Small Overture

by SpikesKat

I want so much to beckon him closer, but with the recent surgery to replace my cut off limbs – and I guess there is one good thing about working for an evil law firm with deep pockets – my hands aren’t moving quite yet. If not for the vague pressure of the blanket against my fingertips, I would have to wonder if the docs had gotten it right. 

Voicing my need is out of the question. 

Don’t think I could handle it if I were rejected. 

Better to keep my mouth shut. Hell, I go one further and turn away. He can’t snub me if I snub him first, yeah? 

The big lug doesn’t take the hint though. Just settles into his seat calmly as you please, no trace of an aggrieved sigh exhaled between pursed lips. 

Bastard thinks he can wait me out. Little does he know I’ve gotten used to being disappointed, with him, Angelus, being the cause of most of it. Hell will freeze over before I ask him. I’ll take a bloody walk in the sun… well, you catch my drift. I’m not asking. Nope. Not gonna. 

I can’t finger the remote to turn on the television and drown out the silence. And I’m bloody well not asking him to do it. 

I finally get tired of staring at the wall and close my eyes. Maybe Angel will take the hint and leave. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

I wake suddenly and know that I’ve shifted in my sleep, preternatural senses being more pronounced when the demon is to the fore. 

It’s the smell of blood that’s done it. Calling to me on the most fundamental level. It’s not animal blood, or even human for that matter. 

No; it’s Sire blood, spilling out from a jagged cut on Angel’s wrist. And it’s only now that I realize he’s stretched out beside me on the bed, clad in only his jeans. 

I stare, hypnotized, as the blood dribbles down his arm and threatens to spill onto the blanket. 

“Go on then, William. I know you’re hungry.” 

Lord knows I am. I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around that wrist and lower it to my mouth. Slake my thirst. Heal. 

But I can’t. Bum hands. No dexterity… or even strength. They’re just useless stumps, and would likely be so for weeks. 

I’ll be damned before I explain that to the lummox. Well, more damned than I already am. 

Stupid git. Hasn’t anyone told him? Or, is he just teasing me because he can. His way of getting back at me for being a thorn in his side these past weeks? And what’s with this “William” shite? 

Arsehole. 

My jaw clenches, and I’m sure there’s a noticeable tick for anyone caring to look. 

“There’s no need to be stubborn, Spike.” 

He sounds annoyed.  

What the bloody hell right does he have for being annoyed? Stubborn, my arse. Doesn’t he realize that I’d take it if I could, but I can’t move my bloody hands! 

The “I’m sorry” is quietly murmured and there’s… something… in his voice. 

Guilt. 

Regret. 

Pain. 

He’s hurting because I’m hurting. 

“Yeah… well…” Yes, I’m blustering, but you would too. Epiphanies tend to do that. That, and there’s a bit of sheepishness on my part because I apparently said that last bit out loud. 

But, the damn sot cares about me. 

“Drink.” And it appears he’s blustering too. I wonder what his excuse is. 

Then his wrist is at my mouth, and I catch a glimpse of his smile just before I close my eyes in bliss at the first taste of him.

The End

Untitled sequel, because the muse can’t leave well enough alone.

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