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Thursday, January 18th, 2007 04:41 pm
As some of you know, the 14th was [livejournal.com profile] sweptawaybayou's birthday. Yay! And some of us got together and made [livejournal.com profile] its_snow_day - a comm *just for Snow*! 'Cause we luff her and she deserves it.

Anyway, I posted a bit of Spike/Angel fic over there, and am planning on adding more to it. So I thought i'd re-post it *here*. Mainly 'cause i'm just...weird. I wanna have *my* stuff in *my* journal, even though this fic is *all* about Snow.

*cough*

Anyway. Here t'is. The title is from the poem by Robert Graves, Two Fusiliers.







Well, we've been lucky devils both,
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...



Sometimes, being drunk just wasn't enough. Not nearly bloody enough. Spike looked down with blurred satisfaction at the dead demon at his feet. Kicked out with his left boot, shaking off the bit of viscera that clung to its toe.

*Won't be makin' cracks about...whatever the fuck he was makin' cracks about,* Spike thought, and turned in a slow half-circle. "Anybody else? I'm up for all you bastards." A mini-skirted vamp gave him a sultry look and Spike grinned. "Especially up for you, darling. It's fight or fuck time."

"How about it's bedtime?"

Spike turned more, toward the voice. "Bedtime? I'm all grown up, mate – not nearly late enough for... Oh. It's you."

"Yeah, it's me," Angel said, little quirk of his lips upward and Spike snorted.

"I already had you." Spike stepped away from the demon corpse and pushed out of the ragged circle of on-lookers, heading for the bar. Angel grabbed his arm.

"Spike, we need to talk."

Spike jerked his arm free. "We bloody well do not." There was already a shot waiting for him at the bar and Spike drained it in a gulp, setting the glass back down precisely in its little wet circle.

"Spike – stop being a stubborn ass and –"

"Angelus, stop being a pain in my arse and piss off! Unless you're angling to have a pain. Like I said, it's fuck or –"

"Fight time. Yeah, I heard you. It doesn't get any better with repetition." Angel leaned against the bar and Spike leaned away from him – gestured for another shot. The bartender obliged – shot Angel a look. Angel shook his head.

"Oh, not drinkin'. Of course you're not. Just here to get on my last bloody nerve." Spike downed the waiting shot and then growled when Angel lifted the glass out of his hand – turned it upside down on the scarred wood of the bar.

"I said we need to talk, Spike. Not fall face-first into the gutter."

"And you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, you drunken Irish sot," Spike snapped, and Angel's chin went down and his eyes flashed fire.

"Spike. I will drag you out of here by your fucking ear if I have to," Angel growled, and Spike laughed.

"You'll bloody try. Christ." The crowd had gotten quiet – watchful – and Spike curled his lip in disgust. "You know how to suck the fucking life out of every sodding thing under the sun, don't you." Spike dug into an inner pocket and came up with a wad of bills – scattered some onto the bar top. Turned on his heel and strode out. Angel, of course, followed. *Like a bloody stray dog.*

It was drizzling outside – rain like a fine mist, making the edges of things sparkle – making the city shine. It actually made the air smell almost good, ozone and cool air sweeping in from the sea, dirt and exhaust weighted down and coating the roads instead of riding the breeze. Spike headed downtown, toward his flat, and utterly ignored Angel. Or ignored as best he could a six-foot-whatever hulk of black leather and gloom. He lit a cigarette instead and smoked it rapidly, flicking the butt away into the fire-stained rubble of a collapsed shop. When he got to his building, he took the fire escape up instead of using the door, because he just wasn't in the mood to confront the whack-job junkie who inhabited half of the fifth floor.

Spike's flat was most of the seventh floor. Nine was too damaged to be habitable and eight was a much-needed buffer between the two. Spike shouldered the floor-to-ceiling window open and stepped inside, knowing Angel could follow but hoping that maybe –

"Ow! What the hell?"

*Gotcha.* Spike grinned – turned around to see Angel rubbing the back of his neck and looking bewildered. "Ward or two – protection spell. If you were human, you'd be flat on your back."

"Huh." Angel came all the way inside – stood there, surveying his surroundings. Spike saw his eyes widen and then narrow and Spike snorted softly and went over to his 'bar', fishing a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and finding a glass. The walk – his anger – had sobered him. After a moment, with a sigh, he got another glass.

"Come on and have a drink, then, instead of standing there and staring about like a great lummox."

"Spike..." Angel said, and his voice was just...tired. "Jesus, can you just –"

"No. Really can't," Spike said. He put bottle and glasses down on his table, a salvaged Hepplewhite from some gallery uptown. It was a little scarred, but the inlay still looked good. Angel moved over slowly as Spike eased out the cork and poured them both a drink. Angel picked his up and swirled the liquid around in the glass for a moment, taking a little sniff before he drank it down. Spike just tipped up his glass and gulped because fuck, he was just not in the mood for...

Anything. Any of it. Spike felt his fingers tightening on his glass and he forced himself to relax. "Come back to the scene of the crime for a reason, Angelus, or are you just slumming these days?"

"Don't know why I even fucking bother," Angel muttered, putting his glass down with a crack.

"I really don't either, mate." Spike jerkily poured himself another drink, angry that he was angry – angry that he could still, after all this time, feel... *Betrayed. Abandoned. Cheated, by god.* "Why not just fuck off back to wherever the hell your batcave is and leave me be."

"I'm not here for me, Spike. I'm here because Buffy –"

"Oh fuck you!" Spike hurled the glass at the nearest wall, taking no satisfaction in the chime and shatter of heavy crystal. He took two quick strides around the table and was all but on top of Angel, chest to chest and his hands balled into fists. Glaring into dark eyes that glared back, flare of gold in their depths that matched the surge of rage that flared, hot and sharp, in Spike's chest. "That doesn't work anymore, Angel. And you bringing her up just makes me think you're more desperate than you look."

"I'm not – look, Spike, I wouldn't have even come here if –"

"If Saint Buffy hadn't pouted her pretty mouth at you? Christ, you're pathetic." Spike turned his back on Angel and picked up the other glass – filled it and drained it and considered throwing it, too, but he actually liked these glasses, and he'd be damned if he was going to break them all over Angel. *Had enough of that three years ago...*

"Spike, just shut up and listen, for once. There's something big coming. A whole new level of evil. Worse than –"

"Wait - let me guess." Spike stalked to the fireplace that bulked against the far wall, staring blindly down at the shimmering bed of coals that was all that was left of his afternoon's fire. "This is worse than the First? Than the Circle of the Black Thorn? Worse than some sodding wanker of a worker bee bringing his favorite Old God back to life? Been there, Angelus, done it, got the bloody scars to show for it."

"This is different, Spike! This isn't some apocalypse we can fix by – by killing the right thing or chanting the right spell. You know that the Slayers are getting more...organized. Starting to use military tactics –"

"Yeah, I've heard it," Spike snapped. He'd heard more than that. Heard that they were sidling up to the government – heard that they were starting to take on the trappings and tricks of a certain secret military organization and Spike...did not approve. For a lot of reasons. He kicked at a sliver of wood that had fallen onto the grate and turned to face Angel. Was a little dismayed to find him not five paces away. "They're making themselves damn unpopular, too. What's your point?"

"The point...my point – is that the demon world is starting to organize, too. It's going to be war, Spike, and she - they - need every soldier. Every champion."

*God. He really believes it, too. Look at him – like a school boy asked to lead the bloody procession...* "That right, Angelus? That what they need? Soldiers and champions... Heroes." Spike took a long breath – let it out on a short, shaky laugh. "Well, that's too damn bad, Angelus. Just too bloody bad, 'cause I'm not either of those." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it – blew the slate-blue smoke in a plume up over his head. "And neither are you."



Part two.
Thursday, January 18th, 2007 11:21 pm (UTC)
Oh, TAB! I love this. Man, I miss my show.

So great, babe. *applause*
Thursday, January 18th, 2007 11:36 pm (UTC)
Ooooh, the thought plikens. More, plz?
Thursday, January 18th, 2007 11:48 pm (UTC)
Oh, my, what a start!

Can't wait to see more of this, with the place Spike's carved out for himself at odds with his usual inability to stay out of the big fight.

Julia, wow.
Friday, January 19th, 2007 12:07 am (UTC)
*sigh*

I looooooove this story. And I'm so caught up in what might/will happen!

**twirls you 'round**

Thank you again, Tabi!! Thank you.

*bouncebounce*
**smoochsmooch**
Friday, January 19th, 2007 02:36 am (UTC)
Oh, hmm, intruiging.

It's a very interesting premise, what with the demon community on the brink of war and the Slayers oraganizing with *military* tactics (it may be helpful to mention that I have a bit of a kink when it comes to war stories) and Saint Buffy pouting her pretty mouth, and I'm definatly looking forward to more story on this one.

Or ignored as best he could a six-foot-whatever hulk of black leather and gloom.

It's Pooh or Eeyore rather, with the little rain cloud following him around wherever he goes. Err, I think it was Eeyore rather (I could be getting my fandoms mixed up but I distinctly remember... *muttering*), it doesn't help that ever since then I've had "Well I'm just a little black rain cloud..." being sung in my head by a rather jovial Angel.

Heard that they were sidling up to the government – heard that they were starting to take on the trappings and tricks of a certain secret military organization and Spike...did not approve.

I love, love, love that Spike gets why that isn't a good thing and Angel, at least at this stage in the game, doesn't. It says something about Spike and quite a bit more about Angel.

Well anyway, I'm looking forward to the next chapter, despite the fact I am not a S/A shipper. Or rather a huge fan of Angel at all but *shrugs* they're pretty and the plot, well premise at this point, more than makes up for anything I don't like.

...There was something els- Oh! The poem! *Bounce* Again, despite the above, it fits them, so so perfectly. And, Poetry! Anytime I get poetry *and* fic together I'm one happy camper... despite the fact I don't camp. *dorky grin*


Oh and teensy edit.

"Angleus, stop being a pain in my arse and piss off! Unless you're angling to have a pain. Like I said, it's fuck or –"

Since he calls him Angelus later on I'm guessing Angel hasn't gone through *another* name change.
Friday, January 19th, 2007 03:14 am (UTC)
*Snort* oh no, I completely agree that he would call him Angelus. As I tend to agree with your Spike's opinion on the whole Angel/Angelus thing. I simply meant that you spelled it 'Angleus' as opposed to Angelus.

...And now I need a Eeyore! Angel icon.
Friday, January 19th, 2007 03:18 am (UTC)
Never read 'Watership Down' myself. Some things I heard about it when I was younger creeped me out and I just put it out of my mind since then. But I'm definitly thinking it's time to read it, that is after I finish up 'Peter Pan'.
Friday, January 19th, 2007 03:32 am (UTC)
Yay! A new story...Slayers becoming Initiative-like?A new improved Apocalypse? Is it wrong to feel so happy about it?:>)

And drunken angry Spike and annoyingly rational Angel who could ask for more?

Sami
Friday, January 19th, 2007 05:35 am (UTC)
Oh, oh the words aren't enough! You make me miss the show so much!
Monday, January 22nd, 2007 07:24 am (UTC)
*Won't be makin' cracks about...whatever the fuck he was makin' cracks about,* Spike thought, and turned in a slow half-circle.

Perfect pickup of S5--the pov, as always, is flawless. I'm wondering, though--is Spike human? Angel's not, 'cuz--he's just not. I think if he survived the fight, the Powers would choose Spike to shanshu over him. Spike wouldn't work eternities for some imagined redemption. Angel . . . is another story.

Although . . . Spike's gotta still be a vamp, to kick ass in a demon bar and not get torn to shreds.

"Anybody else? I'm up for all you bastards." A mini-skirted vamp gave him a sultry look and Spike grinned. "Especially up for you, darling. It's fight or fuck time."

"How about it's bedtime?"


Enter Bat-vamp--that is such an Angel line. It's corny, but it still somehow works. He's the only one who could pull it off, of course.

Spike turned more, toward the voice. "Bedtime I'm all grown up, mate – not nearly late enough for... Oh. It's you."

"Yeah, it's me," Angel said, little quirk of his lips upward and Spike snorted.


Yeah. They're still in that place where Angel can smile--sorta--at Spike and Spike can . . . not punch him in the face. That was a good place, one that I wish there'd been an S6 to explore it in.

"I already had you."

That conjours up delightfully naught images.

"Angelus, stop being a pain in my arse and piss off! Unless you're angling to have a pain. Like I said, it's fuck or –"

"Fight time. Yeah, I heard you. It doesn't get any better with repetition." Angel leaned against the bar and Spike leaned away from him – gestured for another shot. The bartender obliged – shot Angel a look. Angel shook his head.

"Oh, not drinkin'. Of course you're not. Just here to get on my last bloody nerve." Spike downed the waiting shot and then growled when Angel lifted the glass out of his hand – turned it upside down on the scarred wood of the bar.

"I said we need to talk, Spike. Not fall face-first into the gutter."

"And you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, you drunken Irish sot," Spike snapped, and Angel's chin went down and his eyes flashed fire.

"Spike. I will drag you out of here by your fucking ear if I have to," Angel growled, and Spike laughed.

"You'll bloody try. Christ."


Banter. Not Spander-banter, but Spangel-banter, which defintely has its own rhythms. Rhythms that you capture perfectly and make me wanna cop--I mean, that inspire me to write my own totally original fic =D

The crowd had gotten quiet – watchful – and Spike curled his lip in disgust. "You know how to suck the fucking life out of every sodding thing under the sun, don't you."

More under the moon, but that'd be splitting hairs, lol.

I have to say, so far, Angel's been pretty relaxed. By this point, he should've lost his temper.

I think someone's grown since the apocalypse.

Spike dug into an inner pocket and came up with a wad of bills – scattered some onto the bar top. Turned on his heel and strode out. Angel, of course, followed. *Like a bloody stray dog.*

Like a stray dog in the sense that he's lost without Spike to keep him grounded. He needs someone level-headed--like Cordy, or Spike. Lord knows that ain't Buffy. They're way too much alike to be good for each other. Can you say tilting at windmills?

It was drizzling outside – rain like a fine mist, making the edges of things sparkle – making the city shine. It actually made the air smell almost good, ozone and cool air sweeping in from the sea, dirt and exhaust weighted down and coating the roads instead of riding the breeze.

And Spike didn't leave LA. Huh. Figured all the AI team still breathing and walking'd wanna get the hell outta dodge. . . .

Curiouser, and curiouser. What's keeping them in LA?

Spike headed downtown, toward his flat, and utterly ignored Angel. Or ignored as best he could a six-foot-whatever hulk of black leather and gloom.

ROTFLMAO! That's one of the best descriptions I've read of Angel! I can see him in my head, and that's exactly how he looks!
::snorfles::
Monday, January 22nd, 2007 07:25 am (UTC)
He lit a cigarette instead and smoked it rapidly, flicking the butt away into the fire-stained rubble of a collapsed shop. When he got to his building, he took the fire escape up instead of using the door, because he just wasn't in the mood to confront the whack-job junkie who inhabited half of the fifth floor.

He could snap that junkie like a pregnant twig, to borrow from Harm--will she put in an appearance? ::bounces::

Spike's flat was most of the seventh floor. Nine was too damaged to be habitable and eight was a much-needed buffer between the two. Spike shouldered the floor-to-ceiling window open and stepped inside, knowing Angel could follow but hoping that maybe –

"Ow! What the hell?"

*Gotcha.* Spike grinned – turned around to see Angel rubbing the back of his neck and looking bewildered. "Ward or two – protection spell. If you were human, you'd be flat on your back."


If he needs wards, then he's not human, either.

So the, ahem, prize, is up for grabs.

"Huh." Angel came all the way inside – stood there, surveying his surroundings. Spike saw his eyes widen and then narrow and Spike snorted softly and went over to his 'bar', fishing a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and finding a glass. The walk – his anger – had sobered him. After a moment, with a sigh, he got another glass.

"Come on and have a drink, then, instead of standing there and staring about like a great lummox."


Yes, I imagine dealing with Angel, even under the best of circumstances can be . . . rather tiring.

"Spike..." Angel said, and his voice was just...tired. "Jesus, can you just –"

"No. Really can't," Spike said.


Oh, there's indeed backstory--I wanna hear it all, now! Or dude--a prequel!

He put bottle and glasses down on his table, a salvaged Hepplewhite from some gallery uptown. It was a little scarred, but the inlay still looked good. Angel moved over slowly as Spike eased out the cork and poured them both a drink. Angel picked his up and swirled the liquid around in the glass for a moment, taking a little sniff before he drank it down.

Being Angel, of course he didn't let himself enjoy it. At least not the part of him that's all souled and soulful.

Spike just tipped up his glass and gulped because fuck, he was just not in the mood for...

Anything. Any of it. Spike felt his fingers tightening on his glass and he forced himself to relax. "Come back to the scene of the crime for a reason, Angelus, or are you just slumming these days?"


What crime? What happened? Dude, you are an evil, hint-y thing, who is full of evilness and hints! You suck! You're driving me insane!

"Don't know why I even fucking bother," Angel muttered, putting his glass down with a crack.

"I really don't either, mate." Spike jerkily poured himself another drink, angry that he was angry – angry that he could still, after all this time, feel... *Betrayed. Abandoned. Cheated, by god.*


Evil. Sheer evil.

"Why not just fuck off back to wherever the hell your batcave is and leave me be."

"I'm not here for me, Spike. I'm here because Buffy –"

"Oh fuck you!" Spike hurled the glass at the nearest wall, taking no satisfaction in the chime and shatter of heavy crystal. He took two quick strides around the table and was all but on top of Angel, chest to chest and his hands balled into fists. Glaring into dark eyes that glared back, flare of gold in their depths that matched the surge of rage that flared, hot and sharp, in Spike's chest. "That doesn't work anymore, Angel. And you bringing her up just makes me think you're more desperate than you look."


Whatever it is, it must be big enough and bad enough that it's got Angel shit-scared. He doesn't even acknowledge that Spike's feelings for Buffy were real--at least not in S5. Or he at least feels that weren't as deep as his own. But now, invoking them like a spell--the straits must be dire.
Monday, January 22nd, 2007 07:26 am (UTC)
"I'm not – look, Spike, I wouldn't have even come here if –"

"If Saint Buffy hadn't pouted her pretty mouth at you? Christ, you're pathetic." Spike turned his back on Angel and picked up the other glass – filled it and drained it and considered throwing it, too, but he actually liked these glasses, and he'd be damned if he was going to break them all over Angel. *Had enough of that three years ago...*


My mind races and imagines, discarding hypotheses--just like for Thou Art Born. . . .--and I wanna know, but I don't, cuz it's gonna be all hurty, but I gotta know, so I'm all balancing on knife's edge, a-quiver.

I hate you.

"Spike, just shut up and listen, for once. There's something big coming. A whole new level of evil. Worse than –"

"Wait - let me guess." Spike stalked to the fireplace that bulked against the far wall, staring blindly down at the shimmering bed of coals that was all that was left of his afternoon's fire. "This is worse than the First? Than the Circle of the Black Thorn? Worse than some sodding wanker of a worker bee bringing his favorite Old God back to life? Been there, Angelus, done it, got the bloody scars to show for it."

"This is different, Spike! This isn't some apocalypse we can fix by – by killing the right thing or chanting the right spell."


What's amazing is Angel's ability to not be jaded by all the apocalypses. He loses his way, sometimes--when W&H brought back Darla, when he signed on with W&H--but at heart, he's a starry-eyed idealist. Even that last speech in NFA proves it. And we're seeing it here, now. He believes it's all in fighting evil, not necessarily winning, though he's in it to win it, too.

Spike, on the other hand, younger, born from a much more naive man than Liam was, has a fatalistic streak a mile wide. Rightfully so, but if he's got right, Angel's got the right, let's face it. He's gone through some shit.

You know that the Slayers are getting more...organized. Starting to use military tactics –"

"Yeah, I've heard it," Spike snapped. He'd heard more than that. Heard that they were sidling up to the government – heard that they were starting to take on the trappings and tricks of a certain secret military organization and Spike...did not approve. For a lot of reasons.


Yeah, if anyone could get a world's worth of Slayers and turn them into major league players on the world scene . . . it'd be General Buffy, with her adviser, extraordinaire, Giles.

But it's scary, though. I mean, the Initiative probably started out with the best-ish of intentions, but the road to hell, and all. No one fucks up like an idealist.

He kicked at a sliver of wood that had fallen onto the grate and turned to face Angel. Was a little dismayed to find him not five paces away. "They're making themselves damn unpopular, too. What's your point?"

"The point...my point – is that the demon world is starting to organize, too. It's going to be war, Spike, and she - they - need every soldier. Every champion."


Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war. . . .

*God. He really believes it, too. Look at him – like a school boy asked to lead the bloody procession...*

like I said, he's an idealist. And when he fucks up, it'll be big. Same goes for the Slayers cum Initiative 2.

"That right, Angelus? That what they need? Soldiers and champions... Heroes."

Otherwise known as cannon-fodder.

Spike took a long breath – let it out on a short, shaky laugh. "Well, that's too damn bad, Angelus. Just too bloody bad, 'cause I'm not either of those." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it – blew the slate-blue smoke in a plume up over his head. "And neither are you."

Do tell.

No, seriously. Do tell, or else.
Monday, January 22nd, 2007 12:42 pm (UTC)
Damn, I thought it was the next bit! I'm disappointed now. ;)
Monday, January 22nd, 2007 01:01 pm (UTC)
::joins Xander in the Snoopy dance::
Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007 12:13 am (UTC)
YeY! great big damn story? I *hope* so!!! Running to the next part!
Thursday, January 25th, 2007 06:56 pm (UTC)
Grrrr! Does anyone know how to make the cut-tag text into four lines rather than one long line? I can't seem to do it!!

as far as I know, it's not possible, not inside the cut
you can only make line breaks inside of a *link*, using [br], like this:

Well, we've been lucky devils both,
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...
(http://tabaqui.livejournal.com/111766.html) (http://piratepurple.livejournal.com/)

Sunday, January 28th, 2007 08:35 pm (UTC)
Girl you always, ALWAYS come out swinging and it is always good.
Monday, January 29th, 2007 12:19 pm (UTC)
You're welcome!