Today's a much better day. I managed to finish my little A/S fic.
It's for netweight by the way. *G* I honestly tried to do some major B/A and B/S undertones, but I didn't like the original version and it changed into this fic. Hopefully, it doesn't sucketh.
There is no reason for all the 'eth' endings. I may be insane.
Title: Fragmented Mercy
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC 17
Summary: If Atlas had been made of stone, he'd have crumbled a long time ago.
Spoilers: S5, "Soul Purpose"
The body bruised, slicked in wet trails of saliva, sweat, and other bodily fluids that he no longer cares to identify, seizes like a gasping breath he does not exhale, shuddering its final climax.
Angel shoves off of Spike, turning his head away, for he must not look at anything, ever again.
Why have you come back? That is not the question he bothers asking. He is tired, too tired, his nightmare, no, hallucination, was true, he is empty inside. But unlike a shell, he cannot shatter, he cannot be broken, he still exists.
Spike is a creature meant for the darkness, carefully crafted, down to his dyed, obnoxious roots, to live in it. Angel however, loathes that he must live in darkness, yet understands he does deserve it. Spike smiles in the darkness. He is partly shadowed, and his other half reflects the view of the windows where he stands, his pale skin offset by the lights of Los Angeles.
There is no time for words. Or hope.
Spike slinks out of the bed, not to be graceful; it is an unintentional movement of his body. He picks up his coat, long discarded by the windows, scoring a pack of cigarettes and a lighter as he returns to bed. He stays silent as he smokes, the orange glow breaking into the black darkness. He sits on rumpled sheets, unabashed in his nudity, fingers scratching at a just barely healing bite mark just above his left shoulder. Ashes fall on his stomach and he absentmindedly wipes them away.
Angel can only watch. If he questions, if he tries to break this temporary (for nothing ever last) reprieve, he will not be able to handle the outcome. Not tonight.
The taste of sunshine is not on Spike's mouth, for if it were, he would do anything to keep it, to remember the taste.
His hallucinations (yes, that's what they were, and only that), they linger at the corners of his mind, and he knows they will not fade. He does not forget, he ignores, yes, for if he did not avoid the pain, he would drown. He would not dream of being engulfed in sunshine and not burning, but living.
Instead, he would dream of sinking into the dark waters, forever made silent, condemned to never die.
Spike smokes down to the filter, pausing a moment before considering his open pack of cigarettes and then, looking directly into Angel's eyes (a challenge), pressing the lit butt of his cigarette down onto Angel's bedside table. The mark will be permanent.
Angel does not reply. He only lunges, bringing his body atop Spike's, an old need he's never quite gotten rid of, this need for flesh to conquer flesh. But it is Spike who brings him down for a kiss of ashes, smoke, and fire. He can almost forget the salt of the ocean in Spike's mouth.
Spike pushes him away, and before he can utter his horror or shock (but Angel knows that there is, was, and will always be a lust tinged there, unbroken by their mutual hatred of each other) of Angel's none-too gentle mouth rending into Spike's perpetually all-knowing smirk, Angel again attacks, this time crushing Spike into an embrace solely for the need of contact. Spike does not hesitate, for he remembers even though he pretends otherwise, and they move into the swath of light projected through the windows, but Angel longs to returns to the darkness.
It is a familiar dance, and Spike's coat is torn off of his body, Angel would not have taken care to keep it whole, so Spike does most of the work, stripping Angel of his shirt as they make their way backwards to the nearby bed.
He can make no noise, even if he makes a noise, no one would hear it or care. So as he travels the familiar lines of Spike's body, as he teases along the shaft of Spike's hard cock, his tongue swift and ruthless, he almost wishes it were not so. That here Spike would beg or that there would indeed be words, but words are just another form of ashes, pointless and without spirit.
When he dies, he will be ashes, broken into a crumbled ruin of nothingness. He meets Spike's gaze, the angry, wild blue, and knows he deserves nothing.
The first bite, as Eve (original Eve, and not a mere child playing grownup in ill-fitting clothes Eve) can tell him if he'd only remember, is the worst, and Spike's blood is the taste of too many things he wishes not to process. For, he is not alone, Spike is here, but even though he no longer is the only one, he is empty, pieces cobbled together to form a body he carries around, nothing more.
He does not drink deeply or suck hard and fast to the messy wound, instead he bites again, wanting almost to leave marks on things he mustn't touch. He is a monster for wanting such, for needing to be something, yet Spike's hands touch his body, clutching, insisting for more, and he can no longer ignore such a demand.
Coming and never returning, never ending is what he does best and he again ducks his head away not to look into Spike's eyes. The aftermath in those eyes after the lust has been sated is too terrible to confront.
Blood mixes far too nicely with sweat, and his hand slicked wet pulls Spike's head up at the too-sharp jaw, and he bites his way down the neck, again tormenting the wound that will heal, although it will take time.
Now is a not a time he cherishes, for any time that gave him peace, that gave him sanctuary, he must sacrifice, he must ignore.
He pulls away, positioning himself as Spike turns over, knowing his part all too well. Angel would hate him if this familiarity, this mockery, of feeling that he has finally found his place didn't make him forget that he will never be free.
Spike is waiting.
Angel says nothing, letting the moment stretch a little longer. It's an illusion, all things are, he cannot look to the windows to see light and look to the shadows to see black. And Spike's ivory stomach is stained in come and ashes, a messy, shining mess of gray.
It has to mean nothing, because everything else in his life means everything, more than he can bear. If Atlas had been made of stone, he'd have crumbled a long time ago. Angel does not have the world on his shoulders, he has more, and he is made flesh immortal, hollowed out and made emptier than anything and there is no sound anymore. Sounds would mean living and he does not deserve that.
What is real is the rocking motion, is the sharp jut to Spike's lean hips, the corded muscles of his back, the flesh made living.
"You want to tell me what that was about, mate?"
And there, like the magician's show unveiled, the spell is broken, but curses do not break when the despair sets in like a rolling mist, blacker than any forgotten night.
Once, it was about something, but like dreams made nightmares, and nightmares that may be true, it cannot be about it any longer.
There was a reason before. But like so many things, it is lost, and must stay lost, for he cannot survive (never live) if he keeps it.
When the body is freed, for that one instant, though his mind attempts to ignore the terrible truth, it knows what it longs for, more than humanity, or redemption or freedom.
"Get out, Spike," he finally says and like everything he has ever clung to, he destroys it as swiftly as possible. He gave up the pretense of hope long ago. For it is not something he can give or ever expect to receive.