They had been so alike back in the day. Spike would have craved nothing more than his touch and he would have stopped all time for the chance to make that young thing cry out, hidden in darkness behind heavy curtains in the middle of the day. But now, now times had moved so far forward that the sunlight bathes them both as though they were almost human. And there are moments that the sparks fly from William's eyes and Angel wants him, completely wrapped in his childe and his childe adoring him in the sunlight, every inch of that bare pale skin exposed for the first time in centuries to the day.
Such daydreams are common now, now that William... now that Spike marches through the building all day and every day, tormenting Angel at every opportunity. It feels like the old days, when the attention-seeking childe would goad his master into a beating, knowing it would lead to the bedroom and an altogether more desirable punishment. That was the great lesson. Passion is just one great cycle, hate and love all take the same amount of our passion, he never knew which side of the circle either of them was on. Love or hate. Since he had been made corporeal again, Spike's scent hung in the air everywhere Angel walked, his cigarettes, his JD, his leather duster, his skin, his lust, his passion. His grief. Angel senses that more acutely than the grief of the others, his is not just mourning for Fred, it is a loss of everything he has ever held dear. It has been mounting since before Fred, he'd seen it most clearly when they had fought for the chalice.
"You made me a monster."
Angel feels his eyes prick with tears at the thought of those words. How he had beaten and broken William over and over. The pain was pleasure, made him crave it and taken it away. Angel felt the guilt of two souls pressed upon him, knowing that he had created that childe, encouraged every last act of evil.
Spike is pissed. At everyone and everything and for no particular reason. He ascends the stairs three at a time. He walks slowly but with the menace of a hunter who knows his prey will run and fight but will never be able to hide, however deep Angel thinks he is, its not deep enough to hide from this childe. And then he's there, all fangs and fists and anger, pushing that bastard down into the sofa and stabbing at his mouth with that sharp tongue. And this is not love, this is not forgiveness, this is not submission. This is an affirmation of the childe who beat his sire, this anger and repulsion and a century old ache all fighting for the foreground and there is no way, no way in heaven, hell or anything in between that Angel is going to stop him now.
Spike shrugs his duster to the floor without breaking contact, their foreheads pressed together, mouths twisted, teeth bared and unneeded breathe drawn hard into tight chests. Angel's big, cold hands grope at his clothes, dragging his shirt off he goes for the neck. So natural, so right, he bites without thinking and feels blood gushing into his mouth as his own rushes to his dick. Spike is ripping at buttons he's too engrossed to see. The shirt comes of in tatters, leaving the cuffs round Angel's wrists like some cheesy stripper.
There is nothing but William, his dear sweet William and there is no thought in the removal of the last items of clothing left on the sofa as they roll to the floor. Angel pins the childe to the floor, arms above his head wriggling and flashing his demon eyes as his wraps his legs around Angel's hips. Angel watches him for a second... a century... William loses count of the time and becomes aware of that gaze. And then loses patience.
Rolls over with all his might and pins Sire-dearest to the ground. Arms by his sides because he's not tall enough to pull off anything else. He runs his stiff cock down Angels thigh. Sire flashes into demon eyes and eventually game-face, head back, eyes closed, just what he looks like when he's tortured. And his throat beckons, William is sucking and biting and without any thought allows himself to be flipped again, teeth still lodged in Angels throat and as he feels himself lift his body, his legs wrap around Angel. He forgets what happens next.
Angel's childe drinks so hard he worries he'll pass out, but when Spike, William, the childe starts to moan and wraps his legs around his waist he knows. With one slow and steady push he slips inside his childe and the world slips away. There is truly nothing but his childe moaning and grunting and writhing all drenched in the sunlight, glowing, fierce, blood almost warm from the passion chasing it through dead veins.
Spike's head makes contact with the floor with a thud as Angel pushes in. His angry hands pushing and pulling as though he can't decide if he wants more or nothing. His nails dig in deep to cold flesh and rip three neat little lines down Angel's shoulder blade. Angel hisses and flashes into game face before his own talon-like fingers grip Spike's thighs and pull the him closer, wider. There have been times when Spike would of complained at such a position, that he was no girl, no ponce, not yours any more you bastard... But none of that now, now he just digs his nails in harder and holds on as Angel's force causes his back to rub against the carpet and the burn just makes him harder.
He can't get his hand between them and he's growling deep in his chest at the restriction of his own pleasure. Angel's pace picking up, his grunts and groans signalling a fast oncoming orgasm that's going to leave Spike all but unsatisfied. No!
Spike takes a handful of hair and pulls back, forcing Angel's heavy frame off and away so that he can get to what he wants, needs, craves... Angel is practically kneeling now, pulling Spike across the floor again so that his ass rests on Angel's thighs while the bastard pounds away, oblivious to Spike's own cock. Spike couldn't care less, he's loathe to admit it but the position only gets Angel deeper and only feels better and it's all he can do from screaming out Angel's name as though a hundred years never past.
Spike takes his painfully hard dick in his hand and pumps hard and ruthlessly while the other hand scrabbles around, looking for something to get a purchase on before the carpet burn threatens to erode his spine. He can feel Angel getting close, he bends over Spike, staring down through his eyes and through the floor and through the whole fucking earth. Spike closes his eyes, snaps them shut and squeezes so hard he see's fireworks behind his eyelids. God.
His orgasm comes hard and knocks the breath out of his lungs. Not that it matters. He lays there for a moment as Angel pounds one last time, kneels over him, cold lifeless breath cooling the skin on his chest. Spike doesn't open his eyes. Just lays there, head against the floor, hands now flat against the carpet by his sides.
He feels Angel slip from his body and his legs drop to the floor too. He hears the rustle of fabric and the squeak of the leather sofa and then footsteps. Still with his eyes closed, he listens intently, he can hear the footsteps, the voices behind the door, the people on the floor below bitching about June in accounting, the wind that rattles the windows in their frames, the elevator door opening. A door slams somewhere near by and Spike cracks his eyes open. The room now empty as he feels.