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rekindlespangel, and this is my offering. Feel free to comment here or there.
Set in the Firefly 'verse, this fic takes Spike - and Angel - from leaving Earth-that-was to halfway through the terraforming of the 34 Tauri system.
Beta'd by the frabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkhavens, of course. Author notes and resources to follow in part two. Title from Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan.
These are translated to the best of my and the 'net's ability. Any corrections welcomed.
Fùyīncáo - I'm in hell
Càodàn - Fuck
Wángbādàn - Bastard
Gāisǐ - Damn it
It was 2101, and the generation ships were going out. Earth was a dust-brown dot, diminishing by increments in the rear port of the Thule, lost and lonely-looking in the vast darkness that lay beyond ten inches of cloudy plex.
Spike leaned there, the chill of space coming through the riveted metal of the hull – stood there until Earth was lost to distance, a mote in a great god's eye that was all of everything. He leaned there until he was chilled through, stiff and aching, and then he walked away.
2218, and Spike was on the Zhonghua now, the first of China's great transports. The Cathay and the Yangtze, the Han, the Tang and the Liao strung out behind her. The Jin had been lost twenty years before; an abrupt and brief blossoming of fire in blackness. They'd salvaged for days amidst the twisted remains, ice-shrouded bodies bumping sadly against their suited sides and drifting aimlessly on.
Children ran in the corridors, dressed in their olive and mud-brown uniforms, little red stars fading on their shoulders and in their minds. A hundred-thousand living on this ship - millions more locked in cryo-freeze, embryos and zygotes and eggs and sperm, waiting. Spike eased his way around the kids, walked to the lifts and went down; down to the belly of the beast, where the last of the Star Generation was being shunted out into space. Last of that first wave, babies conceived in the hectic months of the going-out, last of the first. All those that came after – mundane.
Spike watched the body go and sighed, wished for a smoke but he'd been out for months. The procession of mourners trooped past him, some stooped with age and bone-loss, two or three giving him long, searching looks. Soon be time to move on.
His next ship was the Nubia, the change brought about by Spike smuggling himself aboard a black-market trade pod – hydroponic peppers and tomatoes for hemp seeds and pressed bars of protein. Uncrating himself and his bag in the dead of alter-day, he stretched and groaned and stumbled out of storage, and straight into a broad, hard, cold chest.
Straight into his past.
"What were you doing – in…."
"Nothing, just…Christ. Fucking…Christ."
Spike felt his knees shaking – felt the deck seem to tilt and he sat down, hard. There were feet and then knees next to him, and then arms and shoulders and….Angel. Angel, for fuck's sake, sitting right there and gaping like a fish.
"Fùyīncáo," Angel muttered, and Spike punched his shoulder. Hard.
"You're in hell? Fuck you. "
"Ow," Angel said, though he hadn't moved, and was staring at Spike as if Spike were a ghost. "I thought...the last I heard, you were dead."
"I get that." Spike felt for his new smoke pouch – taken off the unlucky crewwoman he'd jumped to get into the pod – and pulled it out, rolling up a smoke with hands that, infuriatingly, were shaking a bit. "Càodàn!"
"Oh, good, you learned a new way to say 'fuck'," Angel muttered, and this time Spike kicked him. "Ow! Stop hitting me!"
"Stop being a prat." Spike licked the smoke shut and lit it, shoved the pouch away and took a hard, deep drag – tobacco and hemp and granules of opium – thank fuck for hydroponics. "Where.... Have you been here the whole bloody time?"
Angel gave him a look. "No, I just dropped into space a month ago, though I'd look around –"
"Oh, god, shut up. I mean – always on the Nubia? I've been on...six. No, eight. Fuck, I can't remember." He took another drag, the shakes easing off a little. His ass was cold on the metal decking and he pushed himself to his feet – stared down at Angel for a moment and put out his hand.
Angel eyed it as if it just might bite him but then he sighed and reached up – pushed and let Spike pull until he gained his own feet. His hair was a little longer, a little darker. He was wearing some kind of olive canvas pants and a shirt that looked sort of home-spun, a little crooked and a little knobbly. He tugged at the hem of the shirt and crossed his arms.
"I was on the Delaware when we left."
"The Thule."
"You weren't on the Jin when it –?"
"No, you oaf," Spike blew a lungful of smoke in Angel's face and Angel scowled. "Were you on the Ontario when they had that sickness?" Fifty years ago, some kind of 'flu. Killed half the people and got them quarantined for a decade.
"Just missed it by a month. I was on the Meṣr when that psycho was doing all those torture killings, though."
"Yeah? So it wasn't you, then?" Spike said, and Angel's mouth twitched upward for a nano-second, and then flattened.
"No. I'm the one that found him."
"Ahhh," Spike drawled, leaking smoke and eying Angel, who looked down and away for a moment. "Heard he died a bloody suicide, left a very sorry note."
"Heard that, too."
Spike sucked down the last quarter-inch of his smoke and pinched it out – stripped the nub and shoved it into a pocket – habit of centuries, now. "Well, it's been...you know...."
"The same, actually," Angel said, and Spike shoved his hands into the filched quilted coat he'd taken from some locker and shrugged a little.
"Yeah, so...."
"So...." Angel took one shuffling step sideways and then a moment later, Spike was slammed hard into the wall, Angel's fists in his lapels and Angel's mouth on his, cool and tasteless as water, insistent and devouring.
"Fuck...yeah...got a room?"
"Two levels up, never make it," Angel said, his hips rolling in obscene presses against Spike's.
"Christ – here's good, just –"
"Shut up, shut up," Angel moaned, and Spike shoved a hand down Angel's pants and Angel bit him, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Bit him again, right where his neck met his shoulder, and Spike arched up hard into Angel's hand and body, head thumping back against the plastic tiles of the corridor, fangs dropping. Just like old fucking times.
They lived on the Nubia for a good seven years before Angel got mean and Spike got twitchy. 2225 was the year the first core planets were ready for colonization, the terraforming of a quarter-century finally coming to fruition. Those that would make landfall were chosen by lottery, and somehow Angel got himself chosen – first of a couple million to make a new home on Londinium. He hadn't bothered asking if Spike wanted to come and Spike didn't bother arguing about it.
Three days after the first shuttle dropped down the well, Spike got himself aboard the Britain, headed toward Harvest and the start of more terraforming. About half the people on board thought his accent strange, the others thought it put on. The atmosphere aboard was full of excitement, triumph – terror. Ship-bred and born watching holos to get used to an endless sky – a horizon that didn't curve. Spike felt lonely, and pissed off, and restless. He didn't miss Angel at all. Not at all.
2293 and Spike woke to a steady, annoying beep from the com panel. He'd grounded himself for a decade or two, finally – tired of ship living in ever-diminishing crowds. Most of the big highliners were empty now, populations crowded down onto the planets, the ones in the worst shape being mined for parts. Unwired and unriveted and unwelded, piece by piece, until only the vast, beating heart of their engines were left, propulsion for newer, different ships. The little ships – the ones built by corporations and billionaires and islands – those were becoming family ships; ships too tight-knit and too familiar for Spike to use freely – to live on for decades without notice.
So here he was in a pre-fab flat fifty stories up on Boros, getting one of those new waves over the cortex. First one ever. He almost wished he'd put on a shirt.
"Yeah, what," he rasped, throat sore from the dry air, cigarettes, yelling at the fights the night before. In general just worn down and snappish and tired of this place, and not in the mood for society. The wave was fuzzy – lines and static slipping up the screen and then clearing abruptly to a sea-view, electric light...Angel.
"Still wake up mad, huh?" Angel said, and Spike slumped down into his chair, reaching for a smoke, for the bottle of still-made hooch – anything to distract himself for a minute.
"Well, since I'm always being woke up by some wanker...." Spike lit his smoke and twisted the cap off the bottle – took a swig and took a drag and stared at Angel. Who looked the same, really; hair a bit longer, more like it had been the first time around. Spike himself had let his grow and chopped it off and dyed it and let it grow again. It was currently a sort of mess of blondes and browns, too long for any style, too short to control. A mess, but he didn't actually care at the moment. "How'd you find me?"
Angel shifted a little in the frame of the viewer, looking slightly guilty. "Paid somebody. I was just, you know...curious."
Spike sat up straighter. "Wait – that snotty little pencil-neck that was poking 'round at my club? The one who kept asking after William Blood?"
"You didn't have to attack him."
"I didn't attack him. I just...scared him off. Was bothering the clients."
"You mean, he was making your illegal, black-market contacts nervous."
Spike waved a negligent, ringed hand – took another drag and flicked ash on the floor. "Call it what you will. He was getting' on my last nerve. Wángbādàn."
"I had to pay extra for that," Angel muttered, and Spike laughed,
"So – you on Boros, then?"
"No, Bellerophon. I lucked into a situation a few years ago –"
"Bellerophon. Livin' the high life, then." Spike felt a moment of envy, a twinge of dissatisfaction at his own messy flat and careless existence. Emotions he ruthlessly squashed. "So what's got you slummin', then? Wantin' a bit a rough trade?"
"Spike," Angel snapped, scowling, and Spike grinned, smoke clenched in his teeth. There it was: that old Angelus temper, always lurking. "I'm not...look, I just.... Can't you.... Why do you always do this?"
"Do what?" Spike said, and Angel made an inarticulate sound of rage.
"This, this, just.... Gāisǐ! I've sent you a ticket, for a liner. It's leaving Boros in two days, for here. Just...come? Spike?"
Spike took a long swallow of the hooch, grimaced and put the bottle down. He glanced once more around at his flat, at the clothes tossed over the desk, at the narrow bars of windows, at the kitchen littered with bottles. At the emptiness. "Yeah, okay. Okay."
Angel's place was made of stone and tinted glass, with water pouring down from a second floor to a first floor pool, green-blue and rushing, soothing. Everything was tidy, was new, and Spike dropped his worn duffle and shed the tattered rag of his coat and walked to the wall of windows that was opposite the main door.
Beyond was sky and sea, all shades of blue, from robin's egg to steel-grey and slate, horizon melting into sea and back again, seamless. No clouds, at least not that day. Some kind of flying creatures – sort-of-birds – dove past, swallow-winged, skimming the sea, leaving thin streaks of creamy white that faded into blue again, vanishing.
"Spared no expense, then," Spike said, and Angel moved out of a shadowy nook under the waterfall, silent on bare feet.
"Not this time," he said. He was dressed in loose, soft-looking pants and shirt, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched in that way he had when he wasn't quite sure about what was going to happen next, but pretty sure he might not like it.
Spike looked him over. Had to grin, then, because fuck – Angel was Angel and nothing was different, even when everything was. He closed the distance between them with a smooth and sauntering walk – put his hands on that soft, expensive shirt and ripped it in two. "You great idiot," Spike said, low and laughing, and Angel laughed then, too.
It was slower this time than the other first time. Spike made a point of finding every spot on Angel's body that made him buck or sigh or arch or moan. Got Angel off twice before he even got in him and then got him off again before he let his own orgasm go, shoving in deep and hard, over and over, until his whole body seemed lit up, glowing – burning. Angel tasted like citrus and barley sugar and Spike drew blood from a dozen little pinpricks all over his body, lapping like a cat at cream while Angel writhed under him, panting.
Later, after showering in a sybaritic bath and wrapping himself in an oversized robe, Spike wandered through the house, exploring. Found bits and pieces of Earth-that-was tucked away, here and there. Little things, mostly. A few books; a painted saucer with a handful of old keys; a photograph or two, so faded as to be ciphers, sepia ghosts. He was glad he couldn't make out any details – didn't need to remember a past centuries gone.
Angel ordered up a few sets of new clothes and they went visiting 'round the other estates, traveling between the landscaped sky-islands in a little skimmer, drinking expensive wine and nibbling at canapés they didn't really want.
Spike slipped away and fed neatly on a drunk, post-coital couple passed out in a gazebo, and Angel only looked sideways at him later, nostrils flaring at the scent of new blood. He handed Spike a balloon goblet of treacle-like brandy and Spike decided it would be fun to be rich for a while.
Part Two.
rekindlespangel, and this is my offering. Feel free to comment here or there.Set in the Firefly 'verse, this fic takes Spike - and Angel - from leaving Earth-that-was to halfway through the terraforming of the 34 Tauri system.
Beta'd by the frabulous
darkhavens, of course. Author notes and resources to follow in part two. Title from Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan.These are translated to the best of my and the 'net's ability. Any corrections welcomed.
Fùyīncáo - I'm in hell
Càodàn - Fuck
Wángbādàn - Bastard
Gāisǐ - Damn it
It was 2101, and the generation ships were going out. Earth was a dust-brown dot, diminishing by increments in the rear port of the Thule, lost and lonely-looking in the vast darkness that lay beyond ten inches of cloudy plex.
Spike leaned there, the chill of space coming through the riveted metal of the hull – stood there until Earth was lost to distance, a mote in a great god's eye that was all of everything. He leaned there until he was chilled through, stiff and aching, and then he walked away.
2218, and Spike was on the Zhonghua now, the first of China's great transports. The Cathay and the Yangtze, the Han, the Tang and the Liao strung out behind her. The Jin had been lost twenty years before; an abrupt and brief blossoming of fire in blackness. They'd salvaged for days amidst the twisted remains, ice-shrouded bodies bumping sadly against their suited sides and drifting aimlessly on.
Children ran in the corridors, dressed in their olive and mud-brown uniforms, little red stars fading on their shoulders and in their minds. A hundred-thousand living on this ship - millions more locked in cryo-freeze, embryos and zygotes and eggs and sperm, waiting. Spike eased his way around the kids, walked to the lifts and went down; down to the belly of the beast, where the last of the Star Generation was being shunted out into space. Last of that first wave, babies conceived in the hectic months of the going-out, last of the first. All those that came after – mundane.
Spike watched the body go and sighed, wished for a smoke but he'd been out for months. The procession of mourners trooped past him, some stooped with age and bone-loss, two or three giving him long, searching looks. Soon be time to move on.
His next ship was the Nubia, the change brought about by Spike smuggling himself aboard a black-market trade pod – hydroponic peppers and tomatoes for hemp seeds and pressed bars of protein. Uncrating himself and his bag in the dead of alter-day, he stretched and groaned and stumbled out of storage, and straight into a broad, hard, cold chest.
Straight into his past.
"What were you doing – in…."
"Nothing, just…Christ. Fucking…Christ."
Spike felt his knees shaking – felt the deck seem to tilt and he sat down, hard. There were feet and then knees next to him, and then arms and shoulders and….Angel. Angel, for fuck's sake, sitting right there and gaping like a fish.
"Fùyīncáo," Angel muttered, and Spike punched his shoulder. Hard.
"You're in hell? Fuck you. "
"Ow," Angel said, though he hadn't moved, and was staring at Spike as if Spike were a ghost. "I thought...the last I heard, you were dead."
"I get that." Spike felt for his new smoke pouch – taken off the unlucky crewwoman he'd jumped to get into the pod – and pulled it out, rolling up a smoke with hands that, infuriatingly, were shaking a bit. "Càodàn!"
"Oh, good, you learned a new way to say 'fuck'," Angel muttered, and this time Spike kicked him. "Ow! Stop hitting me!"
"Stop being a prat." Spike licked the smoke shut and lit it, shoved the pouch away and took a hard, deep drag – tobacco and hemp and granules of opium – thank fuck for hydroponics. "Where.... Have you been here the whole bloody time?"
Angel gave him a look. "No, I just dropped into space a month ago, though I'd look around –"
"Oh, god, shut up. I mean – always on the Nubia? I've been on...six. No, eight. Fuck, I can't remember." He took another drag, the shakes easing off a little. His ass was cold on the metal decking and he pushed himself to his feet – stared down at Angel for a moment and put out his hand.
Angel eyed it as if it just might bite him but then he sighed and reached up – pushed and let Spike pull until he gained his own feet. His hair was a little longer, a little darker. He was wearing some kind of olive canvas pants and a shirt that looked sort of home-spun, a little crooked and a little knobbly. He tugged at the hem of the shirt and crossed his arms.
"I was on the Delaware when we left."
"The Thule."
"You weren't on the Jin when it –?"
"No, you oaf," Spike blew a lungful of smoke in Angel's face and Angel scowled. "Were you on the Ontario when they had that sickness?" Fifty years ago, some kind of 'flu. Killed half the people and got them quarantined for a decade.
"Just missed it by a month. I was on the Meṣr when that psycho was doing all those torture killings, though."
"Yeah? So it wasn't you, then?" Spike said, and Angel's mouth twitched upward for a nano-second, and then flattened.
"No. I'm the one that found him."
"Ahhh," Spike drawled, leaking smoke and eying Angel, who looked down and away for a moment. "Heard he died a bloody suicide, left a very sorry note."
"Heard that, too."
Spike sucked down the last quarter-inch of his smoke and pinched it out – stripped the nub and shoved it into a pocket – habit of centuries, now. "Well, it's been...you know...."
"The same, actually," Angel said, and Spike shoved his hands into the filched quilted coat he'd taken from some locker and shrugged a little.
"Yeah, so...."
"So...." Angel took one shuffling step sideways and then a moment later, Spike was slammed hard into the wall, Angel's fists in his lapels and Angel's mouth on his, cool and tasteless as water, insistent and devouring.
"Fuck...yeah...got a room?"
"Two levels up, never make it," Angel said, his hips rolling in obscene presses against Spike's.
"Christ – here's good, just –"
"Shut up, shut up," Angel moaned, and Spike shoved a hand down Angel's pants and Angel bit him, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Bit him again, right where his neck met his shoulder, and Spike arched up hard into Angel's hand and body, head thumping back against the plastic tiles of the corridor, fangs dropping. Just like old fucking times.
They lived on the Nubia for a good seven years before Angel got mean and Spike got twitchy. 2225 was the year the first core planets were ready for colonization, the terraforming of a quarter-century finally coming to fruition. Those that would make landfall were chosen by lottery, and somehow Angel got himself chosen – first of a couple million to make a new home on Londinium. He hadn't bothered asking if Spike wanted to come and Spike didn't bother arguing about it.
Three days after the first shuttle dropped down the well, Spike got himself aboard the Britain, headed toward Harvest and the start of more terraforming. About half the people on board thought his accent strange, the others thought it put on. The atmosphere aboard was full of excitement, triumph – terror. Ship-bred and born watching holos to get used to an endless sky – a horizon that didn't curve. Spike felt lonely, and pissed off, and restless. He didn't miss Angel at all. Not at all.
2293 and Spike woke to a steady, annoying beep from the com panel. He'd grounded himself for a decade or two, finally – tired of ship living in ever-diminishing crowds. Most of the big highliners were empty now, populations crowded down onto the planets, the ones in the worst shape being mined for parts. Unwired and unriveted and unwelded, piece by piece, until only the vast, beating heart of their engines were left, propulsion for newer, different ships. The little ships – the ones built by corporations and billionaires and islands – those were becoming family ships; ships too tight-knit and too familiar for Spike to use freely – to live on for decades without notice.
So here he was in a pre-fab flat fifty stories up on Boros, getting one of those new waves over the cortex. First one ever. He almost wished he'd put on a shirt.
"Yeah, what," he rasped, throat sore from the dry air, cigarettes, yelling at the fights the night before. In general just worn down and snappish and tired of this place, and not in the mood for society. The wave was fuzzy – lines and static slipping up the screen and then clearing abruptly to a sea-view, electric light...Angel.
"Still wake up mad, huh?" Angel said, and Spike slumped down into his chair, reaching for a smoke, for the bottle of still-made hooch – anything to distract himself for a minute.
"Well, since I'm always being woke up by some wanker...." Spike lit his smoke and twisted the cap off the bottle – took a swig and took a drag and stared at Angel. Who looked the same, really; hair a bit longer, more like it had been the first time around. Spike himself had let his grow and chopped it off and dyed it and let it grow again. It was currently a sort of mess of blondes and browns, too long for any style, too short to control. A mess, but he didn't actually care at the moment. "How'd you find me?"
Angel shifted a little in the frame of the viewer, looking slightly guilty. "Paid somebody. I was just, you know...curious."
Spike sat up straighter. "Wait – that snotty little pencil-neck that was poking 'round at my club? The one who kept asking after William Blood?"
"You didn't have to attack him."
"I didn't attack him. I just...scared him off. Was bothering the clients."
"You mean, he was making your illegal, black-market contacts nervous."
Spike waved a negligent, ringed hand – took another drag and flicked ash on the floor. "Call it what you will. He was getting' on my last nerve. Wángbādàn."
"I had to pay extra for that," Angel muttered, and Spike laughed,
"So – you on Boros, then?"
"No, Bellerophon. I lucked into a situation a few years ago –"
"Bellerophon. Livin' the high life, then." Spike felt a moment of envy, a twinge of dissatisfaction at his own messy flat and careless existence. Emotions he ruthlessly squashed. "So what's got you slummin', then? Wantin' a bit a rough trade?"
"Spike," Angel snapped, scowling, and Spike grinned, smoke clenched in his teeth. There it was: that old Angelus temper, always lurking. "I'm not...look, I just.... Can't you.... Why do you always do this?"
"Do what?" Spike said, and Angel made an inarticulate sound of rage.
"This, this, just.... Gāisǐ! I've sent you a ticket, for a liner. It's leaving Boros in two days, for here. Just...come? Spike?"
Spike took a long swallow of the hooch, grimaced and put the bottle down. He glanced once more around at his flat, at the clothes tossed over the desk, at the narrow bars of windows, at the kitchen littered with bottles. At the emptiness. "Yeah, okay. Okay."
Angel's place was made of stone and tinted glass, with water pouring down from a second floor to a first floor pool, green-blue and rushing, soothing. Everything was tidy, was new, and Spike dropped his worn duffle and shed the tattered rag of his coat and walked to the wall of windows that was opposite the main door.
Beyond was sky and sea, all shades of blue, from robin's egg to steel-grey and slate, horizon melting into sea and back again, seamless. No clouds, at least not that day. Some kind of flying creatures – sort-of-birds – dove past, swallow-winged, skimming the sea, leaving thin streaks of creamy white that faded into blue again, vanishing.
"Spared no expense, then," Spike said, and Angel moved out of a shadowy nook under the waterfall, silent on bare feet.
"Not this time," he said. He was dressed in loose, soft-looking pants and shirt, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched in that way he had when he wasn't quite sure about what was going to happen next, but pretty sure he might not like it.
Spike looked him over. Had to grin, then, because fuck – Angel was Angel and nothing was different, even when everything was. He closed the distance between them with a smooth and sauntering walk – put his hands on that soft, expensive shirt and ripped it in two. "You great idiot," Spike said, low and laughing, and Angel laughed then, too.
It was slower this time than the other first time. Spike made a point of finding every spot on Angel's body that made him buck or sigh or arch or moan. Got Angel off twice before he even got in him and then got him off again before he let his own orgasm go, shoving in deep and hard, over and over, until his whole body seemed lit up, glowing – burning. Angel tasted like citrus and barley sugar and Spike drew blood from a dozen little pinpricks all over his body, lapping like a cat at cream while Angel writhed under him, panting.
Later, after showering in a sybaritic bath and wrapping himself in an oversized robe, Spike wandered through the house, exploring. Found bits and pieces of Earth-that-was tucked away, here and there. Little things, mostly. A few books; a painted saucer with a handful of old keys; a photograph or two, so faded as to be ciphers, sepia ghosts. He was glad he couldn't make out any details – didn't need to remember a past centuries gone.
Angel ordered up a few sets of new clothes and they went visiting 'round the other estates, traveling between the landscaped sky-islands in a little skimmer, drinking expensive wine and nibbling at canapés they didn't really want.
Spike slipped away and fed neatly on a drunk, post-coital couple passed out in a gazebo, and Angel only looked sideways at him later, nostrils flaring at the scent of new blood. He handed Spike a balloon goblet of treacle-like brandy and Spike decided it would be fun to be rich for a while.
Part Two.
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Heh. I really liked this look at what they would go through, trying to stay with the times when the times themselves were constantly in an upheaval of change.
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I love to imagine what the boys would do as humanity changed and moved off Earth and found so many new things and places. I like, however sad it might be, that they would eventually forget...everything. That Sunnydale and Buffy and Wesley would be memories that would dim with time and be replaced with new ones and new loves....
It's fun to move them forward.
And i'm boggled i didn't update the 'coming soon'! Part two is up. :)
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This is so freaking lovely and perfect!
Spike felt lonely, and pissed off, and restless. He didn't miss Angel at all. Not at all.
:)
Can't wait for more, bb! The way you write them is the way they should always be. So. Much. Love.
*dances you*
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Thank you thank you!
I luff writing these guys. :)
no direction home; romantic love and marriage
As it turns out, I've quoted that re: love in the Jossverse before. So I'll just tell you how much I'm enjoying this and how real it feels.
Re: no direction home; romantic love and marriage
I think they know so much, have done so much, have seen each other in so many ways and times that a grand, blinding passion isn't possible but enduring affection, care, tenderness, blinding rage....
I'm glad you're enjoying!
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Spike just can't let go of something, mainly - a bad attitude, heh.
And yeah - Angel is Angel is Angel.
*pats him*
:)
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Thank you so much!
:)
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"Yeah, so...."
"So...." Angel took one shuffling step sideways and then a moment later, Spike was slammed hard into the wall, Angel's fists in his lapels and Angel's mouth on his, cool and tasteless as water, insistent and devouring.
"Fuck...yeah...got a room?"
"Two levels up, never make it," Angel said, his hips rolling in obscene presses against Spike's.
GUH. I love how they go from total awkwardness to scalding hotness in two seconds flat. This is exactly how I imagine their reunions.
"Spike," Angel snapped, scowling, and Spike grinned, smoke clenched in his teeth. There it was: that old Angelus temper, always lurking. "I'm not...look, I just.... Can't you.... Why do you always do this?"
"Do what?" Spike said, and Angel made an inarticulate sound of rage.
"This, this, just.... Gāisǐ! I've sent you a ticket, for a liner. It's leaving Boros in two days, for here. Just...come? Spike?"
This made me all smiley and teary-eyed! OH, BOYS. So much rage and annoyance and jealousy and stupidity. But underneath it all, so much love and longing and ragged, raw need. Always through the centuries.
I love them so much. And you totally get them. I can't wait to read more of this.
SQUEE.
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Thank you!
They are *so* fun, they're just - bound to be together, no matter what.
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Lovely to see you here, as always. :)
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Thank you! :)
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Sometimes, immortality sounds like a drag. Trust these two to make something of it.
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Yes - if you don't really *do* anything with forever...how boring!
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Thank you! I'll take that as a compliment. :)
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:)