Darkest Hour

by Maayan

Spike parked the DeSoto a block away from his Sire's apartment and killed
the engine, abruptly cutting off his favorite Sex Pistols album. He
practically bounced out of the car, his body humming with restless energy. 

Damn, but he hadn't felt this good in a long while. Nothing like summoning
a little mayhem to cheer up a vamp. Okay, so he hadn't been the direct
cause of any major injury or blood-spillage - < bloody Hell, I'm talking
like 'em now > - but he had suckered the big Poof into knocking the effin'
Slayer-whipped commando guy around, and that was almost worth any
traditional hell-raising. He wished he could have recorded the sound of
Fish Boy's ribs caving in and played it over and over again. 

No, even better. He wished he could have videotaped Angel's face when
Buffy had burst in like a fury and drop-kicked him to the ground. The
sight of Angel on his knees, mouth hanging open while the little blonde
bitch told him in no uncertain terms that she despised him, that he'd
better leave Sunnydale forever and never cross her path again or she would
stake him herself... now that was a work of art. 

She hadn't even let Angel put two words together. Too busy patching up her
corn-fed fuck-toy to turn around and watch his shoulders slump, his eyes
shut tightly and what little blood coursed in his veins leave his
face. Too damn angry to see him clutch his hand over his shirt where
Riley's army knife had ripped his stomach open, and watch him stagger out
into the night. 

But Spike had enjoyed the show. Had to bit down on his own wrist to keep
from howling in glee and attract the Slayer's attention. Wouldn't do to
have to explain to the dumb git how he had been the one to convince Angel
that Riley was in fact Adam. 

The mutant who had tried to eviscerate the love of Angel's life a few
hours earlier. 

Spike's only regret was that the ponce didn't get the time to properly
maim and kill Soldier Boy. Now that, the Brit would have paid to see. 

Now the blond vampire was in L.A., still high from his latest, unexpected
success. Who would have thought cohabitation with the Slayer would prove
that much fun? This was much better than just killing all her
friends. Suddenly, he could relate to Angelus' fondness for fancy
mind-games. Last Spike had been in Sunnydale, Riley had been packing,
ready to go back to his farm because he "needed time" to deal with the
Angel-issue, and Buffy had been heartbroken. 

Misery was all Spike had left to feed on now. 

And he was starving. 

Hence his presence in L.A. Rubbing his Sire's nose in it would keep him
going for years. The bleached vampire wondered what would be the most
devastating. Lie and tell Angel that Riley and Buffy had been living
happily ever-after since his departure - fucking like bunnies and making
wedding plans. Or tell him the truth. That the Souled One had once again
managed to wreck havoc with Buffy's life; that his visit to Sunnyhell was
to blame for the Slayer's latest depression.

Either way, it would be a blast.

Grinning madly, Spike sauntered up the steps to the offices of Angel
Investigations. He pushed the door open boldly, and walked in - full of
himself. On top of the world. He was practically skipping. 

He immediately spotted the former May Queen sitting behind her desk. 

His first clue that something was wrong should have been her monochrome
outfit and her hair imprisoned in a messy bun on the nape of her neck. But
Spike was too excited to care.

"Hello, Cordelia. How's life?" he asked, outrageously chipper.

Shock imprinted its mark on her face for no more than a second. 

Until utter coldness descended over her expression. 

It gave Spike pause. He had expected screams, ranting, veiled threats or
even a crossbow aimed at his heart, like the last time he had been
here. There was none of that.

Her stare could have frozen an iceberg. 

"Come to gloat?" she asked in a toneless voice. 

Spike smirked. "A vampire gotta have his fun."

She didn't even twitch. 

"You want to contemplate the aftermath of your little deception? Go right
ahead. Between you and Saint Buffy, he never stood a chance. You can't
destroy him any more than you already have." She closed her eyes
wearily. "There's nothing left to destroy."

Taken aback, Spike remained silent, waiting for her to explode and rage at
him, forbidding him to go anywhere near Angel again. Promising unspeakable
torture if he even lifted a finger against her boss. But she remained
perfectly still, eyelids lowered, and he frowned. 

Shrugging, he stalked over to the stairway, and she didn't try to stop

The apartment was dark - well, darker than usual. All the lights were off,
not one candle flame flicking anywhere. Spike hazarded a look inside the
bedroom, but it was empty. Still, he could smell his Sire's presence. And
his Sire should have been able to smell him. 

He ventured into the living-room, his steps faltering a little. There was
something foreboding in the air that he didn't like. Something like
despair. Or death. It was funny. Angel and himself were dead, after
all. So that would make sense. 

Spike made his way to the kitchen, and his confusion grew. His previous
euphoria had all but vanished, and he couldn't pinpoint the source of this
sudden disquiet. 

Then he saw him. 

Angel was sitting at the kitchen table, one hand smoothing the hard,
wooden surface in front of him in a rhythmic, hypnotic pattern. Still
there was no light, and the shadows hugged his large frame, his silhouette
melding with the surrounding darkness. Spike doubted a human would have
noticed his presence. 

His Sire was hiding in plain sight. Angel always had this unassuming,
restrained way of carrying himself that belied the force of his
personality and the power of his master vampire status. Only his eyes ever
betrayed the intensity, the formidable strength, the natural command and
authority which lied beneath that repressed exterior. 

Spike crushed the bolt of longing that speared through him. 

So much of Angelus in Angel. Just under the surface. 

Summoning an enthusiasm that he didn't even feel anymore, Spike strolled
inside the kitchen and perched on the table, an arm-length away from the
dark-haired vampire. 

"So, Peaches. You over the little slut, yet?"

The taunt sounded forced to Spike's own ears. 

Angel didn't look up. His fingers traced the knots of the polished

"You did a nice job with Soldier Boy, I have to give you that. He spent
the next three days in bed. Or it might have been the Slayer Bitch keeping
him there with her own little brand of nursin'. I didn't ask."

Angel's head was bowed, and Spike couldn't decipher his expression - or
his eyes. Were they even open? 

Uneasy, disturbed by his Sire's lack of any reaction, the younger vampire
stood, leaning his hip against the edge of the table, practically on top
of Angel. "Told you you two would end up destroying each other. But did
you listen to your old pal Spike? Nooo. You stupid ponce."

Angel's hand stilled briefly, then resumed its intricate course over the
wood grain. 

Spike was losing patience. "I'm talking to you, nancy boy," he growled,
shaking Angel's shoulder. 

When Angel once again failed to react, Spike grabbed his Sire's stiff arms
and hauled him out of the chair with a snarl. He smashed Angel against the
closest wall and held him there, pressing the length of his lean body
against Angel's larger one. 

"Look at me," Spike ground out between clenched teeth. 

When Angel failed to obey, Spike clutched the short, dark silky strands of
hair and pulled. Angel's skull smacked against the concrete. The older
vampire blinked. Not a sound escaped his bloodless lips. 

This time, Spike saw that his eyes were open. 

And empty.

There was no grief, no fear, no anguish, no sorrow, no anger, no
curiosity, no annoyance, no pain. Nothing. 

< Nothing left to destroy. > 

The damning finality of the ex-cheerleader's words hadn't registered until

Spike shook his head. "No." At first a murmur, then a roar. "No!"

That's not what he had planned. 

Infuriated, frightened, Spike punched Angel full in the face. The dark
head whipped to the side, blood trickled at the corned of his lips, and
still he didn't make a sound. Grabbing the front of his Sire's shirt,
Spike shook Angel forcefully, bashing his body repeatedly into the wall. 

"How could you let her do this to you, Sire? How could you let her have
this power over you? It wasn't supposed to be this way."

As Spike screamed the words in Angel's face, he realized that they were
the truth. He hadn't wanted this. He had thought...

"You were supposed to come back to me. You were supposed to finally get
your head out of your arse and realize that the stupid cow didn't deserve

Spike reverted to his vampiric visage. 

"Your my Sire, I'm your Childe. You're mine, I'm yours. You don't belong
with the Slayer bitch. You never did. Why couldn't you see that?" He
raged. "Why can't you see it now?"

A tear trekked down Angel's right cheek, and something inside of Spike
snapped. A wave of unadulterated need, an unprecedented urgency, the
necessity to _show_ Angel what he had meant. To make him see. To convince
him of what Spike had known all along. 

And the past, and the taunts, and the insults, and the torture... none of
it mattered now. Whatever form it took, his relationship to his Sire's had
always been at the core of Spike's being. Loving him, missing him, hating
him, mocking him, despising him - it was always Angel. 

There was a time when Spike had been the apple of Angel's eyes, his
favorite Childe. Penn Angelus had molded, Drusilla he had destroyed, Spike
he had loved.

Then came the Slayer, and Spike was not first and foremost in either
Angel's or Angelus' heart any longer. One or the other, it didn't
matter. They were both his Sire. Where the older vampire was concerned,
Spike had never played well with the other children. Not even with
Drusilla. Certainly not with Penn.

Angel was his and his alone. 

On impulse, Spike crushed his lips to Angel's, eager to wipe the emptiness
off his Sire's face. To see those bottomless eyes fill with something -
with tears, with lust, it didn't matter at that point. 

Angel's mouth was cool and pliant under his. Spike teased the supple flesh
with the tip of his tongue, licking off the blood - pleasure rushing to
his head - seeking access. When Angel remained unresponsive, Spike
forcefully drove his tongue between slack lips. He mapped out the familiar
velvety coolness of his Sire's mouth and sighed. It didn't matter for the
moment that Angel's tongue refused to duel with his or that he had yet to
elicit a moan, a shiver, a gasp from his dispassionate Sire. Spike had
missed this, had needed this. No one, nothing tasted like Angel. 

He tested a blunt canine then stroked the silky roof of Angel's mouth,
while his hands left the dark hair to venture down south. Spike ripped
open the burgundy silk shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere. His hands
roamed free over the decadent expanse of smooth, pale skin, hard muscles
and rounded curves. Angel's chest was the safest haven Spike had ever
known. He had died there, and there he had been reborn. 

Angelus had refused to relinquish him long enough to be buried. Keeping
him wrapped in his embrace until Spike rose again. 

Regretfully abandoning Angel's mouth, Spike's lips followed his hands on
their downward journey. Eyes closed, he found the jugular, nibbling the
skin, knowing how sensitive the spot was for a vampire. He could feel the
sluggish course of Angel's blood under his tongue and his fangs itched. He
wanted nothing more than to rip the throat open and gorge on the rich
liquid, but traditions were still deeply ingrained. He didn't feel capable
of feeding off his Sire without Angel's approval. 

Moaning in frustration, he trailed down Angel's collarbone, moving away
from his neck - hoping to remove the temptation. It was futile. The call
of his Sire's blood, his scent was everywhere, multiplied by every inch of
skin, and by the time Spike reached a brown nipple, he was drunk with
need. Skillfully, he coaxed the tiny nub to tautness, frowning slightly
when Angel didn't even twitch. 

A vampire playing hard to get? Ludicrous.

His nose burrowing in Angel's breastbone, Spike fumbled with the other
man's belt buckle. Impatient, he pushed pants and silk boxers down on the
dark-haired vampire's strong thighs. He enclosed Angel's flaccid cock in
long, agile fingers. 

Angel bucked against him. Spike smiled.

< Ah. A reaction. >

His hands clutched Angel's hips as his tongue plunged in and out of his
Sire's navel. He couldn't get enough of the smooth skin of Angel's
trembling stomach. Like drowning in supple velvet. Slowly, wetly, he
kissed the fresh, healing scar caused by Soldier Boy's knife. Cursing the

Spike continued his descent, falling gracefully to his knees, until he
found coarse curls and the tantalizing column of flesh nestling
there. Without pause, he engulfed Angel's cock deep in his mouth. 

A sharp intake of breath fell from above.

Spike moaned at the rich taste of his Sire on his tongue.

He purred.

Angel squirmed, swelling down his throat. Spike scrapped blunt teeth along
the hard length, gliding up and down his Sire's shaft. His left hand
cupped Angel's balls, massaging the heavy sack. His right hand reached
around to knead the flesh of Angel's firm buttocks. Eerily, without
hesitation, his index found the puckered ring of skin down the cleft,
between Angel's ass cheeks. Spike slid two knuckles in and Angel made a
small, guttural sound. The sack in his left palm tightened and lifted,
drawing closer to Angel's stomach. His own cock strained against the seam
of his jeans in sympathy and anticipation. 

The blond vampire wrapped his tongue around the base of his Sire's cock,
sucking deeply, and wriggled his finger. 

Angel came with a shout, spilling his cold seed down Spike's throat. The
younger vampire drank greedily. He had been starved of that taste for far
too long. 

When Angel lay spent, reclining against the wall, thighs shaking, Spike
released the softening shaft, removed his finger and stood. Angel's eyes
were closed, his lips swollen. He must have bitten down on his luscious
lower lip. Blood glistened there. 

Licking his chops, Spike gripped Angel's hand, straightened his pants and
tugged him towards the bedroom. The older vampire followed like a child,
eyes still shut - long, elegant lashes resting against pale skin - quiet. 

They got to the bed, and Spike had to soothe that lower lip. 

The kiss was short and it was one-sided. 

"Fine," Spike growled. "If that's the way you want it, then I'll just have
to take what I want."

A flash of... something - was it resignation? - crossed Angel's
expression, then was gone. Snarling, Spike threw Angel face-first on the
red coverlet, ripping the clothes away from his body. 

Spike absorbed the exposed orgy of creamy flesh. He mewled at the
voluptuous display. It had been too fucking long. During that business
with the Gem of Amara, he hadn't had time to enjoy himself and take full
advantage of having Angel in pain and in chains at his mercy. Now he would
make up for the loss of that opportunity. 

No need for chains this time around, though. Angel was as threatening as a
newborn kitten. 

< This is wrong. > 

Angel had never been subservient in bed. Spike should have had to fight
him for dominance. 

Pushing the disturbing thought away, the blonde shed his clothes and threw
his naked form on his impassive Sire, landing on top of him like a big cat
- overcome by need. 

Cold skin against cold skin. 

Spike purred his pleasure. He seized Angel's broad shoulders, crushing his
Sire into the mattress, and attached his mouth to the dark-haired
vampire's spine. His hands trailed down over Angel's back in big, sweeping
strokes. Muscles flexed under the pads of his fingers. Angel shivered
underneath him. 

Fear or arousal, Spike couldn't tell. At that point, he couldn't care
less. He had somewhere he needed to be. 

He guided himself to his Sire's tight entrance, shuddering. To fuck
Angel... it was a rare privilege, and Spike's mind skirted away from the
reminder that he hadn't received his Sire's permission. It felt almost

Spike reminded himself that he was all but a natural creature. And

Without further ado, or any kind of lubrication, Spike forced Angel's ass
open, burying his hard length to the hilt in the tight, cool passage.

The violent invasion wrenched a gasp from Angel's throat. The older
vampire tensed, the muscles of his back rigid and unyielding. Uncaring,
Spike clutched his Sire's waist, retreated and thrust himself back in,
ripping into the small opening. The scent of blood mixed with the smell of
sex, and Spike downed his game face. Angel spasmed with a husky groan, his
fists bunched around the covers. Spike kept on pounding in and out of him,
oblivious, his claws racking the unblemished skin of his Sire's back. 

Blood raised - its call stroking Spike's lust for his Sire. 

The blond vampire fell on his side, taking Angel with him - freeing the
erection which had been crushed into the mattress by the weight of the
older vampire's body. He reached around to tug harshly on the rock-hard
column and fastened his lips to the fragrant patch of skin behind Angel's
ear. His hips never gave up their punishing rhythm. 


The question remained unspoken, and in normal circumstances Spike wouldn't
even have had to formulate it. But Angel wasn't cooperating. 

The blond gritted his teeth. "Will you allow me to drink from you, Sire?"

It was hard to form the words when Angel's powerful muscles clenched
involuntarily around his cock. 

The explicit, formal request wasn't met with any more success. 

Spike snarled. 

"Damn you! Answer me!"

Suddenly the moans weren't enough. He needed to hear his Sire's
voice. Needed Angel to say that, from now on, everything would be all
right. He would brood for a few weeks, maybe beat his Childe to a bloody
pulp, then go back to being his nancy self. Spike needed Angel to accept,
and forget, and forgive. 

But Angel remained indifferent to his Childe's pleas, and Spike's anger
sparked anew. 

"You fucking bastard. It wasn't enough that you let those damn gypsies
curse you. You had to fall for the Slayer. How could you leave me? For
her? Say something!"

The dark-haired vampire turned his head away - boneless in his Childe's

A wounded angel

And Spike knew stark, all encompassing fear. 

Understood that he had succeeded where even Hell had failed. 

Angel was broken. 

He had broken his Sire. 

Despair racked Spike's undead heart, warring with his unalloyed fury. Damn
the vampire code, damn it all to Hell. 

Enraged, Spike buried his fangs in Angel's exposed throat, tearing the
skin apart sloppily. The potent, heady blood hit his tongue, and he came
with a roar. He drank, his thirst insatiable - losing himself in the
blissful rapture. 

His Sire's blood. 

Angel's hand closed around the back of his neck, and Spike was startled to
feel his Sire initiating any kind of contact. 

When he had drank enough, the daze of his orgasm receding, leaving his
thoughts clear and sharp, he tried to pull away from Angel's throat. The
older vampire wouldn't let him. Morphing back to his human countenance,
Spike grabbed Angel's wrist and forced him to relinquish his hold. His
gaze found his Sire's, and for the first time in... ever, he felt like

He could see the supplication in the unfathomable depths of the older
vampire's eyes. 

< Why won't you kill me? >

< Have mercy. >

< Finish what you started. >

It was the last straw, more than the bleached vampire could take. He
gathered Angel in his arms, closer to his chest, drawing the comforter
around his trembling Sire, rocking him. 

Still inside of him.

"I'm sorry, Sire," Spike ground out, his jaw clenched to the point of
pain, pressing a kiss to the messy bite. "I'm sorry. I'll go find the
Slayer, if that's what you want. I'll explain. Just... just please come
back to me. Please, _forgive me_."

There was a snicker, and his head shot up. Cordelia was standing on the
threshold of the bedroom, her eyes condemning and disdainful. 

"You should have thought about that before, Spike, "she whispered
tiredly. "The damage is done. His love and his trust... that's all Angel
ever had to give, and that should have been enough. You and Buffy... you
betrayed both, and now it's too late." 

She spoke slowly, evenly. 

"In a few days, he'll say he feels better. He'll want to go back to work,
he'll go fight some demon. And he won't come back. And you know what,
Spike? I won't stop him. For years you've piled all this bullshit on his
shoulders - you, Buffy, the PTB, Giles, the Slayerettes... all of
you. Obviously you forgot that even the strongest ones have a breaking
point." She turned her back on him, walking away. "I hope you're proud of
yourself, Spike. I hope that, when he's gone, Buffy dies from the
guilt. You may be losing your Sire." Her voice wavered. "But I'm losing my
best friend."