Angelus didn't kiss, or at least he didn't kiss Spike. He kissed Darla, and Drusilla when he wanted to make a point, but there was nothing remotely resembling tenderness between Spike and Angelus. Angelus didn't kiss Spike for nearly a century, and when he did, there was still nothing of tenderness in it.
Spike was still pretending to be wheel-chair bound, was frustrated and furious; Angelus and Drusilla had been out all night painting the town red, ripping out throats and scattering fear like flower petals in their wake.
They came in less than ten minutes before sunrise, Drusilla languid and dreamy-eyed, Angelus self-satisfied and radiating arrogance. Dru went to bed almost immediately, humming to herself as she did, while Angelus stopped in the middle of the floor, watching Spike with an expression that made the younger vampire uneasy.
When Angelus came closer, putting his hands on the arms of Spike's wheelchair, it was all he could do to keep himself from jumping to his feet and revealing his trump card. Instead he forced himself to stay seated, and looked up at Angelus with as insolent an expression as he could muster.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he demanded. Angelus smelled of blood and human fear, and Spike couldn't quite hide the tremor of desire that ran through him at the combination of scents.
"Why, Spike, is that nice?" Angelus asked, the mock-cheer in his voice nearly as disconcerting as the gleam in his eyes. "I thought you might be lonely sitting here all by yourself... bored, helpless..."
Spike didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He opened his mouth to object, but Angelus was there first, kissing him with bruising force while one hand came off the arm of Spike's chair and gripped him by the back of the neck, holding him in place.
Angelus tasted like he smelled: of blood and fear and power, and Spike realized that he was kissing the bastard back in spite of himself, fury mingling with desire in his veins. He bit Angelus' lip with blunt human teeth, hard enough to draw blood, and Angelus chuckled into his mouth before deepening the kiss.
Spike was desperately, achingly hard, and was seconds away from climbing out of the damned wheelchair and showing Angelus just how much he'd learned in the past century when the bastard pulled away, eyes still gleaming with that nauseating self-satisfaction they'd worn since he'd lost his soul.
"It's a pity you're still crippled," he said nastily, and Spike, freed from the dizzying proximity of his sire, had a moment to be grateful that his long shirt hid his physical reaction.
"You bastard," Spike snarled, as Angelus walked off with another chuckle. Again Spike was tempted to get out of the wheelchair; again he subsided.
You'll get yours, he promised Angelus silently. You'll get yours in the end.
Author's Notes: Written for a 'first kiss' prompt from the lovely marauderswolf.