hadn't been for present company. Company in the form of a very pissed off woman. "Excuse me, but who are you?"
Spike keeps both hands firmly in his pockets as he answers. "Name's Spike."
The woman looks furthered annoyed. "As in the men's channel?"
"As in railroad," he replies, with just enough menace to frighten the shrill little niny. Even as he does, he thinks that Little Miss $200 shoes probably wouldn't know a railroad spike if it jumped up and stabbed her in the eye. And surely enough, she just stares at him blankly.
The stranger - Lex - on the other hand, looks intrigued. "Sounds painful," he says, his voice silencing whatever doubt Spike had about wanting to see the other man naked.
"Could be," Spike answers, taking the time to get to know the other man's scent. He smells like scotch, expensive cologne, fertilizer, and hay. An unusual combination, and certainly not Spike's typical aphrodisiac, but somehow it works on Lex in a manner that Spike doubts would work on anyone else.
The man is surveying him, in a manner that could easily make someone feel cheap, but Lex manages to turn into a surveyor buying a priceless piece of art. "I'm intrigued."
The woman - who smells like cheap perfume, too much wine, and a host of illegal substances - leaves them in a huff, muttering something about 'probably not even remembering her name.'
Lex lets out a quiet sigh of relief, one that would have been inaudible to anyone without vamp hearing. "Finally."
Spike cocks his head in Lex's direction, and flashes the most seductive smile he could muster. "Any reason she wasn't tickling your fancy? She was rather striking, if not the brightest bulb."
"I'm not really in the mood for brunettes tonight." The tone takes a rather strong turn towards bitter, and the nostalgic look on Lex's face makes it brutally clear why the dark haired ones were off the plate. Somewhere, someone is Lex's own private Angel.
"Yeah, the brunettes have a tendency to aim right where it hurts," Spike thinks briefly of Buffy, and smiles despite his mood. "Even the ones who hide it with a bottle. What'd yours do?"
Lex shrugs, in a manner that is supposed to be carefree, but misses by the weight of several worlds. "Apparently, it's all my fault. I'm not quite. . . good enough."
"Sounds familiar."
"You too?"
"Yeah, save the bloody world with the man, but still thinks I'm William the Bloody." Lex looks at Spike oddly, and belatedly, Spike remembers that not everyone goes around saving the world. He really does need to get out and away from Illyria and Angel more often.
"Saving the world? That's more Clark's department than mine, but knowing him has kind of rubbed off on me."
"And it's all his bloody fault, and he can't even see the changes he's made in you."
Lex nods, and those blue eyes flash violently. "Why can't he see that the Lex Luthor that hit him with a car four years ago wouldn't have given a damn about Chloe, or seeing justice served?"
Lex Luthor. The name rings familiar. Spike doesn't pay a lot of attention to the news, because it rarely mentions vampires, demons, and the real menaces, but even he's heard of the man across from him. And during his time as a ghost, the name Luthor had been whispered many times in the offices of Wolfram and Hart.
Spike figures Chloe is probably Chloe Sullivan, the expert witness who had helped Lex put Lionel Luthor in prison. But right now, Spike honestly doesn't care. Because this conversation was supposed to be polite getting to know you before we fuck," and instead is dragging up memories Spike is here to forget. "So, that why you're here? To forget Clark?"
"Actually, no. I was on my way to somewhere I could be appreciated-"
"And you came to L.A.? Bad choice, that."
Lex gives him a look that says he isn't used to being interrupted, and Spike quietly thinks it's too bad the other man is just a one-night stand, because bothering Prince Luthor could be ever so much more fun than bothering Angel ever was.
"I was going to Metropolis, as a matter of fact. When I got there, I was doing just fine, until I got drunk."
"You really aren't winning originality points with this story."
"Then Hope convinced me to go to this guy who pretends to read your fortune while you sing."
"Oh, yeah? Green fellow, red horns, about so high?" Spike asked, holding his hand out to appropriate height. God, he'd missed Lorne. Dear, sweet, un-judgemental, made- the -best -bloody Marys Lorne.
"Sounds like the guy. Has he tricked you too?"
"Something like that."
"Well, anyone, the man in the green mask tells me my destiny has two paths - I can go back to Smallville, or I can come to L.A. Then he says, 'but if you chose Smallville, you might just want to find a bridge to jump off of without Clark Kent around.' Which must have meant that I was really drunk when I was talking to him."
"Must have been." Because as near as Spike could remember, Lorne didn't go around telling people to jump off bridges. Even those that deserved it.
"As a matter of fact, I think I might be drunk now."
"Well, all the better for finding your destiny, don't you think?"
Lex gives him a smirk that doesn't look drunk at all. In fact, it looks rather calculated. "When you put it that way. . . by the way, we've not been properly introduced. I'm Lex Luthor."
"I'll try to keep that in mind, Lex, but I can't guarantee you won't end up being called something else. . . while we're uh, looking for your destiny."
"Wouldn't be the first time. I'll try to remember Spike too, but I can't guarantee . . . " Lex's voice trails off, and Spike would almost doubt that he is legal enough to have this conversation, if it wasn't for the wealth of media footage that told him otherwise.
"That I won't become Clark?"
A nod, and Spike shrugs. A quick beckon to a waiter results in two drinks being placed before Spike and Lex, and the former raises his glass, as if to toast. "Then let's toast them, shall we? To Clark and . . . Angel."
Lex returns the gesture. "To Clark and Angel."
Two quick swallows later, Spike tilts his head toward the door. "I believe your destiny awaits?"
"Did you drive?"
"No, I walked."
"We can take my car, then."
"It's not a Viper, is it?"
"Nope. It's a Porsche."
Kind of poncy, Spike thinks, but it'll do.
The End.
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