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Some Kind of Deviant	By : CardDragonBall Category: Angel the Series > Slash - Male/Male > Angel(us)/Spike(William) > Angel(us)/Spike(William) Views: 4151 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Angel: The Series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Some Kind of Deviant
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Some Kind Of Deviant:

Rated R. Nc-17 in second half. (I don't own Angel, Spike or their angsty pasts.)

He remembered--but then playing Casper gave him nothing but ample opportunities to remember. Hours and hours of nothing but happy little memories of the past--as if he needed another go of 'lets remember what happened before Spikey.' Recent remembrances of his dear old Mum and her distrubingly sexual behavior shortly before her dusting was more than enough of the memory thing for several years.
But he remembered Angel--Angelus to all those that really thought getting a soul made a bit of difference. It didn't. Not for the great pouf. Not even an eternity of brooding would change the thoughts that circled around behind that massive forehead.
He remembered seeing the bastard for the first time, remembered the words he said to him, like dirty little proposals. One promise after another. Telling him he wanted a man to share the slaughter with. Holding his hand out in the sun in a way that just screamed dominance, and wasn't it strange how it still caught him in the knees when he thought about--thought about seeing the great Angelus for the first time and hearing him purr that question over and over:
Does that make me some kind of deviant?
But fuck that. And fuck Angelus who spent a lifetime trying to prove to Spike that he was better by getting his giant mitts on whatever girl Spike tried to love. Drusilla--banging Drusilla in front of him, and her loving it and wanting it and crying for more of it--and the slayer. Just one little piece of Dead Boy's well-groomed hair and she was tonguing him.
Bastard.
Bitch.
But he got the cup. Hoo-fucking-ray. He got the cup of mountain dew! Another great victory for Spike. The greastest vampire that was NOT Angelus to ever walk the earth.
And he still wasn't drunk enough if his thoughts were this coherent. Not drunk enough when Angel appeared, all bloody and broody and they sat in silence the way people do. Drank without saying a word, but Spike knew what he was thinking. Knew what Angel wanted to ask him and he smirked to himself, let that cocky grin take over his whole face and he drank with a jaunty pat on his own back.
Good for him.
Let Angel fucking wonder about it. Underestimating him for years had finally caught up with peaches and look at him worry about it now. All with the forehead wrinkles and the brooding silence like he was waiting for Spike to say something first. Tell him why it was that he won the fight after all these years and how the hell they were supposed to go forward now that the great sire, the great terror Angelus wasn't the biggest or the baddest or the best anymore.
Fuck him.
It took another whole body of good stuff before Angel looked at him, sort of lopsided look on his face--half brooding, half amazed. "I don't believe it," he said finally. "You won. You won! You've never won anything!"
"I won the slayer."
Angel shook his head, sort of. It kind of swayed from side to side and then he stopped moving and furrowed his giant eyebrows and looked at him with the big soulful eyes. "No," he stated drunkenly. "Still mine."
"You had her first, but I had her best," Spike retorted.
Hit a nerve. Always a nerve when it came to the blondes. And Angel attacked him. Lacking coordination, lacking any sort of skill, just moving on the blind need to even out the playin field again. Hand around Spike's throat as Angel curled up his fist like he was going to hit him or something.
But the broom that smashed into Angel's head rolled him off to the side and the screaming of the Nacklagar demon informed him that they should make with the leaving or face a nice sunrise execution. So he picked his ass up off the dirty floor and left the great pouf laying drunk.
If there was really any poetic justice, Angel wouldn't follow--
And there was no poetic justice in the world.
Angel ran into him. Slightly more coordinated than before. "Spike!" Not very much less drunk.
"Get offa me!" And he shoved Angel away, watched him stumble and felt a great pity for him. Pity because the great hero had just realized that he didn't want the ultimate prize as much as he thought he did, that maybe playing the Scourge of Europe had been better. Maybe it wasn't worth it. All those speeches in the dark places of Wolfram and Hart, all those looks that Angel had given him.
Its a burden. We're still going to hell. Nothing we do matters now.
Two steps away from giving up. Angel had never been so close to failure before, and look at how he reacted. Look at how he stood up and looked at Spike, stared at him, waited for him, wanted to know why it was that all of sudden the great prize wasn't so great anymroe and the good fight wasn't so fun. Brooding didn't pay off anymore and everything--absolutely everything--that Angel had thought he had, thought he finally deserved was ripped out from under him.
No stupid cheerleader, no precious prophecy all for him, no slayer, no sire, no anything but an evil law firm an bunch of cars and--
"Spike." He growled his name. Always growling his name.
"Carry your drunk ass to some other pity party, mate," he retorted. "No room for you here."
Angel grabbed him again. More force this time, the drunk smell was gone, just enough to blame when the great hero realized what he was doing. Shoving Spike against the trunk of a car but not through it, pawing at his jacket to pull it off his shoulders, hands going behind his back and his mouth.
Whiskey taste when his tongue pressed down into Spike's mouth. Like he was wanted there.
Spike shoved him back, tried to shove him, but the grip tightened. Superior weight of the giant broody mass pressed him harder against the car so he couldn't get any leverage. "Get off!" He ripped his head away from Angel's, tried to get his hands up to shove him but the coat was resting around his elbows and he couldn't get free.
"It shouldn't have been you," Angel said. Confused. Brown eyes not quite focused as he looked at him, licked his lips. Tasting the taste of no guilt in the burn of the whiskey. "It should have been me."
"Still on that kick?" he demanded. Dug his feet in the loose dirt by they slipped and he was under the giant pouf just a little more convenient, legs a little more spread, giving just enough room for Angel to press agianst him all nice and tight.
"Buffy couldn't have loved you," Angel said. Still confused. Still wandering around through the memories.
"She did," Spike snarled.
"No," Angel retorted. Looked down at him. Saw him for the first time since he showed up in the bar--really looked at him with the soulful Angel eyes. And a sneer crossed his face. A vicious little look--Angelus was still in there--and he gave him a scowl of disgust. "What was that you said? When I look at you all I see is me?"
"That's not what she saw!" He worked harder to get free, tried to get the jacket off his shoulders but it was tighter now and their combined weight made it impossible to move. He twisted his arms trying to get them free.
"Buffy was mine, Spike. You could have fucked her for years and she still would have been mine." Dirty grin on his face. Evil little look in his eyes and he glanced down at him, at his struggle to get free. Ground his hips against Spike's until it hurt and he could feel the hardness against him.
"No," he said.
"Oh--come on Spikey. I know you didn't get what you wanted from Harmony."
"You sure the hell aren't what I want."
The big bastard pressed his mouth over his, silencing his words and held on when he tried to pull his face away. Followed him, slipping into game face and dug his teeth into Spike's lips. Sucked on his blood.
It wouldn't be so bad. Just once. Once every hundred years or so. They'd played this scene before, only soulless.
He opened his mouth, felt the pull of the scratches on his lips and then the cool flow of his sire's blood into his mouth. Drip drip drip on his tongue. Sucked it. Felt Angel relax above him and shoved him back, held onto him while he stumbled and followed him to the ground.
Their mouthes slid together, slicked by blood and Angel tore the leather jacket down off his arms. Spike grabbed his by the biceps and held him down, wiggled his legs between Angel's and ground agianst him until he felt the shudder.
"Spike," like a growl. Normal brown eyes looking at him now.
"What?"
"This coat cost more than you."
Should have realized it would be about the clothes. "You're bleeding on it anyway," he pointed out, pulled the coat open around his chest and rubbed his hands across the dark red area of Angel's shirt. Where he stabbed him. Licked the blood from his fingers.
"But I can get that cleaned."
"Then no worries..."
"Spike!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***
Heen. I always said I'd never do an Angel fic. *sigh* Oh well.
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Some Kind of Deviant

Some Kind Of Deviant: