St Petersburg, an angel fanfic

St. Petersburg

Just another mostly plotless Spike/Angel one-shot to add to the legions of others no doubt already out there.

Spike prides himself on never forgetting. At least not the important things. People he killed? Sure. It's impossible not to forget some of those, because of the sheer volume and all. But the best shag he ever had? Not on your life.

A/N: This is a flashback taking place during the Season 5 episode "A Hole in the World," due almost entirely to this quote I found on the Buffy/Angel wiki: "Spike and Angel...they were hanging out for years and years and years. They were all kinds of deviant. Are people thinking they never...? Come on, people! They're opened-minded guys!" Joss Whedon says on the DVD commentary to this episode, when Spike so readily holds Angel's hand as they meet demons in battle.

It's totally canon, guys! I had to. (PS, I know there are, like, bunches of anachronisms in this. Sorry, too lazy to figure out the 1890s equivalent of "horny.")

Outside the Deeper Well, demons start to pour through that stupid magic tree, and Spike feels that rush he only gets from the anticipation of giving something a good killing.

Well, not only from that. There are other ways to get an undead man's blood moving, after all. But that's not what's on his mind tonight. At least not until Angel reaches out his hand.

"Strategy?" Spike asks, and "Just hold my hand," Angel says.

Spike feels his hand moving before he quite tells it to (no time for hesitation here anyway), sighing even as his lips curl back into a grin. "St Petersburg."

"I thought you'd forgotten," Angel says, voice flat (or is it guarded?) and then the demons are on them.

Yeah, yeah, Spike wouldn't have thought old Angel had it in him either. Of course, he was Angelus then and those were different times. But when it comes to that sort of tango, even Angel knows. Or maybe it was just that he knew Spike. He knew how to do Spike so exactly wrong that it was exactly right.

And oh, Spike knows there would be plenty of judgment if anybody else ever heard a word about this, any of the Angel Scoobies or whatever they're called. Gunn, Fred (if they ever get her back), even Lorne (though Harmony'd probably just want to watch, which is even worse). He knows they'd look at Angel and him both like they were abominations, and not just the used-to-eat-people kind.

Not because of them both being blokes or anything. God, they've got enough on their plates without worrying about who or what kind the good lord intended us to fuck. But because it's Spike and Angel. Sworn enemies and all that, yeah? Rivals till the end.

But see, the thing about being a vampire for hundreds of years is, it's a bit like belonging to a social club or something. (Not that Spike's ever been in a social club except to eat the members, mind.) But when you're running across the same people year after bloody year, it's impossible not to sleep with the same people your best mate and your worst enemy has. Or to sleep with your best mate and your worst enemy. And if those happen to be the same person, well. That's just life, innit? Or undeath, as the case may be.

But yeah, St. Petersburg. Spike remembers how it started. Not quite as sweetly as it finished, o'course, but it had promise even from the beginning.

They were in Romania. It seemed like they were always in Romania lately. And all because that bloody ponce Angelus (and Spike didn't even want to get started on what a truly awful name that one was. Like a git with wings. Of course, he wouldn't mention that to Dru. Probably make her like him even better, then. He could fly up and find her brain wherever it was in the sky, probably) had a taste for the Eastern Europeans.

"Wilder, they are," he would say in that godawful brogue of his. "Can't you just taste it, William?" and Spike would have to remind him again, "It's Spike now," as if Angelus didn't know.

Spike remembered (it's always the important stuff) almost the first thing Angelus ever said to him: "Do you think that makes me a deviant?" he said, talking about male traveling companions and meaning God knew what. And if Spike did, well, who was he to judge, really? That was only about ten minutes after Mum had tried to shag him, wasn't it? And if that doesn't put a man off women a bit, what'll it take?

So yeah, he'd thought about it. The way Angelus's eyes would light up during a kill, and a lot of the time his clothes would get torn. But it worked for him, you know?

But St. Petersburg, yeah? After Romania they'd headed north, straight up through Ukraine, forests getting thicker and country getting rougher till Spike didn't know where they were anymore, just knew that it was a damn hell of a lot colder than England even at its worst.

The girls were starting to complain (Darla loudly, Drusilla in whimpers) and even Spike was biting his lip when they finally came to St. Petersburg.

"Ah, civilization at last!" Angelus crowed like he hadn't been the git to drag them through all the wilderness in the first place.

"As I recall, we left civilization back in Italy," Darla calls from the rear of their little brigade, and then she giggles. "A warmer welcome I've never had, anyway." A pause and then, "We should go back."

"We should," Drusilla repeats, her voice slow and fervent, and Spike knows both he and Angelus are gritting their teeth. Damn Immortal. Though he had to admit the sight of Angelus in chains hadn't been all bad. Spike was a man who could admit to admiring what was to be admired, after all.

But St. Petersburg. They crested the hill on the outskirts of town and then it was there all laid out before them, pretty as a postcard before it gets all ripped to pieces. And they'd rip it, too. Spike felt the laugh bubbling up in his chest, threw back his head as Drusilla began growling, playful and fierce, and Darla and Angelus stood poised and still and deadly, and Spike loved them, the heat in his chest not just anticipation but pride to be standing here, all of them together.

After that it was bloody chaos, of course.

They swept through the thoroughfares and up the streets, everything seeming to lead them right to the center, inward and inward like spokes on a wheel. The first one they passed was a farmer. Or something. He had a cart, anyway. Spike wasn't really looking, all right, couldn't tell you anything about the man except how hot his blood smelled when it hit the winter air, how rich coiled in his stomach.

Of course, soon the bloody Russians thought they'd band together, bunch of idiots. Thought they could fight back.

And they gave a pretty good go of it, to be fair. Rounded up the four of them in the square right at the center point, brandished their stakes and pitchforks like they really thought that'd do any good.

Spike laughed. And then they charged.

Now he thinks back on it, he probably would have been killed that day if it weren't for the rest of them. If it weren't for Angelus reaching out.

"Hold my hand," he said.

"You must be bloody well joking," Spike scoffed. "I may be about to die, but I'm not going to do it holding on to you, mate."

"I've got a plan!" Angelus shouted, sounding just annoyingly self-assured enough that Spike knew he probably had a good one. So he sighed (quickly, as the pitchforks were approaching quite rapidly) and stretched out his fingers to grasp Angelus's.

Immediately he felt something sharp poking his palm, reached his fingers around that instead, and when Angelus yelled, "Go!" he yanked, pulling taught the piece of thin wire they know held between them, slicing off the heads of the three in front, neat as you please.

The others stuttered to a halt, backed away quickly at the sight of Spike's fangs, Angelus's already red and dripping chin.

"Good trick," Spike told him as they advanced, impressed in spite of himself. "Where'd that wire come from?"

"I keep it on me always," Angelus grinned, his head raised back, about to bite into the screeching girl he held in his arms, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing to him. His grin turned wicked as he glanced back over at Spike. "Never know when you're going to need something sturdy to tie someone up with."

With that, he bit into the girl, who quieted quickly, and Spike tried to quiet the new feeling he felt bubbling up from deep inside him, a bit like hunger, a bit like excitement, but mostly just as hot as blood boiling in the summer sun.

There was no time to think about it though in the rush and euphoria after they'd slaughtered half the brave folk in the main square and made their way down to the train station and given the incoming travelers a greeting they surely won't forget. Or at least, that was what Spike told himself. Firmly.

After, they demanded rooms in the finest hotel in the city ("Russian hospitality," Spike spat around the concierge's neck, "Can't beat it."), the girls were giggling and pawing at each other's skirts, Dru saying they'd like to play dress up, and Spike looked at Angelus and rolled his eyes because he knew what that meant.

It'd happened before, and it all went according to the script this time too.

"Grandmum and I are going to have some private time," Dru said.

"Girl talk, if you will," Darla said, her smile curling.

"And we can't come?" Angelus asked, grinning both wickedly and infuriating.

Dru pouted. "No, you'll ruin it."

And Darla wrapped an arm around her waist, the ripped sleeve of her dress slipping off one shoulder. "No, I'm afraid not," she said. "No boys allowed."

"Dru," Spike said, his voice dripping as the blood dripped off his chin, "I'm horny from all the killing, love, come on."

But Dru bit her lip and Darla's smile got wider.

"Not even to watch?" Angelus asked, hungry as Spike felt. Though probably not quite so confused, the rush of heat deep in his stomach rushing faster at his words.

Darla patted his cheek, and Angelus stalked away to the window with a snarl.

"Give us a kiss," Dru said, turning to Spike. "But just one. Wouldn't want to spoil the taste for Grandmum." And Spike rolled his eyes and turned away too, feeling the petulant child. The petulant, lust-maddened child.

"I'm sure you boys will find some way to occupy yourselves while we're busy," Darla said, then pulled Drusilla into the bedroom by her sash, laughing.

Spike scoffed. Bloody women.

After a moment he lifted his shoulder and turned to Angelus. He could still hear giggling and every once in a while a loud gasp coming from the other room, and he'd be damned if he was going to sit in the sitting room and listen to it.

"Well then," he said, and Angelus turned to him, eyebrows raised. "I think I'll go find me a Russian wench to fuck, since Dru's gone for decidedly less green pastures this evening. What do you say?"

He was being nice, offering to share in a bit of sport with Angelus, but Angelus only smiled lazy and sharp. He reclined on the chaise by the window, rolled toward Spike and said, "I think we probably killed them all. Besides, even if we found one, you'd never do it."

"Would so," Spike said.

"Would not," Sharper now, Angelus sat up, leaned his face close to Spike's, and Spike stood up from the table he'd been leaning on, turned to the window instead. "Because you're weak. Because you love her."

"I'm not weak," Spike said. He knew better than to even try denying the other part, but he turned away from the window, because it wasn't like they needed two broody imbeciles in this group.

"Prove it, then," Angelus said, and Spike knew a challenge when he heard it.

He also knew a seduction when he saw it, the way Angelus rolled over onto his back, hand grazing upwards from his own waistband, coming to rest against his admittedly muscled chest. Damn. It was cheap, what Angelus was doing, but damn if it wasn't tempting too.

Angelus jerked his head. "Come on, then, William," and his voice was dark and he licked his lips. "We might as well make our own fun."

And then Spike gaped. "You must be bloody joking, mate."

"Nah," said Angelus, his fingers leaving red prints on the cream wallpaper as he felt behind him for the curtain, to pull it shut and leave them staring at each other in the half-dark. "What kind of men are we, if we need ladies to make our fun for us?"

Spike tried to think about it rationally, tried to consider how much this would be worth, taunting Angelus about Angelus's obvious lust for him for years to come. But all rationality went out the now-curtained window when Angelus looked down and began casually flicking open the buttons on his torn and bloody waistcoat.

"Damn it straight to hell," he said, pulling a hand through his hair, and then he descended upon Angelus.

Spike may not have liked Angelus, but he liked the feel of Angelus's ribcage under his arm. He liked the sensation of ripping the remnants of Angelus's shirt off him and sliding his hands down along those smooth shoulder blades, straddling Angelus's lap and rocking forward so hard the chaise crashed back against the window sill and he liked the slow cracked sound of Angelus's laugh.

He liked that he didn't have to say Angelus's name (which was the worst name, honestly), but could just grunt, "Lift up a bit, you ponce," and Angelus raised his hips so Spike could yank his trousers down.

It wasn't sweet, wasn't careful and slow like he always wanted to be with Dru (the way he knew she didn't like, not really, but he couldn't stop himself from being soft with her). It was easy not to be soft with Angelus. It was easy to rip in with his hands and his teeth and finally feel like he was catching hold of something, finally fucking somebody who wouldn't wisp away on the next breath of wind.

Angelus's hips jerked beneath him and Spike thrust harder, reached around to the coiled muscles in Angelus's back and dug his nails in. They were gasping, both of them, thudding hard against the wall or the window or the floor or some other part of the room, Spike had lost track.

Coming was like a rush of clarity more than anything else, though he'd remember the pleasure later; his belly would quake with the remembering of it. But in that moment, it was more like knowing, remembering who he was.

The first thing he heard was Darla's soft tinkling laugh, the first thing he felt Drusilla's hand on his forehead. He sat up to find himself strewn upon the floor halfway across the room, naked and trembling. Angelus sat on the chaise, arms crossed and grin biting, but somehow Spike didn't find it nearly so infuriating as he had before (this feeling would only last about a week, if that, but for the moment, it was nice).

"Did the poor dear tire himself out?" Dru asked him, leaning over him and swaying back and forth, hair fluttering.

"I'm fine, Dru. More than fine, actually."

Darla laughed that dumb tinkly laugh again. "It looks like you found some way to spend your time without us after all," she said.

They've been through a lot together, Angel and him. And good or bad or very very jaw-clenchingly knee-bucklingly try-not-to-think-about-it good, it's been enough that Spike knows they'll be all right now, ravening hordes be damned. As they spin and strike and whirl in unison, Spike looks over at Angel, catches his eye and grins. Yeah, they've got this.