Convulsus 4/?

By: Broodus Foreheadus

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series, nor do I make any money from these stories. I am just borrowing them, but I can't promise they will be clean when I give them back. ;)

Warnings: At this point you should know….

A.N. I want to thank those of you who have been reviewing, and I ask that you all keep 'em coming! I love knowing that people are reading my story!

A.N I apologize for how long it's taken getting this up. All I can say is that I go to school and have a full time job and free time is limited. I hope I still have readers out there!

Gotta run… Can't stop… Can't rest… Have no body, but I have to keep running… Blood everywhere…

The thundering behind him is a constant reminder of what will come to pass. Not what might come, but what will come. Stopping is not an option. Not because it will help much, though it will buy time, but because to stop is to give up. He doesn't know what it is. Only that it brings death.

He doesn't like to think anymore about how long he's been running, hiding. There is no landscape, no world, but still, somehow, he finds places to hide. Only in these rare hiding places will he allow himself to contemplate how truly long he's been running. Although there is no night and day, no seasons, he still counts what he believes are the days. At the most recent count, he had been running for the better part of two-hundred fifty years. He used to tell himself it was impossible. But after so long, he was forced to accept it.

Language was the first thing he would lose. He even forgot his own name. After running for so long the only thing that meant anything to him was survival. He soon degraded to a feral shadow of his former self. There were never any consistent or coherent thoughts except for two.

The obvious one is to run. Stay ahead of It. Slowing down too much was never a good thing. He learned that the hard way. Although he had no body, he still felt the near blinding pain of claws, or knives, or both, across what should have been his back. No, running is always there.

The second has been there since the beginning, subtly weaving it's way through his every decision. The thing that has kept him going for over two-hundred fifty years. A face, a form, long since forgotten, still lingers in the shadows of his mind, lost in it's depths. A voice he can't quite hear, but longs to remember, always murmuring unintelligible words. A name. A name that he is determined never to forget even if he is running for the rest of eternity.

Just thinking the name for one moment breaks his stride for a split second. A split second was enough for the thundering It behind him, and then he was running again. The pain is worth feeling that name flow across his mind, giving him just the jolt he needs to keep going. He doesn't know why, but the name is just that important to him. He just knows that if he keeps running, he'll run straight into that protective embrace he has never felt.

Gotta run… Can't stop… Can't rest…Just keep running… He'll protect me…

My Spike…

Inwardly, Spike mentally scrambled for a believable excuse while on the outside he was the vision of coolness. Truthfully, he never thought about what he would tell anyone when asked why he was watching over Xander. Now here he was, staring Angel in the face, frantically scrambling for something to say.

"Well the whelp is in a coma, for lack of a better term. If the bloody Slayer isn't gonna watch over him, who will? I haven't seen hide nor hair of those so called friends."

It was obvious by the look on his face that Angel didn't believe him. In fact, Angel looked like he might start beating on him again, not that that wasn't much of a change from any other time he looked at Spike.

"Try again Spike," Angel ground out.

"Wot? It's not like I have anything better to do anyways is it?"

"What are you getting out of this?"

"What does it matter to you anyway? It's not like I can hurt the whelp anyways. Besides, I thought you hated him."

Angel hesitated, unsure how much to share.

"I don't hate him. For a while I did, but I've gotten over it. Spike I know you're up to something, and I'll figure it out." His voice darkened, "If you hurt him, I won't kill you but you'll wish I would."

With that, Angel swept out leaving a thoroughly miffed Spike glaring at the door.

Stupid Angel sweeping out of here all dark and mysterious and broody. Gonna put hair dye in that fancy hair gel he likes so much.

Spike paced furiously, entertaining himself with thoughts about Angel and hot pokers. When he glanced at Xander, all his anger washed away as swiftly as Angel's departure.

"What am I gonna do luv?"

He walked over and ran a hand down Xanders' cheek. Looking down at his boy, he did something he hadn't done in over one-hundred twenty years. He told his story. It wasn't even a conscious decision, he just started talking. For hours he talked, at first about nothing, but finally settled into a good rhythm. There were some laughs, and a lot of tears. A few times he thought he would never stop crying.

By the time he got through his childhood years it was well past dawn. Even though physically, he felt exhausted, emotionally he felt at peace. He hadn't felt this peaceful probably since he was human. This took him by surprise. No one living had heard these stories. These secrets. Even the watchers diaries didn't have anything about him before he was sired, and here he was telling his stories to a mortal. Sure he's an unconscious semi-coma patient, but still a mortal nonetheless. What is it about this boy that, even in his sleep, enchants him so?

With a chuckle, and a kiss to Xanders' forehead, Spike settled in to a long day's sleep.

Spike moaned softly as strong, warm arms circled his waist, lips pressed to his own, tongues winding together in a sensuous dance. Spike buried one hand in that brown hair, while the other memorized a strong muscled back.

Those warm hands trailed all over his naked body, as if memorizing every curve of every muscle, deliberately avoiding his cock, finally settling for two big handfuls of the globes of his ass. For what seemed like both an eternity and a millisecond, they lay there kissing, and exploring, and grinding, and loving every minute of it. Finally, Spike began the descent, kissing down the slope of his neck and across a broad work-sculpted chest. He laved and kissed and nipped first the right nipple until it was properly at attention, then gave equal opportunity to the left one before continuing down. Spike used his tongue to thoroughly map out the plains of his abs and delve into his navel. Following that beautiful trail, he made it to his prize.

For a second, he just gazed at it and marveled at the beauty. Long and thick with beautifully mapped out veins ending with a perfectly circumcised helmet, Spike had never seen a more beautiful sight. He ran his hand gently up and down the shaft, before burying his nose into a neatly trimmed bush, inhaling that musky leather and sawdust and lust smell that was unique to the man before him. He lifted his head, ice blue eyes capturing chocolate brown ones. Slowly he lowered his head, eyes still locked with his lovers', but determined to get that sweet taste upon his outstretched tongue.

Spike jerked awake toppling out of his chair and crashing to the floor.

"Oh god," he groaned looking down at his raging hardon,"I'm having lusty wrong feelings for a coma patient. That is a new kind of messed up."

TBC