Pairing: Spike/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Summary: Set early in AtS S5.  A ficlet inspired by the 4th of July and by this month's [info]nekid_spike  prompts "Kiss me" and "Coming in pants." Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.



Boredom was to blame.

They were meeting in Angel’s office, discussing some tricky contract negotiations between competing clans of Seburi demons, when Spike materialized in the back of the room. Nobody else even noticed him at first, not until he chuckled at something Fred said, and even then they only glanced at him and turned back toward Angel.

Spike leaned up against the wall, his legs slightly spread and his hips cocked. He seemed to be listening for a while, but then Gunn and Wes droned on and on and on about mutual consideration and the statute of frauds and laches and actions in equity and immobilization enchantments. Fred slumped in a chair, her eyes half-closed, tapping a pen against her chin. Lorne was humming a selection of Frank Sinatra tunes very quietly, so that probably only the vampires in the room could hear. And Spike, who had the attention span of a gnat under the best of circumstances, began to rub slowly at the denim over his own crotch.

Angel should have stopped him right away, should have told him to knock it off or get the hell out. Except that Angel knew if he said anything at all, Spike would paste an innocent and aggrieved expression on his face before the others could turn around and see what he’d been doing, and then Fred would give Angel that look like he’d just run over a puppy, and Gunn and Wes would humph impatiently and start their whole excruciating explanation all over again, and Lorne would just raise his eyebrows and shake his head knowingly.

Besides, Angel was bored, too, and Spike was very…diverting.

So Angel didn’t say anything and he tried to keep his expression neutral, but his gaze kept wandering just past Gunn’s shoulder to Spike, who was grinning at him and running one big hand leisurely up and down over the bulge in his jeans.

When Angel cleared his throat and had to shift in his seat to relieve some of the discomfort of his own hard-on, Spike’s smirk grew larger and his hand moved a little faster.

By the time Wes and Gunn finally shut up, Spike’s head was tipped back against the wall and his hips were rocking rhythmically into his palm and Angel could see a small, darker spot of damp fabric at Spike’s groin. Angel’s balls were throbbing as if he had a pulse and it was taking all his willpower not to squirm in his chair.

Wes and Gunn stood looking at Angel, clearly expecting a response of some kind. Spike moaned very, very softly and, as Angel began to growl a response, Spike poofed himself out of the room.

Angel mumbled something that didn’t satisfy either Wes or Gunn, informed them he’d take the matter under advisement, and shooed them all out of the office. He didn’t stand up as they left. But as soon as they were gone, he flew into his elevator and up to his apartment, where he tore his pants off so quickly that they ripped, and with less than a dozen strokes he was collapsing backward against a wall and coming hard enough to see stars.

Tormenting Angel at meetings became Spike’s new hobby.

The others began to wonder why Angel seemed so distracted, and to worry about him. He overheard snatches of their conversations, hurried bits in the hallways as they speculated about whether the stress of the job was getting to him, or maybe he was under some spell, or even whether Angelus was trying to break free again. The entire staff kept throwing suspicious glances his way.

But Spike kept apparating into rooms, carefully choosing spots where he was within only Angel’s sight, and then playing with himself. His blue eyes sparkled merrily.

Angel hadn’t spent so much time frantically masturbating since he was human and fourteen years old.

He tried to confront Spike about it once. He hunted around the building until he found Spike lounging in a conference room, watching some soap opera on the TV. Angel marched up so that he was looming directly over Spike.

“Oi! Move your fat arse, Liam. My stories are on.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Spike?”

“Told you. Watching Passions. Now, bugger off.” He craned his neck, trying to see around Angel.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Spike lifted one eyebrow. Angel curled his hands into fists and wished very badly that he could punch that smug face. The little shit was going to make him actually say it. “Every fucking meeting, you’re there, acting…indecent.” Spike’s brow arched impossibly higher. “You’re…you’re…teasing me!”

Spike smiled an extremely self-satisfied smile. “Why, Liam. I hadn’t known you cared.”

“Look, you goddamn moron. I have an important job to do here, and you’re—“

“Yeah, you’re a very important man, Angel. Except you’re not a man, are you? You’re a bloody vampire, and you’re not meant to be sitting about in Armani suits all day. And you’re a vamp with a bleeding soul, the Great Crusader, and you’re certainly not meant to be running Evil, Inc.!” He was shouting by the end, his eyes sparking to yellow, little bits of spit flying from those full lips.

Angel wasn’t certain whether he’d rather dust him or fuck him at that moment. Of course, he couldn’t do either.

“Just stay the fuck away from me!” Angel screamed.

Spike curled his lip and lifted his chin. “Make me, ponce.”

Angel could only make an inarticulate snarling sound and stomp away. He didn’t even realize he was in demon face until he saw the alarmed expressions of the employees in the lobby.

Spike continued to torment him and Angel tried unsuccessfully to ignore him, and at least once a day Angel had to take refuge somewhere to quickly and viciously jerk off.

Then Pavayne made his presence known.

During that entire mess, Angel was simultaneously relieved that Spike was too preoccupied to bother him, pissed off that Spike’s crisis was taking so much of Fred’s and Wes’s attention, and furious that this malevolent being from the past was causing so much trouble in Angel’s domain. And, so secretly that he barely admitted it to himself, Angel was worried about what would happen to Spike.

It was with much delight that Angel finally locked that monster up forever.

Spike was subdued for some time afterward. He still showed up at most meetings, but he didn’t play any games. He just slumped at the edges of rooms, looking thoughtful. It was an unfamiliar look on him, and it made Angel uneasy.

On the 4th of July, everyone—human and demon—took the day off. Angel told himself he was glad about that, because he could finally get some work done without constant interruptions. But the truth was, being all alone in the big building was a little…creepy. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, as Angel wandered in and out of empty rooms, that he realized he was looking for Spike. There was no sign of him, though. Maybe he was off, haunting LA. Much to Angel’s silent envy, Spike had discovered that in his incorporeal form he could go out in the sunlight all he wanted, and he wouldn’t so much as freckle. He was probably at a beach, ogling the girls in bikinis, or picking fights in a bar and then disappearing, or…or…. Angel had no idea.

Shortly after sundown, Angel made his way up to the penthouse. He poured himself a big glass of Bushmills and stood at one of the big windows, looking down at the city. Here and there, the first bursts of color were just beginning to appear in the sky, flashing against his retinas.

“Even fireworks make you brood, Liam?”

Angel spun around so quickly some of his drink sloshed out of the glass. “Spike!”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“No! I wasn’t expecting any—What do you want?” He was aware that that came out as more plaintive than belligerent.

Spike shrugged. “Nothing. Bored, is all.” He sauntered around, peering at the book Angel had left near the sofa—James Joyce—and chuckling at it, eyeing the paintings on the wall as if he’d never seen them before, staring longingly at the bottle of whiskey.

Finally, Angel said, “If you’re bored, there are lots of more entertaining places than here. I’ll bet the strip clubs are open even on holidays.”

“’S no fun. ‘T’s sodding frustrating to look and not be able to touch.”

And Angel nodded, because he supposed it would be really frustrating. Especially for Spike, who’d always been a pretty…hands-on…kind of guy.

Spike quirked his lips into a small smile and prowled toward Angel. “You know,” he purred. “Learned a few new tricks lately. Thanks to that sick wanker.”

A thrill ran down Angel’s spine. Fear? Anticipation? He had no idea. Without meaning to, he took a step back. But that put him up against the window, and he had nowhere to go.

Spike smiled at him like a shark, and then Spike’s duster and black t-shirt disappeared.

Angel’s surprised exhalation was very loud.

Spike positioned himself maybe eight feet away and then slowly slipped one finger between his lips. He moved it in and out a few times and then let the wet digit trail down his chest to his right nipple. He swirled the pad of his finger around the bit of pink flesh, and Angel watched the nipple harden and rise to a little peak. Angel licked his lips, then stopped. “William….” he said, but his voice came out sounding thick and raspy.

Spike didn’t acknowledge him at all. He just continued his small movements, as mesmerizing as a hypnotist. After a while, he moved his hand over a few inches and teased and pinched at the other nipple instead. Angel’s own fingers tingled with the desire to reach out and touch.

Spike must have been satisfied that he had Angel’s undivided attention. He curled his tongue behind his teeth and inched his hand downward, across the taut muscles of his belly, until the tips of his fingers were buried in his waistband. Angel could see the distinct outline of Spike’s cock, rigid beneath tight denim, and Angel was glad that he himself was wearing somewhat looser trousers.

Angel’s hand was shaking slightly as he brought his glass to his mouth and took a long, fiery swallow.

And then the rest of Spike’s clothing disappeared, and Angel dropped the empty glass. It bounced against the thick carpet and rolled very slightly, but didn’t break.

Spike was beautiful. His skin glowed almost golden in the room’s dim lights. There was something entirely supernatural about his appearance—not surprisingly, considering he was the ghost of a demon—but somehow also human and real. Maybe it was the slightly rapid movements of his chest as he breathed, or the tiny drop of liquid that glistened on the head of his cock. Maybe it was the fine, light hairs that dusted his lower abdomen, or the slightly darker ones that curled at the base of his sex, practically begging to be petted and tweaked. Maybe it was just his face, which could—and did—convey a myriad of emotions, flickering across his features like the fireworks flickered across the sky.

“Spike,” Angel whispered.

Spike wrapped his left hand around his jutting cock and began to stroke. Even though Angel was still fully clothed, even though the only thing touching his aching cock was the cotton of his undershorts, he could almost feel those long, strong fingers moving up and down, playing along the length of him and then teasing lightly at the tip. His usually cold flesh felt heated. He put his hands behind him and clutched desperately at the windowsill.

The room smelled of whiskey and of old blood. And somehow, impossibly, it smelled of Spike, that familiar scent of leather and tobacco and hair goop, of cheap booze and dust and, God, of sex.

Spike pumped himself more quickly. He bit at his own lip hard enough to draw blood, and then they both groaned. Angel could almost taste him. Christ, it had been so long—not since Spike was in that fucking wheelchair in Sunnydale, and even then, it had been Angelus, not Angel—but now Angel’s tongue tingled at salt and copper, at the hint of bitterness that meant family, at the slight spiciness that was just Spike. The demon within Angel lifted itself in its chains and roared from want and frustration, but the only sound that escaped Angel’s lips was a low whimper.

Spike stepped closer, very slowly. Hips swiveling, red pointed tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Unable to back any farther away, Angel turned sideways, bending away from Spike like a skittish virgin. But Spike just came a little closer, so close that, had he been corporeal, his bare skin would have been almost but not quite brushing against Angel’s clothing. His cock would have been pressed nearly against Angel’s, his cool breaths puffing out against Angel’s neck.

“Angel,” he rumbled. “Liam. Sire.”

At that third word, sparks gathered along Angel’s lower spine. His balls drew up, heavy and painful. He gasped.

Spike leaned in just a little closer, no more than an inch or so. Out of the corner of his eyes, Angel saw red and white and green and blue explode in the sky, the colors reflecting off Spike’s radioactive hair.

And then Spike kissed him.

It could almost have been a chaste kiss. Just soft lips brushing very lightly across Angel’s cheek. But he felt those lips, and he felt the way Spike trembled against him, and then the fireworks were going off in Angel’s head instead, so violently he nearly lost consciousness, and his knees buckled and he staggered, and his pants grew sticky and wet with his own tepid spend.

Spike had stepped back a few paces. He was panting—completely reflexive, of course—and he looked a little stunned. White, viscous fluid was splattered on his stomach and chest. “Bloody hell,” he said.

As Angel could only manage to gape at him, Spike straightened his shoulders and smiled. His clothing reappeared on him, duster and all.

And then he was gone.

The End

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