First Post. Feeling Brave

Title: Getting By
Author: devilandthedeep
Genre: I have no idea. Some sad, some funny, some sex—perhaps even a hit of a plot
Rating:NC-17 overall
Timeline: The night after “Destiny” (AtS)
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Author’s notes: I wanted to give Spike a reason to stay in LA after he became corporeal. This is what I came up with. The fic is {almost} finished and I’ll be posting it in chunks as I have time.




Spike was in his bed. Groggy as he was from sleep deprivation and mild head trauma, Angel was confident that hadn’t been in his plan. Take a shower, wash off the blood and humiliation of losing the fight to bleach boy and his enormous ego, go to bed alone. That had been the plan, simple but elegant. And yet there was Spike, a little more than kin, a little less than kind, sprawled across the mattress as though he belonged there.

“Get out,” Angel demanded, annoyed with Spike. Annoyed with the water dripping down his neck and the foolish way he hid behind the damp towel as though nudity were something new between them.

One of the usurper’s eyes opened, then two, sweeping Angel up and down, slow and dismissive. Angel expected him to eye the towel and laugh. “We’ve seen it all before, Angelus,” Spike would say. “And we weren’t particularly impressed.”

Instead Spike gave a petulant frown. “Newly corporeal. No place to go.”

Back in the blood soaked days of yore, Angelus had devised delightfully cruel plans just to coax Spike into this laconic mood. William, brash, obnoxious Will was at his most beautiful in those rare sulky silences with his hurt eyes and bitable, pouting lips. Even Darla, with her famous feigned blasé, had been impressed with Dru’s little fledgling. To signal her approbation of the latest member of their family circle, she ran her tongue along the boy’s ear and slid her hand down his pants as an introduction while Dru squealed and clapped. That was the moment the first curl of jealous hatred corkscrewed its way into Angelus’ dark heart.

Not a damn thing had changed since that first night. Through the decades Spike and his tempting pout came along and methodically took everything that belonged to Angel: Dru, Darla, Buffy, his calling, this bed. After each spiteful maneuver they fought it out with fists and fangs and hatred until somebody felt like he’d won. The past bled into the present. Everything was different and nothing had changed because Spike was still in his bed waiting for the fight. Flight, kill, bleed. It was their divine mandate and they always obeyed.

When the fight didn’t come Spike closed his eyes again. There was nothing innocent left in that face; not even William’s soft mouth could overcome those hard lines. Harder now since Angel had seen him last. Since the soul, he supposed.

Angel crawled into bed, nudging Spike who moved with unusual pliability to consume only half the mattress. A little over half. Even injured and marginally conscious Will was the same greedy child. Along one sharp shoulder Angel’s hesitant fingers traced a line of punctures, closed now, but still angry. What would Buffy say if she knew he had torn Spike’s perfect skin? Probably roll her eyes and threaten to stake them both.

“Piss off,” Spike ordered.

“You’re in my bed,” Angel retorted, but withdrew his hand.

Closing his eyes, Angel pretended he was asleep. Pretending was all he had anymore. During the day he pretended he’d made the right decision. At night he pretended he slept the sleep of the just.

Inches away from Angel’s predator nose, Spike smelled of blood, which was nothing new. Both of them stank of dirt and blood, as though they had come in from their habitual slaughter of humanity as opposed to trying to slaughter one another. There were other scents, just as familiar, clinging to Spike’s skin: dust and rosewater, kerosene smoke that used to infuse their clothes, the polluted tang of the Thames. All of which must have been an olfactory hallucination. Neither of them had seen a kerosene lamp since 1905 and if Spike still smelled of London circa 1880, that meant Angel should stink of Galway in 1753. Galway, he remembered distinctly, reeked of horse manure, stale ale, chamber pots emptied that morning out the windows, and fermenting vegetables. It wasn’t until he buried his face in Darla’s perfumed cleavage that Liam realized what a cesspool he’d been trolling in.

Cautiously, as though Spike wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what he was doing, Angel leaded over and breath deeply with his nose pressed against Spike’s alabaster skin.

“You smell exactly the same,” Angel mumbled into the soft curve of his nemesis’ neck, knowing he was being absurd, knowing Spike wouldn’t care or understand what he was talking about. Thankfully Spike ignored him, and Angel admitted that if their positions had been reversed he would have just rolled over, hit the younger vampire with the table lamp, and gotten some sleep.

Eternal insomnia insisted that sleep wasn’t coming any time soon. Instead Angel studied the naked back of his least favorite relative and searched for hints of the soul in its muscled contours. God, he was still so beautiful. They all were, he knew, young and cold and perfect forever. But he didn’t think Spike’s insolent perfection should be able to move him after all these years. Even now he remembered the bitter taste of William’s skin, the growls and sighs he made when they used to fuck, loudly, in public, laughing at the frightened and bleeding humans. The good times were always the most guilt inducing. Fresh waves of remorse sloshed in Angel’s stomach as he remembered fucking Spike over the body of a fifteen year old girl, her wide glassy eyes watching the monsters even in death. That memory shouldn’t turn him on. Twenty years of fucking and butchery together ought to make Spike’s beautifully muscled back repugnant instead of painfully tempting. Without these moments Angel could almost believe that he wasn’t a monster.

Oh but he was a monster, and monsters took delight in terrible things like reckless, petulant one-hundred and twenty-six year old children. Against his better judgment Angel’s hands began a slow crawl across Spike’s skin, scaling his narrow hips, navigating the hollows and dells of muscles as coldly perfect as un-trodden snow. Kissing the dry pulse, the invisible scar where Dru stole his mortality, it was impossible not to purr. This was stupid and insane, but gloriously familiar. The cuts on Spike’s shoulder were almost invisible now but Angel kissed them anyway, ran his tongue over purple bruises and purred louder as he rubbed his erection against a marble thigh.

Reaction-less as a corpse, Spike finally sighed, that little movement thrilling Angel beyond all reason. Yes, the thought, wrapping his arms around Will’s frail frame and pulling him close. Play with me.

“Angel,” Spike grumbled, slurry and tired. “Leave off.”

“Why?” Angel’s voice dissolved into a low rumble. So what if he and Spike had been pummeling each other only three hours before. This wasn’t about love. It was lust and need and all the other joyous sensations he had to put aside when he threw on a mighty cape and became Brood Man aka He Who Has No Fun, or so his sneering foil was always telling him.

“I’m not in the mood.”

And he wasn’t. Angel’s massive hand was closed around Spike’s disinterested penis, pulling gently to try and wake it up. “You’re always in the mood.”

Spike groaned and let his head collide with Angel’s shoulder. The great pillock was going to argue with him about this. He held up a hand and ticked off items with bruised fingers.

“One, I’m tired. Two, I’m sore. Three, I don’t like you. Not that I used to.” Spike let his hand drop, knuckles resting on the carpet. “Did I mention I’m tired?”

“We’re all tired, William.”

Big hands tugged at his shoulder and hip, and Spike didn’t bother resisting as Angel pulled him over, tipped him onto his back.

There was a point where it made sense to resist Angelus, usually when he pulled out something sharp and rusty to fillet you with. Gentle pawing wasn’t worth the effort of arguing. Arguing in general was something Spike found himself doing less and less, which he blamed on the emasculating nature of his new soul. Angel’s needy hands investigated his skin to make sure things were where they used to be. Looking for clues, perhaps. He really didn’t care. At this point he was tired enough to sleep through anything. Except, except poor perfect Angel was lonely, which should have been hilarious. He should laugh. He should kick grandpa in the teeth, fuck him until he bled, anything besides this passive participation. Then that cold mouth encased his cock, swallowed him whole and Spike gasped, mostly from surprise. On his knees had never been Angelus’ chosen position.

Angel glanced up at Spike’s sharp gasp, caught a glimpse of pale hair and wide eyes. Never try to ignore me, boy. But he couldn’t say that with his mouth filled by Will’s increasing erection. Spike’s silence was melting quickly into familiar hitching moans. And, okay, this wasn’t his usual modus operandi. Over the years he’d gone down on a handful of men, one of which had been Spike, but that had involved a lost game of billiards and a pair of loaded pistils. Voluntary cock sucking had never interested him until now. Hands wrapped in his hair (which still, Angel swore, smelled like kerosene and the Thames) and now Spike’s hips were undulating in a demanding rhythm and Angel didn’t even care because when he scraped his teeth along Will’s cock he writhed under his heavy hand. That was more powerful then he could have imagined without the soul. The power to control another’s pleasure. Then Spike came, shuddering into Angel’s mouth with wordless exclamations, his cool indifference shattered.

“How’s your mood now?” Angel asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Spike smiled faintly, lazy behind hooded eyes. “I’ve been worse.”

He was going to ask exactly when the master of stoicism had time for the lobotomy, but then Angel leaned down and kissed him, cold and salty and achingly familiar. The pouf got points over Harmony for kissing, all tongue and teeth. Because they may have been vampires kissing, but they were going to be manly about it, damn it. Moving slowly, Angel crawled back under the covers, wrapped himself around Spike’s limp form, machismo forgotten.

Everything Spike never wanted to know about granddad’s lonely misery could be read in the tightly spun muscles of Angel’s body. Spike considered not saying anything because what did he care about the stupid git really? Nothing. Less than nothing. One pleasant blowjob did not erase twenty years of mental and physical discomfort. But Angel’s hands were still sliding up and down his back in search of some thing resembling solace, and god knew that was something nobody had ever found in his skin no matter how hard they tried. Just ask Buffy. So Spike decided to surrender to the sappy soul just this once.

“You’re not alone you know,” Spike said, giving in to the embrace. “You mope around with your Atlas complex and carp about having to do the right thing and stand alone against the armies of darkness, but that’s utter crap. The Queen Mum had fewer friends and relations than you.”

“Don’t pep talk me, boy,” Angel growled into Spike’s neck. Spike supposed he was finally clear to get some sleep now that Angel’s mood had switched back to sullen, indicating that the universe was back on track.




In the morning Spike was gone. Probably back in Europe hunting down his/their ex to entice her with his Grand Canyon cheekbones, Angel decided. Without annoying cockney interruptions the day flowed by fairly smoothly. Turned out it wasn’t the evilness of the law firm, or his soul, or Connor that had been distressing him. It had been Spike. A week after he disappeared all the knots in Angel’s shoulders were gone. Much like his Viper.

“We need to find him,” Eve insisted. Even her suit was annoyingly factual. Angel wondered what she would look like with her neck broken, heart cooling in Drusilla’s pale hands.

“No, we don’t,” Angel countered, shuffling though the papers accumulating on his desk. They made him think of silt and continental drift. He never put them there, never even read them. Reports and contracts just washed up on his desk with the tide. Then he signed them with his pen, which leaked blood onto his fingers, and handed them off to Harmony with the assumption that the vamp ditz from hell would manage it from there. He knew that Spike thought he was stupid, but the fact was he just didn’t care anymore. Kill your son. Sign away your soul to the enemy and nothing was that important anymore.

“He could be in trouble,” Fred chimed in, blinking at Angel through her glasses.

Spike always had this effect on women. They swooned for Angel, but he knew they would bleed for Spike. Angel scowled, which used to scare sweet, timid Winifred. Now she just scowled back, mocking his furrowed brow and grim frown. When had he become a joke?

“He can take care of himself. Trust me.”

“’Fraid that’s not an option, boss.” Gunn strode in, replete with briefcase and corporate wear. It bothered Angel how eager Gunn was to become this, how eager they all were for the good life. No. Not good. Easy and vaguely evil. Caged and salivating, Angel’s demon could feel the evil seeping in with every case, every hand he shook, every contract authorized. They knew, all of them, what they had signed up for.

“Your little protégé has been killing his way through the city,” Gunn continued, dropping a thick report onto the desk. More papers. Goodie.

“Humans?” Fred whimpered. Angel smirked. He shouldn’t enjoy watching Fred’s illusions shatter, but part of him still loved that sound.

“Clients,” Gun corrected. “If someone doesn’t stop him the bleached wonder is going to take out every high rolling demon in LA.”

Crap. Spike was fighting the good fight and Angel was protecting the enemy. Black was white, puppies were bad, and Cordelia’s wardrobe was demure. Specifically her old wardrobe of short skirts and plunging necklines. The medical facility where her unresponsive, coma-wandering body was kept dressed her in modest cotton gowns which she would complain about in great detail should she ever regain consciousness. Of all the things he’d lost from the Hyperion Era, what Angel missed the most was Cordelia and her irreverent running commentary on his life. It was annoying beyond endurance, but she kept things in perspective, and not the warped, cubistic perspective that pervaded Wolfram and Hart. Two entire minutes passed before he realized everyone was looking at him with impatient expectation. He was still the boss, but all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed with a corpse that smelled of 1880, before everything went disturbingly wrong.

“Gunn,” Angel said, because he had to say something to his loyal audience, “get some railroad spikes.”




Disgusted with himself, Spike recognized Giles’ handwriting before he even ripped open the envelope. Inside was a brief, handwritten invitation to work with the nascent Watcher’s Council as it attempted to gather all the stray, newborn slayers to its bosom and generally prevent the world from be overtaken by ever persistent agents of evil. “Consider this an opportunity to further apply your skills for the benefit of the greater good, an appeal which should hold some interest for you given your (apparently less than) mortal sacrifice on the Hellmouth last Spring,” Giles’ note noted. “It would be a pity to waste your skills. As much as we have differed in the past we are, collectively, the good guys.”

It was a ploy, Spike knew, to keep him away from Buffy and her vampire fetish, but there was the promise of money and right now the only way he could get across the pond was to develop incredible leaping skills. So he parked in the bank’s underground parking lot where, according to the note, Giles had left some things in a safety deposit box, and decided to investigate what garden path Rupert was so keen to send him down.

The safety deposit box was in his name, his old name, Hon. William Lockwood, Esq. Willow, he assumed, must have ferreted poor William out, or perhaps the Bit who like to root around in the past and other places where she didn’t belong.

Spike assumed there would be a fuss at the bank as newly corporeal didn’t come with picture ID, but none of the un-amused and un-amusing bank employees who shook his hand and led him through the marble labyrinth beneath the building bothered to ask for pictorial identification. He’d had a drivers license for the past fifteen years, a forged one, obviously, but that had gone the way of the rest of Sunnydale. The license, his clothes, Buffy’s pictures of Joyce, Anya’s body, all swallowed up by the earth. All things considered he’d got off easy with two minutes of immolation and three months as a spook walking through walls at Wolfram and Hart.

There wasn’t much in the box: a British passport, a sleek silver cell phone, and a note from Dawn welcoming him to the LA branch of Scooby, Inc. (p.s., she wrote, I know I spent a lot of time last year wanting you dead, but I’m really, really happy that you’re not), and a shiny new platinum corporate card in the name of a dead Victorian bastard he’d rather forget. Still, a phone and a job and a Viper in less than twenty-four hours of regaining physical form weren’t bad. He’d started out with less.