TITLE: "Everybody Smokes in Hell" 1/1 - A/S
AUTHOR: Ducks, The Angel Ho. ;)
DISCLAIMER: Iím saving up for them, but theyíre not mine yet. Do you know how much they COST? So, I'm just stealing them. I canít promise to put them back when Iím done, but I can promise the only profit I get is purely spiritual. And maybe carnal. *eg*
PAIRING: A/S, C/G, W/V
TIMELINE: AU - Two years in the future?
SYNOPSIS: Spike refuses to go on a mission with Angel, almost resulting in his Sireís Final Death. He feels bad. And you know that can only be a good thing. *grin*
DISTRIBUTION: Dead Sexy, first and foremost! :) Slashing the Angel, AngelSlash, BTVS Slash, Blood Screaming, Eternal Nightcap, anybody else who houses my Slash (I feel like I'm in that Python sketch, but instead of saying "Spam spam spam spam," I'm saying "Slash, slash, slash, slash," which is WAY harder.), if you guys want it. Okay for list archives. Anybody else, just ask. Iíll say yes. :)
AUTHORíS NOTES: By Special Request for my honey Netia over at the incredibly hot and sticky Dead Sexy... grrrrr. Her challenge:
"Spike, Angel, Angst, Anger, Violence... and a slashy sexy NC55 type ending would be my dream come true. How about Angel getting hurt, and Spike making it okay for a change. Perhaps let him kick the hell out of some huge spiny demon gang, and get to drive the Plymouth. Maybe the line, "After youíve taken care of all these soddiní humans, someoneís gotta take care of you."
Hope you like, it, honey!
P.S. The title doesnít have anything to do with anything. I just heard it
on NPR the other day, and I liked it. I'm fairly certain I'm stealing it from
a suspense novel of some sort. :)
FEEDBACK: Well, I donít do it for the MONEY! ;)
CONTENT: Slash, Angel-Angst, Spike Attitude & Berzerker Spike.
DEDICATION: To Netia, for being such a rockiní chick, and letting me see Naked Spike. *grin*
"Everybody Smokes In Hell"
This is the unlife. I tell you, moving to Los Angeles was the best bloody decision I ever made. Living like a damn king, I am, kicking back in the Lazy Boy, a six pack of Guinness at one hand, a big steaming mug of fresh O at the other, and an industrial sized drum of Planterís Cheese Balls at my feet.
I am one happy goddamn vampire. Maybe I canít hunt, and really donít make much of a villain anymore... but Iíve got a 52" digital flat screen television, and the meatiest bit of souled vampire flesh in existence to shag on a regular basis.
Believe it or not, I think itís a pretty fair trade.
Oh, and look... Speaking of Mr. Sunshine, here he comes now, scowling like somebody ate his little sister (On, wait... somebody did.† Him.), carrying that monstrous fucking Small Penis Complex he calls an axe. Iím always telling him, "Plonker! Your dick is plenty big, you donít need that dragon chopper!" Which comment he generally ignores.
But heís not ignoring me now. Heís got Heavy Mission Face. Must be somebodyís been pushing old ladies into traffic down on Sunset Strip or something.
"Gear up, Spike," he says, all "Iím the Boss and You Do As I Say," which is a big fat crock, because I never do a damn thing he says unless thereís something in it for me. And right now, Iíve got everything I need. What, does he think Iím one of his pet humans?
I donít even dignify his stupidity with a look. He stands there for a minute, like Iím a little slow on the uptake, and not purposefully ignoring him.
"Did you hear me? Grab your weapons. We have to go."
Okay... so itís apparent the old, Ďignore him and heíll go awayí isnít going to work. Guess I better address the issue directly. I still donít look up, but I say, "Liberace... what day is today?"
He stands up straight. Iím pretty sure he thinks better that way...increased blood flow and all. "Thursday."
"Very good. And what time is it?"
He glances at the clock on the mantel. "7:45."
"Youíre smarter than you look. Good thing, too."
"Spike...what does this have to do with anything?"
I turn slowly and look up at him. Yes, he is gorgeous -- stuff horny dreams are made of, really, with those eyes and those fucking barn door wide shoulders... but his brain just doesnít work quite right. Probably a good thing. Iím thinking if he had half a brain cell, he wouldnít bother keeping me around.
"How long have we been living together?" I ask him.
"Spike, I donít have time for this. Get your sword, and letís go."
I sigh. "Two years, roughly. Now... this is important, so pay attention." I pick up the remote and flip on the telly. He stares at it like I just lit the fuse of a bomb or something. "Thursday night. What happens *every* Thursday night *without fail*?"
He growls. Just a little. "There are Garagh demons in the tunnels under the number 10 line, Spike. Picking off commuters. Thereís a concert at the Forum tonight, and I want to get over there before..."
"WANKER!" I shout at him, "Thursday night! FUCKING "GILMORE GIRLS!" "CHARMED!" Iím not bloody well moving from this SPOT!"
There goes that enormous monobrow with the furious scrunching. You can look at me like that all you want... Hell, you can swing that axe at me, ya fucker. Iím NOT missing my shows. I donít give a shit if every demon in the cosmos is bearing down on the city.
"I need your help," he says, all soft and pleading. "This is a fairly large gang, and we need numbers. I need someone I trust at my back."
Awww... ainít that sweet. Like I give a flying fuck. "Yeah, well, you shoulda gotten a better sidekick, then."
Iím no fucking hero. Garagh demons are nasty bastards, and Iím sure as Hell not missing two hours of Hot Honeys to get my arms ripped out and used as toothpicks. Thatís his deal.
I can practically taste his hurt feelings. Well, thatís all well and good, Broody Boy, Iím not falling for your broken puppy routine tonight.
"I really donít ask you for much, Will..."
I finally look up at him. He looks like heís gonna cry. "Listen! How many fucking times do I have to say ĎNoí? Iím not going do-gooding when my bloody effiní shows are on! If you wait till bloody ten oíclock, Iíll *think* about taking on your effiní suicide mission! Otherwise, SOD OFF!"
I donít take well to the possibility of missing my Thursday night WB.
His face practically collapses. "Fine," he snaps, turns around, and stalks out, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
ĎRound about two a.m., thereís furious pounding on the suite door. I reach over to wake Batman, but his side of the bed is empty.
Damn it. Soddiní pouf never came home. I hate it when he gets like this, because heíll walk around pouting and sighing and not making eye contact with me for days... and that means I donít get laid. Believe me when I tell you, I donít deal well with sexual frustration. Fact, it makes me downright pissy, and nine times out of ten, I end up buying him flowers or giving him a backrub and apologizing or some such fruity bullocks.
It sucks being addicted to Angel Sex.
The pounding continues, and now thereís some girly shouting, too. Bloody Princess Effiní Cordelia Goddamn Chase. "SPIKE! Are you in there??? WAKE UP! I NEED YOUR HELP!"
How many damn times am I going to hear that today? I drag my ass out of bed and throw open the door.
"Iím bloody sleeping, you stupid bint! Somebody better be DEAD!"
Sheís been crying. Sheís not wearing any makeup. Her hairís sticking up all over the place, and... sheís out in public looking like that? Something is very, very wrong. Donít like the little twist of fear I get in my gut at the sight of her one damn bit.
"I had a vision," she pants, like she ran all the way from Silver Lake, which I know damn well she didnít. "The guys are in trouble. Big trouble."
Okay, wait... you mean Fluffy hasnít even come back from his little act of contrition yet? I figured he was off somewhere gazing dejectedly up at the stars and wondering how his unlife could get any shittier.
"What?" I ask her.
"Vision. Demons. Big. Spiny. Evil. Fighting. Bad. Very Bad. WesonthefloorbleedingGunngettinghisasswhompedAngelchainedupletís GO!!!"
I donít know what the Hell she just said, but sheís dragging me out the door, and me all in my jammies and whatnot. I stop her.
"Let me bloody get dressed at least." I run back into the bedroom, jam my jeans and one of Peachesí sweaters on over my sleep gear, slam on my boots, grab the nearest broadsword and my duster, and run out behind her.
Am I really dashing off in the middle of the night to rescue the Dark Bloody Avenger?
* * *
I donít know what the fuck bloody lunatic gave this idiot a driverís license. Cordelia really shouldnít be allowed on the road. Sheís doing 90 down crowded Friday night downtown streets, and Iím hanging on to the Jesus Handles for dear unlife. Wussleyís little redheaded friend is sitting in the front seat trying to look tough, but her bottom lip is trembling like sheís gonna burst into tears any minute.
"There were a lot more of them than I thought," Chase is explaining as she continually threatens to kill us with her driving, careening around a corner so fast, we skid across the lane and almost plow into some homeless people. "Ten, maybe twenty, and theyíve got magick weapons. I shouldíve seen... I mean, the first vision... it just didnít seem like that many!"
"I knew Wesley was gone too long," Virginia whines, "He never goes out without calling me first."
Oh, good Gods. Iím riding in a rolling death trap with the fucking Fang Gang Ladiesí Auxiliary, and theyíve got PMS. I may be the sub in me and Angelís relationship, but I sure as Hell ainít a woman. I almost wish we would crash just so theyíll shut the Hell up.
"Theyíre going to die. If we donít help them, theyíre going to die," Chase is ranting, and said ranting only makes her driving worse.
She had to go and say that, didnít she? I start getting all worried, thinking Hallmark-y crap like the last thing me and Angel did was fight, and how I really donít want him to dust at this particular point in our relationship... Damn it, I donít want to be attached to a frigginí superhero and be a bloody war bride all the damn time, wondering if heís gonna come home every effiní night!
By the time we pull up in front of the abandoned warehouse where Chase says theyíre being held, Iím right pissed. I jump out of the car, practically ripping the door off as I do, and sword in hand, go tearing into the place with a battle cry would make Picts shiver, I bet. Berzerker Spike, jumping into a pretty hairy fray without looking first, probably going to die, but I donít give a shit. I start swinging that damn sword, and Iím seeing nothing but red. I can smell blood... the kidís... the Watcherís... my Sireís... and Iím a damn nutcase, chopping up everything that gets in my path. Hope no good guys wandering around in here...
Sure I hate him most days. Sure heís a holier than thou, sanctimonious, self-important, boring bloody bastard. Sure heís made most of my unlife one sort of Hell or another.
But heís still my bloody Sire, and my bloody Mate, at that, and no scaly, spiny, slimy fucking Garagh demons are gonna chain him up to a fucking wall and do ANYTHING to him. Torturing Angelís *my* job, and mine alone.
So Iím kicking and punching and slicing, and just generally making mincemeat out of the buggers, when I realize that Cordelia is right beside me, grunting like crazy as she swings that little Barbie Dream Axe of hers. Crossbow bolts are flying all over the place, and I see Virginia "I'm So Rich I Could Buy Your Ass Twice Over" Bryce out of the corner of my eye, taking out the stragglers with a double load.
Well, bugger me sideways. Guess the Auxiliary doesnít do such a damn bad job, after all.
The Garaghs werenít ready for us. Itís obvious by the sulfur stink in the air that my Sire and Co. were thwarted by magick, not by might, and they didnít have warning or time enough to zap us. We make pretty damn quick work of the whole bunch... what few manage to survive my little violence fit run off with their tails between their legs. At least, I think they were tails...
I have to stand still for a long time once things are quiet, because Iím pounding and shaking with adrenaline and bloodlust and just plain run of the mill fury. I canít even get my game face off, not that that matters.
"Spike, help us!"
Cordeliaís little yelp brings me back to some semblance of sanity. I have to force my eyes to focus on the far side of the warehouse, and for the first time I see whatís happened to Angelus and his friends. All three chained side by side, bleeding all over the place, and the ladies canít quite reach the locks on the manacles. I sprint over and rip the damn things out of the wall, letting the other two fall into Cordy and Virginiaís waiting arms, and only worry about catching Angel. He looks like holy hell... burned and bruised like they were torturing him. His eyes are closed, and goddamn it, Iím NOT going to cry!
"Sire... can you hear me?"
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I shoulda taped my shows. I shoulda been here. I shoulda been watching his back, like he said. Itís my duty. My damn job. If anything happens to him because of me, Iíll...
"Spike..." he mumbles weakly, "I... tried to... they had... spells."
"Sh. Shut your fat gob, wanker," I whisper, and pull him tight against me. Heís not hurt so bad. Coupla days in bed and heíll be fine. But I feel like shit for getting him into this mess. "We took care of it."
"Wes... Gunn?" he urps.
"Theyíre fine. Birdsíre taken Ďem home now."
"Good. You... okay?"
"ĎSnothing. Iím okay."
His eyes lock on me, and I swear to everything unholy, my heart beats for a second. Those fucking eyes, mate. I canít tell you what itís like to feel them penetrate yours. Makes me hard as damn marble and want to burst into tears like a girly girl in the same second.
"You came... to help me. I thought..."
Aw, Christ. Heís such a damn mushball. Makes me into one, too, the bastard.
"Well, after youíve taken care a all these soddiní humans, I figure someoneís gotta take care of you."
He smiles. Sort of. His mouth is kind of swollen, and it doesnít work well. "Thanks."
I shrug and haul him up, trying not to listen to his pained groan. "No skin off my teeth, mate. Shows were over, anyway."
"...Admire your... dedication to... your principles," he grunts, and gives me whatís probably supposed to be a squeeze, but ends up being more of a jerk.
"Mm," I say. I never know how to respond to his stupid mushy-sarcastic insults. ĎSpecially when he reeks like pain and blood.
I deposit him as carefully as I can into the front seat of his muscle car, and climb in the other side. Never driven this monster before. Itís a fucking beaut. Every time I ask him, he gets that "Iím having an embolism again over your sheer stupidity" expression, and says Iíll drive his car over his dead body... or... pile of dust, I guess.
Well, looky-looky here. The times, they are a changin', 'cause heís still more or less solid, but heís handing me the keys, and Iím startiní up that Plymouthís bloody beautiful purring engine, and I realize...
Fuckiní A... my eternal existence has just reached a bloody pinnacle. A nice, healthy dose of gore and violence... got to slaughter a whole pack of badass demons, saved my Sireís pretty hide, Iím driving this sweet fucking forbidden car, and I STILL got to watch my shows.
If I get laid tonight, Iím marking this one on the calendar.
* * *
You know, I really donít get why Angel insists on living on the fourth goddamn floor. I mean, heís a vampire, for Chrissake. In the dictionary, under "subterranean", thereís a picture of one of us.
And yet, here I am, hauling his enormous ass up four bloody flights of stairs, because the elevatorís broken again (and no, I did NOT break it, no matter what my Sire says), and heís too damn cheap to fix it.
Heís bleediní still, which means I need to get him fed soon before he passes out. So, on top of the fact that Iím pissed off about being wakened in the middle of my Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue dream to rescue him when *heís* supposed to be the frigginí hero, and pissed off because he got me all damn worried and upset, now Iím pissed off because Iíve got his damn gore all over my leather coat.
Mostly, though, Iím ripped about him going off and almost getting himself killed. I mean, just what the Hell would I do if I didnít have him to take care of my sorry ass? Hell... his pet humans would probably stake me first thing.
Damn it, the fuckerís turned me right back into a frigginí needy fledgling again.
I finally get him into the bedroom, and set him down on the bed as I drop to a crouch and start taking off his boots and his smelly-ass socks. Ponceís got the ugliest, nastiest damn feet in the universe, I swear. Considering the rest of him is so damn perfect, I guess heís allowed one flaw, but... Hell... I didnít even think vampires could have smelly feet. Itís not like we sweat or anything.
Anyway... I pull him back up again, and he leans against me as I pull off whatís left of his shirt, then work his filthy pants and froofy boxers down, and try not to breathe a sigh of relief to see that his tackleís still fully intact.
Canít help myself... Angelís so damn beautiful, Iíve got to touch him. I start stroking him softly, and he moans, shivers, and sinks back down on the bed.
I get down on my knees and start kissing the insides of his thighs. He flinches a little, and I look up at him. "You okay?"
He nods. "F..fine..."
I smile. Speechless already, Peaches? Not bad for being grievously wounded.
"Would you like me to give you a bath?"
Damn if his cock doesnít smack me in the face, it jerks so hard. I think I can take that as a yes.
"Thatíd be nice," he says with that mushed up smile.
I kiss his knee as I get up, and he lies flat on his back, with those fucking legs hanging over the edge. I gotta force myself to look away, because even with all those bruises--or, maybe, because of them, who the Hell knows?-- heís one magnificent looking man... damn endless miles of muscle and that smooth skin... That thick, juicy...
I go turn on the tap, running it as hot as itíll go, till it hurts to stick my finger in it. But... thatís the way he likes it. I pour in some of his faggy bath oil crap, and head back to the bedroom.
Well, Iíll be a twice eaten potato. Ponzyís fast asleep. I go back to the bathroom, turn off the water and the light, and head into the bedroom again.
You know, itís times like this that I wonder how important having a soul really is to caring about somebody. I know, I whine about him, and bitch about him, and spit on his rules and mock his Destiny and his stupid hair... but... As I tuck him under the covers and he snuggles up with a sweet smile on those lips, he looks just like a little kid, and I think...
Yeah, I love him. I canít help it. Dunno if I even really want to help it, anymore. Iím good right where I am, with what weíve got. Happiest Iíve ever been in my life, really.
Good sex, fresh blood, big effiní hotel and that TV...
I strip and crawl in beside him, slide right up close and put my arms around him. He sighs deep and nestles his rear into my crotch, reaching one of those hamhock arms around so he can stroke my hair...
Fuck me. Even filthy and bloody, he smells so damn good. I tap a little kiss behind his ear, trail my tongue up and around the outside, as I grind into him a little.
He turns his head, and I see his eyes are open.
"Thought you were sleeping," I rumble. You know, that "Iím about to have sex and really shouldnít be talking, but Iím gonna try anyway" voice.
"You expect me to sleep with you so close?" he whispers, and starts with those little tiny lovey kisses he does so soddiní well.
In a second, I think weíve both forgotten that heís all messed up from tangling with a nasty bunch of demons, and that we had a fight right before that. Or that I let him down, or that Iím a lazy, selfish damn bastard... Hell, I think weíve pretty much forgotten everything, because he turns over in my arms, and weíre mashed together like... well... like two horny vampires mashed together. There really isnít a suitable metaphor for that. Legs all wound up, grunties rubbing like crazy, hands all over the place, mouths locked tight, tongues slippiní and sliding and Holy Jesus H... the bloody world could come crashing down around my ears, and as long as Iím in my Sireís arms, I couldnít give half a shit about it.
"Will..." he sighs.
Shit! Makes me right batty when he does that. Not that Iím not half-fucking crazed with lust and lingering fear of losing him, anyway. I kiss him slow and deep, slide my tongue halfway down his throat, and reach between us to stroke his cock. Angel moans into my mouth and does the same to me, and his hands are so...fucking... warm from being under the covers... Weíre moaning and kissing and purring and growling and jerking each other off like no tomorrow... one of those easy, languid comfort shags where your blood comes to a slow boil, and when you get off...
Soddiní Satan Spawn on a Spoon, thereís not a goddamn bloody sensation in the universe like making love with my froufy Sire. Weíre both fucking each otherís hands and mouths and crushing our bodies together, and Jesus Christ, when I come, itís like the top of my head just blew off. Iím hollering and spurting into his big hands, and heís whimpering like a little puppy dog as he cums all over me...
This is a sweet damn arrangement, it really is. Sure, Iíll be his bitch... Iíll be his Boy Fucking Wonder. I donít care, as long as he never fucking lets me go.
We lie there, pressed together, all sticky with each othersí jiz for a long, lazy time, him tapping tender smooches to my throat, and me just relishing his giant damn body against mine. Gotta say, Iím really effiní glad heís not a big pile of dust back at that warehouse.
In fact, Iím so glad, I could do him again. Right now.
"Spike..." he whispers. Another little kiss.
"Thank you for saving me." Kiss.
Aw, Hell. "What was I supposed to do? If you buy it, Iíd end up having to take care of your stupid humans. If I wanted a pet, Iíd get a cat."
He laughs and kisses me again. Itís nice, when heís happy.
"I love you too," he says.
I wonder if he can hear me roll my eyes.
"About that bath..."
Oh yeah. A red letter night, for sure.