| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 |
Home | Gallery | Spike/Angel | Spike/Giles/Angel | Spike/Giles | Spike/Wesley/Angel | Buttons | Poems

On Me - Chapter 2

He clearly can’t wait to get away from me, so now I get a chance to sit here and brood. What’s new? But I do get a chance to think things over. How is ‘this’ going to work, whatever ‘this’ is? I can’t work out how I feel about this new creature, this ‘Spike’. He is different from Will in so many ways, but then, of course, I’m not Angelus, so we are both new. Both trying to find a place we can be together without trying to fuck, torture, or kill each other. A place where we need to work together to kill a demon and then go our separate ways. A few days, that’s all. I can cope with a few days, can’t I? I coped with Cordelia in my apartment for one night, didn’t I? And nothing could be worse than that. Even Spike! He’s back; he’s not carrying anything, just hands thrust into his pockets as before. Where’s he been?

“I thought you were getting your stuff!”

“I have.”

“Oh.” Where?

Ha! That threw him. What does he think: that I’m like him, needing a fucking Sherpa to travel with every time I leave home. Fags, Duster, Docs, jeans, T-shirt, CDs, beer, and I’m good to go. Travel light, no commitments. That’s me. No ties.

Yeah, no life more like. Everyone I’ve ever known died or pissed off and left me.

I jump over the door, hunker down in the seat, feet up on the dash, (that’ll piss him off guaranteed), then fish out my bottle of JD, screw off the top, long swallow, and I’m ready to roll. Don’t want to go to LA with this git, but I guess it beats staying in Sunnyhell, and I’m kinda thinking of Angel with that Taran Demon, and I’m kinda thinking that this might be more fun than I thought, and I’m kinda thinking that maybe this is the perfect revenge for me handed to me on a plate, and isn’t Angel just gonna hate it....

“Come on then, poof .... whatya staring at? Let's roll.”

So here we are, traveling together for the first time in over one hundred years. Funny, we’ve never even sat in a car together before. Things change. We’ve changed. As the melodic sounds of Bach ease out over the warm night air, I’m wondering... “Turn this fucking shit off, Angel.”

My CD is rudely ejected from the player.

“You’ve gotta get a fucking life, mate. Get some decent sounds.”

He fishes in some deep recess of his duster, brings up a CD and puts it into the machine. Surprisingly, a soft rock ballard starts to play.

“That’s not your usual stuff, Spike... growing up at last then?”

Oh shit. Oh, well done, Angel. As the words leave my mouth, I remember. I remember a night coming back to the factory, my balls so painful from a well-placed slayer kick that I thought they were going to fall off! So full of rage and hate, and I remember, god, I don’t want to remember this. I remember finding Spike lying in front of the fire, his hated wheelchair cast off to one side, listening to his awful music and... oh god… let me not remember... and me deliberately snapping every disk in front of him and throwing each one on the fire. Every one... years of CDs collected (stolen) snapped and thrown on the fire. In cold deliberate hate. Nothing else I did to him in that factory proved more, that I was not the Angelus he had once loved. Nothing broke his spirit more than that cold, senseless, betrayal.

And I remember it now and, of course, so does he. He turns to me and fixes me with those cold, blue eyes. I expect screaming and ranting, but I get a quiet, measured, calm voice.

“Funny that, mate. Lost me old ones.”

He turns back to the player, punches rewind to start that track again, and turns to face out into the night. God, will we ever be able to make this temporary alliance work? There is just too much history waiting to trip us up. Every conversation we start, every thing we see will plunge us back to the past, back into memories that neither of us seem able, or willing, to cope with.

The music starts again and, of course, another memory surface,s and I wonder just how much times have changed and will he... I start to silently count... five, four, three, two, one… yes, there he goes. Over one hundred years, and Spike is still singing along to his music, quietly, unconsciously. I don’t think he even knows he does it. I relax and just revel in that beautiful voice. I always loved his singing . Pissed Darla off no end though. She hated the human still in Will, hated that he had retained such a zest for human habits; singing, eating, drinking, laughing. But Angelus.. .me, I must stop this schizophrenic splitting of him from me: it’s me; it’s always me... but I, would never punish him for singing, loving that voice as it drifted through all the houses we lived in, drifted through all our years together. Oh God, I can’t believe it; he is singing perfect harmony to the singer on the track; it’s so beautiful. I relax back and just enjoy the moment: my beautiful car (I love this car), the warm Californian night, just cruising along, Spike peaceful for once... and suddenly the lyrics of the song hit me….

As I’m lying in my bed
Thoughts running through my head
And I feel that love is dead
I’m loving Angels instead
And through it all she offers me protection
A little love and affection
Whether I’m right or wrong
And down the waterfall
Wherever life may take me
I know that it won’t break me
I’m loving Angels instead

I’ve never heard this before; it’s beautiful and, oh God... did Spike just change the words there? I could have sworn he sang, ‘He offers me protection... I’m loving Angel instead.’

This is the bloody bollocks this is. Cruising along in Angel’s car (I fucking love this car), Robbie on the CD, a bottle of JD disappearing down my neck, just enough to stay in that place where everything seems better and everything I think seems profound, and the music just drifts over me. Oh, fucking hell, have I been singing along? Now that’s embarrassing. What a wuss. Hardly the Big Bad thing to do. And holy shit, WHICH lyrics was I singing: Robbie’s or my altered version? Christ, pleease say I haven’t been singing about loving Angel. Cus then I would have to impale myself on this bottle of JD. Can glass stake a vamp? Dunno, feel like trying though.

Damn, he’s stopped singing. I miss his voice already. Basically, I think I just want all my senses engrossed with Spike. I want to hear him, see him, smell him, touch him... ah, better not go down that line of thinking. Can’t stop now though... I’m picturing just brushing my hand over the very noticeable bulge in his jeans. Would I be able to feel the tip of his cock pressing up? I would scratch a nail over it, making him shiver....

“I wanna stop.”

God, I am so caught up in that image of my hand on Spike’s cock, I literally jump when he speaks.

“We are not stopping, Spike.”

“Yes we fucking are. I need supplies.”

“More alcohol you mean,” I say, glancing down at his now empty bottle.

“Yeah, something wrong with that, mate?” I hate this holier-than-though Angel shit. He makes me feel even more like a loser than I already do. I know I’m a sad chip-freak, having to ask for every thing, like a bloody kid.

“Just stop all right, Angel.”

As we need gas anyway, I relent, and pull in at the next stop. As I’m getting out, Spike sticks his hand out at me.

“Come on then, mate.”


He glares at me.

“Are you fucking stupid, Angel?" - SHIT, I HATE THIS - "I can’t ‘acquire’ my own stuff these days, in case you’ve forgotten. Yeah, mate, chipped, can’t do the grrrrr thing any more.” I flash my fangs at him for a split second, then back into normal mode. “I need money, as I’m coming to LA to kill a demon for you, you can bloody well pay me. Now, in advance.”

I learnt many years ago that sometimes it’s better just to give into Spike. I know all the experts say you shouldn’t, that ‘no’ should mean ‘no’, but, fuck it, they aren’t living with Spike. I start to sort some notes from my pocket, but he grabs the entire lot and stomps off towards the shop.

I fill up, pay, and wait for him. When he gets back, his arms are full. Oh, ye Gods, what has he got? More whisky, more cigarettes, and what looks like the entire store of candy. Sweet, sticky, brightly-coloured muck.

He seems more cheerful though, and the atmosphere has noticeably lightened as we start to move off again.

Yeah, this is the bloody bollocks all right, one hundred percent the life. I’m happy now: lots of candy washed down by booze. I close my eyes, lean back in my seat and just let all the tension of the past few weeks seep out of me. I can feel the distance starting to grow between me and Sunny-effing-dale. Between me and the slayer and her annoying little gang of children. This seems like moving on at last, although I know its only an illusion; it’s just a temporary respite, and I’ll have to go back soon. Nowhere else to go. Bloody good film that, Officer and a Ho. I’ve got nowhere else to go. Yeah, mate, that’s me. Can’t feed, can’t steal, sure as hell can’t get a regular job. CV – Big bad demon killing machine. Shit, know I’ll have to go back if only to get fed. Don’t ruin the mood, think about something else, keep drinking.

He seems much happier suddenly, munching his candy and sipping (gulping), his drink. Just how many bottles has he had tonight? Maybe we can have some peace for the rest of the trip, no more bad memories.



The last hour has been so peaceful. If it hadn’t have been for the constant movement of his hand to his lips with candy, cigarettes, or drink - and sometimes all three at once - I’d have thought he was asleep, so still has he been. And I’ve been mesmerized just watching those slim fingers out of the corner of my eye, watching as his tongue comes out to lick them off when they are sticky. God, he is SO sensual. He’s an oral enticement. I started to picture those fingers moving over to my pants, stroking my incredibly hard cock through the leather, opening up my fly. Picturing those lips and that tongue coming down to delicately blow and lick the tip of my cock where that tiny bead of precum has formed, starting to...


Shit. “What now, Spike?”

“Angel, I wanna stop.”

“NO! I am NOT stopping again.”

“Angel, I really need to stop. NOW.”

“Shit, Spike, it's getting really boring, this obsession you seem to have with annoying the hell out of me. We are not....


Oh, Mother of God and all that is Holy, Spike has just vomited all over himself, the seat and the dashboard. Oh God.

I swerve to the side of the road and jump out.

“You fucking arsehole, Spike, look at my fucking car. I do NOT believe you just did that. How much drink did you have tonight?”

I look over at him; he seems to be sitting there in a state of shock. Shit. Just sitting there with second hand drink and candy dripping off him.

And suddenly, I’m taken back over one hundred years to a dark road somewhere in England and Will, huddled in the corner of a coach, looking about as sick and green as a vampire could look. How could I have forgotten this knowledge?

Spike gets incredibly travel sick!

And I let him buy all that candy; I let him drink all that booze. Hell, I even paid for it!

But this is not England, and he’s not Will, and I can’t take this Spike in my arms as I used to do with Will and take his mind off feeling sick by licking slowly over his closed eyes, cooling his forehead with my tongue, sliding my hand into his britches and stroking his ever-hard cock 'til he groaned for a different reason, whispering in his ear what rewards he would get if he managed to get to our destination without throwing up. He always gave into the pleasure and the attention I was giving him, his mind totally distracted from the swaying of the coach.


Wow, my voice is almost calm here, good control, Angel.

“Spike, get out of the car.”

I walk round to his side and open the door. He steps out, still in a state of shock, and I start to strip off his clothes.

“Hey, sod off wanker! Leave me the fuck alone.” I am NOT going to cry.

“You can’t go all the way to LA covered in puke, Spike, get out of that stuff.”

“Sod off!”


“What part of sod off don’t you understand?”


“NOOOO! Angel, stop it. Angel! Angel, I don’t bloody have any other clothes, OK. Satisfied?”

Oh shit, can life get any fuckin’ worse? I’ve up-chucked all over myself and precious one's car, and now I have to admit that all I own is the clothes I stand up in. Jesus. PLEASE... someone STAKE me! NO MORE OF THIS SHIT!

“Spike, calm down. Here, I have some sweats in the trunk; you can borrow them.”

He hands me some worn-out sweat pants, and I guess I’ve no option but to take them. Even I draw the line at sitting in alcohol puke all night. I strip off my T-shirt and jeans and climb gratefully into the pants. They’re only about three sizes too big, but they’ll do.

God, I can’t believe how thin he is. In this light, he looks positively skeletal, every sinew defined. I can’t take my eyes off that beautiful body. As he bends over to kick off his Docs, I have to physically prevent myself from stretching out a hand to lay it on the small of his perfectly formed back.

“You can’t go the rest of the way in just pants, take this, too.”

Bloody hell! He is actually taking off his own shirt to give to me, leaving just a T-shirt underneath. I take the warm silk in my hands and, as I put it on, I can smell that unique essence that is Angelus. I could close my eyes; in any place, at any time, if I smelt that smell - sort of like sweet, but bitter chocolate, like wine, like good things, like comfort, like love - if I smelt that anywhere, I would think of Angel. And suddenly, the intimacy of this situation hits me. The two of us, standing here along side the road, me in his clothes for God’s sake. I look at him and take a deep, unnecessary breath.

“Sorry about the car, mate.”

Well, that’s a first. In one hundred and twenty six years, I’ve never heard Will, or Spike, apologise for anything. Ever. Perhaps there is still hope for us to find some sort of friendship from the detritus of our lives. If he can change this much, perhaps we can find common ground to meet again as equals. Who knows? There’s not much of this trip left now, and then a demon to find and kill, and then he returns to his life in Sunnydale with his new friends. Will he want to renew our friendship? He clearly doesn’t need me anymore in this life he has carved single-handed for himself.

I throw an old tarp over the seat for him – it's real handy being a demon killer sometimes; it’s amazing what I can find in this car for keeping demon gunk off the seats - throw his disgusting clothes into the trunk, and climb into the driver’s seat again. And all I really want is to reach out and stroke my finger down those incredible cheekbones, to take his slim, fragile form in my arms and keep him safe from harm, to kiss him 'til he forgets to be sad, to love him 'til he stays mine forever. But I know that none of that will ever happen, and that Will is as effectively lost from me as if I had never come back from Hell. And, in a way, this is worse than Hell; this is being close to something you desperately want and can’t have. Salvation offered, only to be denied. The endless wanting and endless desire for this man I can’t have anymore.

This is not the Angelus I remember in any incarnation. Either Angelus I knew would have ripped my lungs out for vomiting on something that was his. But Angel has been kinda OK about it. Shit, all right, he’s been incredible about it. Even given me his clothes to wear, and I know Angel: greater love hath no man than Angel gives you one of his precious silk shirts. But, of course, it’s not love. Not anymore. Any chance we had of a reconciliation was literally blown away tonight on a blitz of alcohol and sugar. You can’t love a loser like me, can you Angel? Let’s just get this trip out of the way, kill this demon, and let me return to the hell that is my life.

“Come on, Mate, I’m beginning to feel like left over road-kill here – need to sleep, need to lie down, can we just go already?”

I reluctantly drag my mind back from the feel of Spike’s skin, the smell of Spike’s hair, the sound of Spike’s moaning, and pull back out onto the road. The atmosphere in the car has changed. The quiet, easy companionship we almost had before the up-chuck incident has gone. Spike seems very tense again; he’s twitching at the hem of the shirt, digging those awful black nails again, biting at the edge of one thumb. He seems to have something on his mind. Maybe I should say something, try and break the ice.

“I phoned ahead earlier, so Cordy and Wes will be there when we get in. They can get your clothes sorted out for you, while we get you cleaned up.”

I glance across at him. That doesn’t seem to have helped much. When I turn back to watch the road, I sense his eyes fastened on my face. Is he trying to read something there? What does he want? He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, because he turns away to stare out into the darkness. He’s quiet for a while, but then I hear the faintest sound over the noise of the engine. And I can’t believe it, but I think it’s Spike. And I can’t believe it, but I think that Spike is crying.


| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 |
Home | Gallery | Spike/Angel | Spike/Giles/Angel | Spike/Giles | Spike/Wesley/Angel | Buttons | Poems