FIC - Blackout
title: Blackout
pairing: Angel/Spike
rating: R
summary: Spike is missing his favorite show. And then he gets a better one.
Written years ago, reposting because my pal blondebitz made me a lovely banner to go with it :)
”Bloody hell! Not again!”, Spike growled, throwing the remote hard enough to break…whatever it was that he just heard break. He wasn’t looking.
“Oh, for chrissake, Spike, would you just stop the tantrums?”, replied Angel, in his familiar I’m so patient and world-weary tone. “Thunderstorm. Blackout. You’re a vampire, for the love of…you can see in the dark. And even if you couldn’t, we’ve got candles.”
Angel, of course, was oblivious, fatass potato fucker, like it mattered whether or not he could see, of course he could see. He could see Angel, the nance, with his long-suffering, condescending look, arms crossed, looking across the room at him, sketch pad still in his lap. He could see the lightning through the window. He could see each and every drop of rain hitting the glass with more strength each moment.
What he could not see, of course, with the electricity off, was his Friday night Supernatural episode, in which he had been fully engrossed. This hot demon chick was up to something, he just knew it, even if that overgrown idiot Sam Winchester was too stupid to figure it out, but he had clearly been missing KEY scenes as the power had been cutting in and out for the past half an hour. Even if Angel was too technophobic to have a DVR to record it, the stupid thing wouldn’t work without the power on, now would it? So what now? Now Spike’s going to have to go onto one of those recap websites tomorrow and read all about it without actually having seen it. Fuck all.
How many human things were there in this existence that Spike really needed? Smokes. Whiskey. His CW shows. Beer. Those blooming onion things. Football. Cars. His cell phone. OK, fine, there were a lot of them, whatever. Oh, wait, he forgot one. Sex.
He needed sex. Didn’t need it before he got turned, he guessed, because he hadn’t ever had it. But he’d sure as hell needed it ever since then, and that was a long damn time. Sex was sometimes in the back of his mind, waiting for its opportunity to get back where it belonged. But mostly it was right in the front of Spike’s mind, which was, in fact, where it belonged.
Now, Spike would readily admit that sex had gotten him burned, had led him to make mistakes now and again, had even settled him into a time when he thought his useless heart was broken into pieces. But mostly, it just made him feel satisfied, proud, like he was doing something he was good at. And he was. Good at it. A fucking sex god, he was, there was no question about that. A bloke would get that way after more than a hundred years of practice, no way around that. So. Gossip Girl or Supernatural were out of the question. He’d drunk the last of the beer and there was no way Angel was going to share his precious stash of million and a half year old whiskey with him in this kind of mood.
Sex it was, then.
“Angel?”, Spike asked, turning his voice from petulant and angry to quiet and sweet, as he did just so fucking easily, “What are you drawing, luv?”
Angel sighed. He did that a lot, poncy brooding sighs. Spike was beginning to think that the hair gel Angel used had instructions on the label saying “Apply generously to the hair above your hulking Cro-Magnon forehead and sigh often for best results.”
“Just sketching, Spike, passing the time, you know I like to do this after a tough day to unwind. Nothing…random images, that’s all.” Ohhhhhhh. Spike knew that tone as well as he knew all of Angel’s other (admittedly, quite limited) inflections. That was the “none of your business” voice. Spike, of course, didn’t think anything was none of his business, not when it came to Angel, his Sire. Well, not technically, but for all intents and purposes, Angel was his Sire, and Spike was Angel’s childe, and no amount of bickering, teasing and annoyance would ever change that.
“Come on, Peaches, let me see”, Spike replied, getting up and moving toward Angel’s chair on the side of the room. The lack of electric light in the room didn’t stop him from seeing Angel’s resigned look, shaking his head as Spike climbed onto the broad arm of the comfy chair that Angel always chose, facing away from the television and toward the bedroom beyond. Knowing it would do no good, and clearly in no mood for a wrestling match, Angel looked away as Spike lifted the sketch pad from Angel’s lap.
He loved seeing Angel’s sketches, though he’d never said so out loud. They were always beautiful, no matter what they were. Most often they were Kathy, sometimes landscapes, sometimes Buffy or Dawn, once he’d even seen one Angel had done of the Watcher. Spike had never said anything about having seen that one, knowing he may not like the answer if he asked the question.
But this one…oh, Spike never imagined he’d look through Angel’s sketch pad and see a charcoal image of himself. Well, it wasn’t really him, though, was it? This was not a picture of a bleached-blonde punk with a cigarette and a leather coat. It was a perfect rendition of a boy from his memory, light brown hair covering part of his face, the immaculately captured gleam of innocence in the boy’s eyes, his head down but his eyes looking up through long strands of hair, wary and curious. This wasn’t Spike.
It was William.
Spike’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, and he moved his hand under Angel’s chin, turning his face so he could get a good look. What he saw there was something he didn’t see all that often. Angel could be tender and sweet in bed sometimes, but the standard operating procedure was that Spike belonged to Angel, so he claimed him with his fangs, his cock, sometimes with leather or metal. That was fine with Spike, it was all he’d ever expected, and those few moments of tenderness always came after Angel having exhausted himself with hours of fucking and biting and brusing, a kiss to his forehead or a whispered “chuisle” as he was falling into the depths of sleep.
Spike forgot at that exact moment that there was any such thing as electricity or television, seeing Angel’s eyes searching out his reaction, almost as if he were afraid Spike would laugh at him for this memory. He moved off the arm of the chair, laid the sketch book down gingerly on the table, and placed himself right on top of Angel, hand still on his chin, and guided his face upwards, moving forward to do what he hadn’t dared to do in a very long time. Spike kissed him, softly, shifted his hand to Angel’s cheek and stroked his face as he deepened the kiss until Angel relaxed against him in a tender embrace.
Before Spike even registered the movement, Angel had scooped him up against his broad chest and laid him down on the bed in the next room, arms around him and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until he was dizzy with it.
Right then, Spike didn’t care if the lights ever came on again.
pairing: Angel/Spike
rating: R
summary: Spike is missing his favorite show. And then he gets a better one.
Written years ago, reposting because my pal blondebitz made me a lovely banner to go with it :)
”Bloody hell! Not again!”, Spike growled, throwing the remote hard enough to break…whatever it was that he just heard break. He wasn’t looking.
“Oh, for chrissake, Spike, would you just stop the tantrums?”, replied Angel, in his familiar I’m so patient and world-weary tone. “Thunderstorm. Blackout. You’re a vampire, for the love of…you can see in the dark. And even if you couldn’t, we’ve got candles.”
Angel, of course, was oblivious, fatass potato fucker, like it mattered whether or not he could see, of course he could see. He could see Angel, the nance, with his long-suffering, condescending look, arms crossed, looking across the room at him, sketch pad still in his lap. He could see the lightning through the window. He could see each and every drop of rain hitting the glass with more strength each moment.
What he could not see, of course, with the electricity off, was his Friday night Supernatural episode, in which he had been fully engrossed. This hot demon chick was up to something, he just knew it, even if that overgrown idiot Sam Winchester was too stupid to figure it out, but he had clearly been missing KEY scenes as the power had been cutting in and out for the past half an hour. Even if Angel was too technophobic to have a DVR to record it, the stupid thing wouldn’t work without the power on, now would it? So what now? Now Spike’s going to have to go onto one of those recap websites tomorrow and read all about it without actually having seen it. Fuck all.
How many human things were there in this existence that Spike really needed? Smokes. Whiskey. His CW shows. Beer. Those blooming onion things. Football. Cars. His cell phone. OK, fine, there were a lot of them, whatever. Oh, wait, he forgot one. Sex.
He needed sex. Didn’t need it before he got turned, he guessed, because he hadn’t ever had it. But he’d sure as hell needed it ever since then, and that was a long damn time. Sex was sometimes in the back of his mind, waiting for its opportunity to get back where it belonged. But mostly it was right in the front of Spike’s mind, which was, in fact, where it belonged.
Now, Spike would readily admit that sex had gotten him burned, had led him to make mistakes now and again, had even settled him into a time when he thought his useless heart was broken into pieces. But mostly, it just made him feel satisfied, proud, like he was doing something he was good at. And he was. Good at it. A fucking sex god, he was, there was no question about that. A bloke would get that way after more than a hundred years of practice, no way around that. So. Gossip Girl or Supernatural were out of the question. He’d drunk the last of the beer and there was no way Angel was going to share his precious stash of million and a half year old whiskey with him in this kind of mood.
Sex it was, then.
“Angel?”, Spike asked, turning his voice from petulant and angry to quiet and sweet, as he did just so fucking easily, “What are you drawing, luv?”
Angel sighed. He did that a lot, poncy brooding sighs. Spike was beginning to think that the hair gel Angel used had instructions on the label saying “Apply generously to the hair above your hulking Cro-Magnon forehead and sigh often for best results.”
“Just sketching, Spike, passing the time, you know I like to do this after a tough day to unwind. Nothing…random images, that’s all.” Ohhhhhhh. Spike knew that tone as well as he knew all of Angel’s other (admittedly, quite limited) inflections. That was the “none of your business” voice. Spike, of course, didn’t think anything was none of his business, not when it came to Angel, his Sire. Well, not technically, but for all intents and purposes, Angel was his Sire, and Spike was Angel’s childe, and no amount of bickering, teasing and annoyance would ever change that.
“Come on, Peaches, let me see”, Spike replied, getting up and moving toward Angel’s chair on the side of the room. The lack of electric light in the room didn’t stop him from seeing Angel’s resigned look, shaking his head as Spike climbed onto the broad arm of the comfy chair that Angel always chose, facing away from the television and toward the bedroom beyond. Knowing it would do no good, and clearly in no mood for a wrestling match, Angel looked away as Spike lifted the sketch pad from Angel’s lap.
He loved seeing Angel’s sketches, though he’d never said so out loud. They were always beautiful, no matter what they were. Most often they were Kathy, sometimes landscapes, sometimes Buffy or Dawn, once he’d even seen one Angel had done of the Watcher. Spike had never said anything about having seen that one, knowing he may not like the answer if he asked the question.
But this one…oh, Spike never imagined he’d look through Angel’s sketch pad and see a charcoal image of himself. Well, it wasn’t really him, though, was it? This was not a picture of a bleached-blonde punk with a cigarette and a leather coat. It was a perfect rendition of a boy from his memory, light brown hair covering part of his face, the immaculately captured gleam of innocence in the boy’s eyes, his head down but his eyes looking up through long strands of hair, wary and curious. This wasn’t Spike.
It was William.
Spike’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, and he moved his hand under Angel’s chin, turning his face so he could get a good look. What he saw there was something he didn’t see all that often. Angel could be tender and sweet in bed sometimes, but the standard operating procedure was that Spike belonged to Angel, so he claimed him with his fangs, his cock, sometimes with leather or metal. That was fine with Spike, it was all he’d ever expected, and those few moments of tenderness always came after Angel having exhausted himself with hours of fucking and biting and brusing, a kiss to his forehead or a whispered “chuisle” as he was falling into the depths of sleep.
Spike forgot at that exact moment that there was any such thing as electricity or television, seeing Angel’s eyes searching out his reaction, almost as if he were afraid Spike would laugh at him for this memory. He moved off the arm of the chair, laid the sketch book down gingerly on the table, and placed himself right on top of Angel, hand still on his chin, and guided his face upwards, moving forward to do what he hadn’t dared to do in a very long time. Spike kissed him, softly, shifted his hand to Angel’s cheek and stroked his face as he deepened the kiss until Angel relaxed against him in a tender embrace.
Before Spike even registered the movement, Angel had scooped him up against his broad chest and laid him down on the bed in the next room, arms around him and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until he was dizzy with it.
Right then, Spike didn’t care if the lights ever came on again.