Sins of the Fathers
Angel could not remember, in all of his two hundred-plus years, when he had ever been so angry. The phone call that had roused him from a solid day's sleep had been the catalyst, and the imaginative images that had tortured him had been the fuel for the furious, raging fire.
She had been crying on the phone, quietly but still audible, and it took a moment for him to realize it was Buffy. He had been instantly alarmed, almost panicked in his effort to discover what was wrong, and when she whispered the long, ugly story to him he had felt the final straw break the camel's back.
"I'll take care of it," was all he managed to grind out before dropping the phone back into the cradle. Then he'd had to wait a grueling two hours before sundown, pacing back and forth like some giant caged cat. Finally, the sun had slipped below the skyline of the city and Angel had slammed out of the house, pointing his car south and flying like mad down the freeway toward Sunnydale. He fumed for the entire hour's drive.
That fucking Spike. Angel's errant, wayward childe, too handsome for his own good and much, much too confident. His mind turned over and over the soft, choked words that Buffy had spoken.
"...he must have done it just before dawn, broke in here somehow. I was at my mom's and I didn't get back to school till just now, and she was here lying on her bed waiting for me because she was too sore to even move. I asked her who it was, and she only saw blond hair, so it has to be Spike. He must have used a cat-o-nine tails on her or something, she's got all these little criss-cross marks on her legs. I asked her if he had bitten her and she said no, but there was just so much blood, Angel...oh, poor Willow..."
He searched the alleyways first, looking for a glimpse of the blond hair that would signify Spike's presence. There was nothing. Angel moved on to the cemeteries, alert and wary, but again turned up empty-handed. /Think,/ he told himself, leaning against a headstone and putting the heels of his hands to his eyes. A calmness descended over him, blocking out the sounds of the crickets in the grass, and he allowed a vision of Spike to fill his mind. /Feel him,/ he thought.
The part of his blood that was Spike's began to stir, magically gaining force and starting to flow, and Angel allowed it to do so while he reached out for his childe.
Across town, in the old mansion, Spike's head jerked up in alarm.
When Angel reached the front door of the large house, he found it standing open. He knew Spike had not left the mansion, he could still smell his presence, so the door open in invitation only served to infuriate Angel more. He would learn humility and submission, this young pup of his. Soul or no.
Stalking in, he found Spike exactly where Angel had expected him to be. He was lounging on the couch in front of the fireplace, one ankle resting comfortably on his knee, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Ah, Angelus. How delightful to see you again."
Angel strode forward and reached out for the collar on Spike's shirt. Gripping it with both hands, he lifted him from the couch until they stood nose to nose, Angel only slightly taller than Spike. "You like to beat on little girls?"
"It depends. Are they screamers?"
Angel snarled deep in his throat and gave Spike a hard shake. "Did you attack Willow?"
Much to Angel's fury, Spike laughed. "The red-headed witch? Haven't seen her around much. She's with that wolf, mostly."
"You attacked her in her own room and left her bleeding on her bed. For nothing."
"Impossible," Spike grinned, their noses almost touching.
"She would never invite me in."
Angel blinked in surprise. It was so blatantly true that he had nothing to say. Furrowing his brow, he let Spike's shirt slide through his fingers and ran his hands through his hair. "You didn't beat her."
"Christ, are you fucking out of your soul-having mind? Her roomie's the Slayer!" Spike rolled his eyes and mumbled something to himself, but Angel noted that he did not move from his spot. He stood toe to toe with Spike, so close that he could see the flawless skin on his childe's cheek, and noted the fine arch of his bones.
It had been a very long time since Angel had felt his old attraction for his childe. It had been that attraction that had kept them together for so long after Angel had sired him. They had wenched their way through a good part of the eighteenth century, turning to each other for sexual pleasure when there was no fair lady to be had. It had been a violent, bloody time, and something deep inside Angel didn't like to remember how enjoyable it had been.
He looked at Spike now, who still stood grumbling to himself. "I'm sorry," Angel offered, and Spike glanced up in surprise.
"You're sorry? Hmph. Anything that bitch Slayer says, you believe. There was a time when you would have asked questions first." The petulance in his voice was unmistakable.
"I said I was sorry...Will."
An eyebrow shot up. "How sorry?"
"Sorry enough to say it."
"What, you want my devotion? My undying profession of love for you? It would be a lie."
"All you can see is that Slayer. That little blond tramp, do you know she's been doing the deed with any boy who gives her the eye? Did you know that she--"
Angel, not wanting to know the truth of what his childe was spitting at him, grabbed Spike's head with both hands and brought his mouth down roughly. He felt the skin split under his teeth and didn't care, Angel only wanted the strange desire to stop pounding through him. He tasted the blood that he remembered being spicy and sweet, rolled it around on his tongue, and swept it along the inside of Spike's mouth. Spike growled in response, instantly nudging Angel's legs apart so he could insert one of his thighs between them.
They stood there, the two vampires, mauling at each other angrily. Spike broke the embrace first.
"You deserted me," he accused. "You deserted me when you got that fucking soul."
Angel's mouth thinned into a tight line. "I never left you. I was always with you, watching you."
"Fucking gypsies," Spike spat. "They took you from me, left me alone."
"Don't talk anymore," Angel said, his heart hurting just a little.
"Then give me a reason to shut my trap," Spike said, his nostrils flaring with desire.
Angel complied, turning to the couch and gripping Spike by the arm. They sat together, staring at each other, sire and childe in the firelight. "Clothes off," Angel commanded him, knowing that Spike would slide easily into the role of submissive.
The lighter man stood, shucking his clothing quickly, and standing before Angel. His erection was long and full, the head appearing as soft as Angel remembered it to be, and he felt his own shaft pressing against his pants. "Touch yourself," he told him.
Spike did not need to be asked a second time. He brought the palm of his hand to Angel's mouth, and Angel darted his tongue out to moisten it for him. Spike brought his hand down to his cock and encircled it, using Angel's saliva as lubrication. He started to pump, his hand going all the way to the tip of his cock and rubbing the head with his thumb before sliding back down to the base, where Angel watched him squeeze tightly before returning to the top.
It was incredibly arousing, watching the glow of the flames play upon his childe's pale skin as he pleasured himself. The urgent need grew stronger as Angel watched him, and he shifted slightly on the couch in an effort to ease the pressure in his jeans. Spike's eyes glittered as he never took his gaze from Angel's face, still rubbing and squeezing his cock, and it was only another moment before he slid easily into game face and ran the tip of his tongue over his glistening fangs.
Angel knew with certainty that Spike would not allow himself to come unless he was given permission to do so. Unless otherwise instructed, he would continue to stand with his cock in his fist, pumping it slowly and seductively, and the mere thought of Spike obeying his commands was enough to drive Angel mad. Rising slightly, he quickly undid the fly of his jeans and pushed them down enough to allow his own throbbing shaft to spring free. He saw Spike's eyes flick to it, then back to his face, and he still continued to stroke himself.
"Get down," Angel directed him, and Spike dropped to his knees in front of Angel's hard shaft. "In your mouth."
Spike swallowed him at once, taking Angel all the way into his mouth and letting his cock touch the back of his cool throat. Spike placed his hands on Angel's solid thighs, feeling the muscle through the denim, and began to bob his head at a steady pace.
A low, ominous growl began from deep in Angel's chest and continued through Spike's attentions. He watched through slitted yellow eyes as Spike tended to him, laving him thoroughly with his tongue before swallowing him once again, keeping up a smooth rhythm that soon had Angel clenching and unclenching his fists in the couch cushions. It felt perfect, having Spike's mouth around him that way, and Angel suddenly felt a wave of possessiveness for the boy Spike had once been.
Pushing Spike's head from his spot, Angel sat forward so that Spike was kneeling between his legs. "Look at me," Angel commanded, and without hesitation Spike did, his gaze unflinching. "Do what I do."
He took Spike's cock into his hand, finding the shaft so hard that Spike was twitching from the merest touch, and in answer Spike followed suit. They gripped each other tightly, Spike waiting quietly for his next direction, but the desire evident in his eyes. Angel began to stroke Spike in much the same way Spike had done for himself, and Angel closed his eyes with pleasure when Spike mirrored his actions.
Angel took him in both of his large hands, feeling Spike do the same, and they continued to stroke each other roughly until Angel knew that he was going to come. In reaction, he squeezed Spike tightly, and heard the light snarl from him in response, and suddenly they were both jerking against the other's hands and their seed was mixing together as it spurted out in a white stream.
They sat together that way for a long moment, Angel on the couch and Spike on his knees on the floor. Then Angel spoke. "Listen to me."
Spike cocked his head and eyed him curiously.
"No one, *no one*, will ever have with us what we had with each other. Not Buffy, not Drusilla. Nobody." Angel spoke in a low voice, hating himself for saying the words but wanting Spike to understand in some small way. "Are you listening to me?"
Spike shrugged noncommittally.
Angel rose in disgust from the couch, fastening his pants and heading toward the door. He stopped when he got there, bracing one hand on the jamb and hanging his head tiredly. He spoke into the silence, without turning. "You're my childe, Spike. Nothing will change that. Not souls or gypsies or Slayers."
After the door closed behind Angel, Spike asked the stillness quietly, "Then why are you always bloody leaving?"