Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

sleepy

Angel has known Spike for over a hundred years, but has spent very little actual time with him. Spike takes over his suite at the Hyperion, puts the kitchenette to use, gets cable installed on the TV. There's always a bottle of vodka on the table across from it, cheap paperbacks accumulating like dead birds. He fills the closet with identical black outfits, heaps the floor with them, enslimed or encrusted with his latest kills.

Wes sighs every time Spike comes to a staff meeting and puts his boots on the Pledge-shined table. Cordy raises her brows into her bangs and gives Angel's progeny the stink-eye no matter what he says. Fred frowns at him, Gunn pretends not to see him.

Angel fingers the clothes Spike has hung in the closet, feels their cheapness, and remembers that he left Spike's salary up to Wesley. One evening when Spike comes in there are thirty-five new shirts on the bed, two dozen pairs of trousers.

"You're representing the firm," Angel says, maintaining a flat tone, an air of boredom as he prepares himself a mug of blood. "Clients don't trust their secrets to garage-band rejects."

Later, all that blood rushes to his cock as he slams it into Spike, who shoves up underneath him, rumpled and frustrated, angry with soul. Angel thinks of Darla and Connor and every kill he ever made, hates his own prolonged existence, the weight of prophecy. But when Spike's head falls back on his shoulder, when he slides an inch deeper into Spike's clutching body, he hates himself less for a moment.

Nothing ever lasts, except them.
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