Personal
by SpikesKat
It was the salty tang of tears that stopped Angel’s mindless rutting, abruptly silenced his tirade. He froze mid-thrust, and reared back, bracing his arms on either side of Spike’s shoulders. The sudden movement forced his pelvis flush with Spike’s ass and his jaw clenched to hold back the moan of pleasure as slick muscles squeezed him tight.
All thoughts of pleasure faded abruptly the second he caught sight of the blood dribbling from his chin down onto Spike’s back, and Angel stared in horror at it and the vicious bite marks to either side of Spike’s neck – marks that he’d obviously made.
He could feel the bile rising up in the back of his throat and he scrambled away to sit back on his heels between Spike’s spread legs, one hand going to his mouth to keep from throwing up. He barely noticed his waning erection, still slick with lube and Spike’s blood.
I did that to him. I—
“Spike…?” His voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion. One hand rose as if in supplication, not that Spike could see with his face buried in the pillow. Other than a slight shudder of what was probably relief, Spike gave no indication that he’d heard Angel’s whispered plea.
And damned if the salty smell didn’t seem to grow in strength now, completely obliterating the smell of blood and sex that had overpowered the room.
Spike was crying… because of him. Because of what he’d done. And seeing the faded bruises covering a good majority of Spike’s naked body, the half-healed cuts, scratches, and bite marks, he’d apparently done it often.
Angel wasn’t sure what had caused his blackout into nothingness, but nevertheless wracked his brain, trying to remember. Like waking from a long sleep, images were slow to crystallize in his mind. When they finally did, he could only stare aghast.
He’d used Spike. Harshly. Repeatedly. Was goaded into it night after night for months on end, if his memory proved accurate, not that it excused his behavior in the slightest.
Spike was a pain in his ass most days, quick to anger Angel enough to want to wring his neck.
But not this. Never this.
Not since Angelus had he been this cruel.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed. The words stuck in his throat, unable to push air out of his lungs to give them sound.
Wanting to make amends, but unsure how to go about doing so, Angel stretched out beside Spike. He reached out to draw Spike back into his embrace and vacillated for several minutes before finally resting his hand lightly on Spike’s hip and guiding him to lie with his back against Angel’s front. Somehow Angel managed to get his other arm under Spike’s head so that he could rest against it, rather than on the pillow.
That Spike offered no protest to his manipulation had Angel wondering just how much damage he’d inflicted, and whether or not Spike would ever forgive him.
One thing he knew for sure, he’d never forgive himself.
Neither spoke, and Angel was content to just hold Spike in his arms and nuzzle his face into the back of Spike’s neck, their bodies so close it would be difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.
Spike eventually fell asleep, but Angel refused to do so. Besides which, he felt he’d more than slept enough in his previous near catatonic state.
Instead, he basked in the feel of having Spike in his arms, quiet and unresisting. Angel could count on one hand the number of times he’d held Spike like he was doing now. As Angelus, he’d been hard pressed to express any tender emotion he might have had for Spike, lest it be viewed as a sign of weakness on his part.
With the soul, he felt no compunction now.
“I’ll make this right, mo féin.”
Promise made, he bade a silent goodbye to Buffy forever and embraced the one constant in his life: Spike.
Want to leave a REVIEW?
