I knew, but I didn't really get it until after the Tokyo disaster. It was me who actually had to kill the slay— Debbi. But it was Angel who lost it. All I knew until three days later, of course, was that he'd vanished right after the battle, leaving me and Dawn and Spike to deal with twelve bloody and traumatized baby slayers, and then Spike vanished, too, with just a, "Gonna find Angel." I let him go when he didn't even call him a dumb nickname.
I followed right away. Of course I did. All we had to do at that point was get the slayers flown out, and Dawn's more efficient than ten of me. I followed Spike, who was following Angel's trail like he was strolling down the street in front of him. He found him in some kind of old warehouse/loft place, furnished for certain very lenient definitions of furnished. I hung back. There was a fire escape downwind.
Spike said, "Get up."
Angel said, "Get out."
"No."
"Get out."
"No."
They fought, and they were snarling things as they hit each other. I hung back, 'cause I could see that Angel was holding back.
And then Spike said something, and I heard it because he had Angel pinned against a wall with an arm across his neck. He said, "Should goddamn know by now I'm built to bounce."
And then Angel wasn't holding back anymore. Angel surged against Spike, but Spike punched him twice and threw him back into the wall and knocked their teeth together, and Angel seemed to think that was a pretty good way to start a kiss.
I've seen Angel needy and desperate. But this kiss was bloody and open-mouthed and—crucial. Their jaws scraped together, their knees went knocky, they yanked fistfuls of each other's hair and clothes.
Angel's hands stuttered at Spike's jeans, slid around to claw at his ass. The denim got in his way, so he shoved it down Spike's hips, and it just sort of hung there, all baggy, under Spike's butt. Then—he pushed one finger inside him, in his asshole, and Spike hissed and kept one hand on Angel's throat and chin while he kissed him. Angel's other hand was working between their bodies, and then Spike's joined it. They stopped kissing and Spike pressed their foreheads together and murmured a steady stream of words that I tried to hear and couldn't, but I'm sure that one of them was "fucker" and another one was "love."
I stood there with one hand pressed hard between my legs and the other against my mouth and watched Spike and Angel...make love. That's a crazy word to use, a ridiculous word, and it doesn't mean it wasn't hard and fast and kind of painful-looking. But—that's what I saw. They came within moments of each other. Spike—look, I know him, okay?—was holding back until he twigged that Angel was, so then he just shot, and the noise he made set Angel off with this funny little breathy cry.
I did not hang around to see if they'd cuddle. The minute they hit orgasm, I backed up and bolted—quietly—letting their gasps cover my escape.
I was shaking by the time I hit the street. Turned on, and freaked out, and...grateful.
When they came in the door, I was waiting in the lobby. Angel didn't acknowledge me at all, but Spike looked up and stared stonily for all of two seconds before he swung Angel around and guided him up the stairs. And I knew that Spike, at least, had known exactly where I'd been the entire time.
After he put Angel to bed he came back, and saw me still waiting, and blinked, and I didn't even realize I'd stood before he was in my arms. He still smelt like sex. I didn't say a word. I just hung on.
February 13, 2007
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