Just An Insubstantial Trick of the Light

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Summary: What use does Spike make of his decision to go to LA and visit Angel?

AUTHOR: Jenny
EMAIL: ladymoluk@hotmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.squashduck.com/ltd/index.htm
SEQUEL TO: Nothing Special
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Spike/Angel
DISCLAIMER: The usual, they are not mine.
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Chapter 1

Angel had been living in Spike's crypt with him for a little over two weeks now. He had arrived unexpectedly late one night after Spike had been indulging in a particularly heavy drinking session. This, of course, was not unusual, since Spike drank heavily every night. But this night, he only had the very cheap whisky he'd won in a poker game with some dubious demons, cus he’d drunk all the good stuff he bought with the money he’d meant to use for his bus ticket to LA to see Angel, so he felt especially drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he had been lying in his own vomit for a while before he realized that what he had taken to be left over pizza… wasn't.

He sat up with a curse of disgust, not for his behaviour, hell he was dead and no one cared what he did, particularly him. No, his curse was because it was hellish getting puke off leather. He knew. Hellish and expensive. Shit. He slowly stripped out of his offending duster and T-shirt and turned slowly - testing his balance - to place them on the chair.

And that's when he saw Angel.

'Fucking hell,' was his only coherent comment. Whatever else he might have said was lost in the curses that issued forth when, stepping back in shock, he slipped again in his not-pizza drinking detritus.

Half naked, covered in puke and cursing was not how he had pictured his longed for reunion with his beloved Sire. Shit, who was he kidding? Angel had not been longed for, or beloved, in at least one hundred years. Sometimes, Spike wondered just who it was the gypsies had tried to curse. Sometimes, it seemed to him it was Spike himself who had got the worst of the deal. He'd lost his Sire, his best friend and his lover in one evening. Whatever; his current state was not how he had pictured this reunion.

And Angel was looking his usual judgmental, prissy, swirly-coat self, which did not help Spike's mood. He just knew the fucker was cross about the bus money. Just like Angel.

'What the fuck are you looking at, you poncey, nancy-boy, faggot?' was what he tried to say. 'Whhhyalloinatyerponnnnabyfag?' was how it came out. Nevertheless, he straightened up. He'd made his point.

He stared at Angel, and Angel started back at him.

'You fucking gonna say something then, mate?' Apparently not, Angel stayed in the chair, looking at Spike.

'Fuck off. Stop looking at me!' Spike took a swing at Angel. He missed. Not due to the drinking, but to the fact that Angel did not appear to be actually… there. Spike just fell into empty space. He struggled with the armchair for a while, which had maliciously decided to pick tonight to viciously attack him, and whirled around. Angel was now sitting on the tomb, swinging his legs and looking down at a slight speck on his frock coat.

Spike staggered over to him and, this time, cautiously put his hand out to touch his leg. Nothing. Angel was as insubstantial as the air around him. He was definitely there, but just, not there.

Spike immediately swore off all liquor ever again. Well, to be honest, he swore off cheap whisky acquired from demons. Oh, fuck it, excessive cheap whiskey obtained from demons. Yeah, in moderation he would allow it. But oh, what the fuck was he supposed to do now? He had a silent, insubstantial Angel in his crypt, looking at him. Judging him. Hating him, probably. He wished he had some vomit left so he could vomit a bit on Angel. It wasn't that he hadn't imagined Angel enough times recently. Hell, Angel was his favorite fuck fantasy. He'd ousted the Slayer, in fact, and that was a tough job, cus she was good, too. But his previous manifestations had been purely in Spike's own warped imagination; he'd never actually… seen him before. This was not good. It did not bode well for Spike's gradually disintegrating state of mind. He was sure it was something to do with the chip. That was his theory, and he was sticking to it. After all, they gave human fuck-ups electric jolts to stop them seeing stuff that weren't there, so his were just doing the opposite.

Now he couldn’t settle to anything: all his important, evil stuff that had to be done, cus Angel was just there all the time, looking at him. Whatever he did, whether he moved to the left or to the right, Angel watched him. He tried a funny face. No reaction. Angel just continued to look. He vamped out. Angel didn’t and continued to watch him. He sat back in his chair and picked up a bottle. He took a sip. Angel did nothing. Okay, this was not going to be too bad. Angel did not appear to be interested in stopping Spike having fun. He sipped his cheap whisky for a while, considering his options.

One option seemed much more attractive than any other he could think of. So he moved his hand slowly, down over his crotch. Angel's eyes followed his hand. Oh, now this was going to be interesting: Angel hallucination, one he could actually see, was going to be his fuck bunny now, too. Lucky him.

Spike closed his eyes for a little privacy and took himself out. The cold air in the crypt chilled the moist tip of his cock slightly. He peeked at Angel. Angel was definitely looking interested. Spike closed his eyes again and started a long, slow pulling of his, by now, urgent erection.

It only took four strokes before he felt another, larger hand over his. He opened his eyes to find Angel kneeling in front of him… helping him. Angel looked up and smiled, and Spike's heart flipped over. He closed his eyes and took his own hand away. But Angel stopped, too. Spike replaced his hand, and Angel joined back in again. Bizarre.

Together, they kept Spike erect for over an hour. For the last few minutes, Angel put his mouth over the tip, so when Spike eventually came, he came into the place he'd most liked coming all his unlife. It was a pity Angel was so insubstantial; Spike's cum splashed onto the floor of the crypt, just as effectively as if Angel had not actually been there. Angel gave Spike a rueful smile and returned to his preferred place on the tomb.

Spike left himself out and just looked at Angel.

He was not sure what this was supposed to be all about, but he had very little inclination to question it too much.

He had the distinct feeling, anyway, that when he sobered up in the morning, Angel would not be there.

In that case, better make sure he didn’t sober up!

He picked up the bottle again and finished off the last few inches. He said goodnight and goodbye to Angel, just in case, and hunkered down further in his chair.

For once, his dreams were untroubled by dreams of Angel. Dreams of missing Angel. Dreams of loving Angel. For once, his dreams were good dreams. He dreamt of railroad spikes in soft human arses; he dreamt of screaming that tore at his skin, making him hot and horny. He dreamt of rivers of blood and endless fucking. Yeah, real good, happy dreams.

He woke when the sun came up. He smelt its evil softness creeping across one wall of the crypt. He was afraid to open his eyes. Him, the Big Bad. Afraid. This was not good. So he opened them boldly.

Angel was not on the tomb.

He was sitting beside Spike on the arm of the chair, his chin resting on his hand and, as usual, he was looking at Spike. This time, the smile on his face was lascivious. He wanted Spike, that was clear. So Spike felt it only fair to oblige his houseguest. Embarrassingly, he was still hanging out. That was not a good way to sleep. Not in a crypt where no one ever bloody bothered to knock when they came in. But it explained Angel's eager look and the urgent erection Spike now had. Even his cock could see Angel apparently.

This time, Angel used his tongue from the outset. As soon as Spike closed his eyes tightly enough, his hand was joined by Angel's tongue. Angel still refused to go it alone, stopping infuriatingly every time Spike’s hand stilled but, all in all, it was a good blowjob. Again, Spike spilled his seed to the floor. Again, Angel looked sorry he could not swallow it for Spike.

Spike had a long, boring day to fill now. The curse of being a vampire. He thought about watching TV and wondered what show Angel would like to watch. He asked him, but got no reply. Angel only shrugged, and Spike took that to mean whatever Spike wanted to watch was okay with Angel. Good. That was how it should be. They started with a programme about how to lose weight and get your lover to want you again, which they followed with a very interesting programme on cooking seafood the Cajun way. Ordinarily, Spike would not have watched these sorts of shows; he'd have hurled abuse at the mincing presenters and flicked channels. But Angel seemed to enjoy them, and Spike found a slightly worrying enjoyment in just having Angel there with him. Although Angel couldn’t, or didn’t, talk, he was brilliant company – shit, he was just company – and at least Spike could talk to him. Which he did. He started talking as the first show started, and he found himself still talking late that evening. He must have told Angel everything and anything he could think of about his life, about himself. Angel listened attentively. Occasionally, he persuaded Spike to have another wank. And that, in Spike's book, made him the perfect houseguest.

Oh yeah. Angel could stay as long as he liked.

Which was why, two weeks later, Angel was still there. Still listening, still not talking, still assisting in the necessary, frequent, and particularly enjoyable jacking off sessions.

Spike's feelings for his Sire had changed, though, quite dramatically since Angel's arrival. For the first few days he had done nothing but talk to Angel. But being such a good listener had persuaded Spike to try Angel out in other ways. So he showed him his stuff. All his good stuff that he had collected and liked. Stuff no one else would be bothered to see and probably wouldn’t appreciate if they had seen it. Angel was suitably impressed and allowed Spike free reign to lay out and discuss his treasures. However, that had only really occupied one day, cus Spike's collection was really quite small, and once he produced the porn mags, Angel was more interested in the effect of those on Spike than anything remaining in the small cardboard box that held Spike's treasures.

Rereading all his porn mags with Angel had been fun though and had taken another day, because Angel actually wanted Spike to 'read' them, as opposed to looking intently at the pictures, cuming on them, and moving on. Once he had unstuck one or two of his favorites, he indulged Angel's whim and read to him for an hour or two, putting on funny voices, mimicking the lusty tones he felt the writers had aimed for. Spike was a natural mimic and an inventive entertainer, but he needed an audience to shine. Angel was the perfect audience. Other than the fact he kept insisting on putting his mouth over Spike's cock, just as Spike was getting to good bits, he was the perfect, porn companion. But again, that only lasted a day. Then Spike got bored. And angry. He was angry that Angel was only a trick of the light. He wanted Angel to… do something more substantial. At this stage, he didn’t care what, just something. Preferably something involving his cock but, honestly, he wasn't that particular. Anything really.

So he got angry and spent a few days pleasantly abusing Angel. The first time he tried out a few of his choicest terms of abuse, Spike had retreated behind the safety of his chair. Angel was unpredictable, strong, and ferocious, as well as being a pompous killjoy with no sense of humour. So Spike took no chances the first time. He'd had the torture thing enough for one hundred years. But Angel, for once, could not retaliate to the insult. He had merely stood there looking exactly how Spike would have imagined he would look being insulted and not being able to do anything about it. Yeah, exactly. Brilliant. So Spike did it again. And again. He quickly used up his entire repertoire of curses, swear words, and insults, a fact that rather surprised him. He'd have thought that living over one hundred years, and knowing various demon languages - languages that specialize in the more unpleasant side of linguistics - he'd have thought he'd have lasted a bit longer. He was slightly fazed by this, but he shrugged it off and started again, this time illuminating his already colourful speech with obscene gestures. He was enjoying this, and Angel clearly wasn’t. That had entertained him for at least two days. But, worryingly, Angel had decided to retaliate to these taunts with the one way he could… by slightly fading. He became clearly transparent. And this was not good. So Spike stopped the taunting and decided to get drunk again. After all, he reasoned Angel had appeared after one good drinking session, perhaps he too needed alcohol to get through unlife, just like Spike himself.

So, he spent the next two days drinking. And he was right. Angel got substantially more real. So real in fact, that Spike started actually feeling him. And that was just perfect.

It had happened for the first time on the third night of Spike's indulgence. He had decided to take himself down into the lower levels of the crypt where he kept the old mattress he had reclaimed from the dump and called his bed. At first, Angel had refused to come anywhere near such a filthy, old, evil smelling thing. Until, that is, Spike had pointed out that, as he, Spike, was lying on it, Angel had no choice in the matter - being as he was only a trick of the light.

Angel did not in the least take umbrage with this rather rude and quite cavalier attitude, and rewarded Spike for his assertiveness later that night. Spike had fallen asleep in a drunken, deep stupor with his pillows bunched up and hugged to his chest. He occasionally did this when very drunk not, of course, because he was lonely and seeking comfort from a body-shaped pillow, but in case he vomited in the night and needed to be propped up. He'd heard of vomit-induced night suffocations, and he wasn’t about to risk it, even if he couldn't suffocate because he didn’t need to breathe. So he squished his pillows into a rough body shape, curled around them, laid his hand on the pillow-body's stomach, and sank into a deep and, this time, dreamless sleep.

He was quite excited and pleased, therefore, to wake in the middle of the night to find that Angel had taken the place of the pillows. If he kept his eyes tightly shut, he could distinctly feel his hand on Angel's muscular stomach, and feel Angel's soft hair lightly on his face, as he curled around his now sleeping Sire. This was just bloody perfect. Spike shifted imperceptibly to get closer to Angel, and Angel woke up. Spike obediently kept his eyes shut. He knew Angel didn’t like it when he opened them whenever they were together. In fact, he had a tendency to disappear when Spike opened his eyes. So he didn't, he even squeezed them a bit, just to reassure Angel that he wouldn’t ruin this.

Angel rewarded this by turning in Spike's arms and rubbing his face over Spike's. He took Spike's hand and put it on Spike's insistent, throbbing cock. He lay on top of Spike for a while - surprisingly, light as a feather - while Spike brought himself to an explosive orgasm. But, best of all, he stayed afterwards, and let Spike whisper words of love and need into his ear, 'til Spike smelt the sun coming up and the mood was broken.

But that had, of course, ruined everything for Spike. Now he had admitted to the git that he loved him. He had become a wuss, a pansy, a fairy, a faggot, a queer, a fudge-packer, a hamster habit. Everything he had thrown at Angel the day before, he now cursed himself with. Angel tried to reassure him that all was well. In fact, he seemed to become slightly more substantial all day and had, at one point, even placed a hand on Spike's neck and rubbed lightly on the small, blond hairs he found there. He stopped as soon as Spike shifted in the chair, but he had done it, and that was enough.

Spike admitted to himself, and told Angel, what he had really known all along… he loved Angel. Angel only smiled, as if he was telling Spike that he had known it all along, too. Even when Spike was torturing him, even when Spike was trying to kill him, all along, he'd known that that was just Spike's way of showing hurt and betrayal. After all, Sire, best friend and lover, all in one night… just gone. It had been a lot to take in and even more to cope with when said Sire, best friend and lover, had suddenly reappeared in a school corridor, when Spike was definitely not at his best and caught off guard. Angel showed him all of this with one small smile, and Spike was pleased that Angel knew it at last, because he'd wanted to tell him all this time that that's how he felt, but had never had the nerve.

This Angel was much more receptive to declarations of love, he found, than the Angel he had seen on and off for the last three years. This Angel, enjoyed being told that Spike loved him. So, for the last few days, that's what he had been doing. He'd been loving Angel. He'd told him every way he loved him. He'd talked at length about Angel's hair, Angel's face, Angel's body, Angel's voice, Angel's laugh, Angel's cock, Angel's clothes, Angel's character. He'd dwelt at length on the cock, of course, because Angel liked that bit best, in both senses of that.

Angel proved, yet again, to be an avid listener. He listened to all of this very intently, so intently that every night he became a bit more substantial and real to Spike. One night, he almost felt Angel's lips on his. Especially if he placed his hand in one certain position on the pillow. It seemed as soon as Angel sensed Spike's hand was in that position, there would come his soft, sweet lips to Spike's.

So, by the end of the two weeks of Angel's residence, Spike was totally, completely, one hundred per cent, in love with his Sire again. Angel was his best friend - not difficult when, as Angel pointed out, he was his only friend - and Angel was his lover. Albeit that aspect of their relationship was still a little circumspect, given that Angel was only an insubstantial trick of the light. Spike had tried various ways to persuade Angel to be a little more anally substantial in bed and had, once or twice, brought various tubes and food items into the bed with him to try and force Angel to take him in. But Angel refused to manifest in the apple pie or the broken Hoover tube and, even when Spike had his eyes so tightly screwed shut that he could see lights popping behind his closed lids, even then, they remained a dirty old suck tube, and a messy squash of apple pie. Stupid film. He knew it was a crock of shit.

It seemed that Angel, however much he loved Spike, was not willing at this stage to go beyond kissing and assisting in the hourly hand rituals.

And make no mistake: Angel did love Spike. He had told him, frequently, during these heady, exciting three days. Well, he had shown Spike, anyway, cus Angel never spoke at all, regardless how drunk Spike became; he stayed infuriatingly silent. But Spike knew what he was trying to say. Spike found it surprisingly easy to translate Angel's silences. And, all his silences said loud and clear that he, Angel, loved him, Spike.

So, Spike was very, very happy these days. So happy, he never left his crypt. Why should he? He had everything he needed right here. Except for food, that was. He'd run out of blood and was now getting desperate. He really didn’t want to leave Angel alone. Not that he thought Angel would steal anything or make a mess, only that he might decide to leave when Spike was out, and not come back. And that was intolerable. So, Spike hung on, getting hungrier and hungrier. At last, he was forced to leave, as he was considering trying to suck his own cock, just for sustenance. And if he was going to attempt that, he wanted it to be for pleasure alone.

He gave Angel an extremely stern lecture about staying put. Firstly, he pointed out he loved him and he wanted him there when he got back but ,secondly, and just as important, Spike did not want him following him to the Watcher's where he was going to bum some blood. No way did Spike want the harsh light of the Watcher's reasoning destroying his Angel. Angel was best off staying right here, where he was loved and needed.

Angel took the lecture in good part, assured Spike that he loved him, too, and hopped up, obediently, on the tomb to wait for his return.

Spike set off across the cemetery. He felt strangely alone now. He had been talking non-stop to Angel for two weeks. Other than the occasional sleep, the frequent wanking, that's all they had done. Talk. Well, Spike had done that, and Angel had listened. So, now, all this quiet was depressing. It was like it had been before Angel came. Spike did not like it. Even more, he was extremely worried that Angel would be gone when he returned. That somehow, this burst of fresh air and reality would drive Angel away. And that was the worst thing Spike had thought of in a long time.

So, he was particularly pissed off to get to the Watcher's and find the whole fucking Scoobie gang there.

He was not in the mood to make idle banter with them... given they never appreciated his sense of humour and never laughed anyway, not like Angel had been doing for the last two weeks. Angel found everything Spike said funny, and that only served to make Spike funnier.

He went in and started to make one of his usual rude, but true, comments on one or other of the gang, when he was brought up short by the sight of Angel, perched up on the counter, looking at him with a quizzical look on his face. Spike was furious. How dare he. How dare he come here with him like this and embarrass him. Although Spike was happy enough to be going slowly round the bend in the privacy of his own crypt, he had a reputation to maintain. And seeing tricks of the light Angels in the Watcher's house did not fit his own image of himself, let alone the one he wanted the children to see. How dare he. And God! What if Angel did something incredibly erotic and turned him on; shit, even thinking about it had got him hard now. Fortunately, given the multi-purpose nature of his duster, it acted as a sun cover up as well as a stonkin' hard-on cover up, so he was okay. Humans couldn’t smell his arousal either. But he was still pissed off. He did not like having erections in the Watcher's house, unless he had a bit of time and space to wank off on Giles' couch and flip the cushions over to hide the damp spot.

So, after initial banter with the minions, he stalked over to Angel under the cover of going into the kitchenette to get some blood from the fridge. With his back to Angel, so the others could not see he was talking to himself, he let loose a hissed stream of low, vitriolic fury at his presence there.

'How dare you. How dare you come here when I told you to stay put. I told you I wanted you there when I got back and you agreed. Some kind of fucking love this is then, mate. And after I let you suck me off all last night as a pre-reward for being good today and staying there. You know I fucking love you, I've told you enough times, haven't I? If you're here, you might not be there when I get back, and I've told you, Angel, I won't stand for that. Rather kill meself than not have you again, even if you are only an insubstantial trick of the fucking light. So, fucking stay put next time, when you’re told to. You’re my bleeding fantasy, and I’ll say what’s what. Right? And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re fully dressed again. I told ya, naked... all the time, so, you fucking better have that dark avenger shit off again when you get home. And if you come back from this little jaunt a little more insubstantial than before, I'll fucking make you watch Passions all day with me again. We've been going for substantial; remember, mate? We've been working on your hardness, remember? And in more ways than one, cus I promise you, as soon as you become hard enough, I'm going have you up me arse where you belong. Cus I've been without you for a hundred fucking years, and I ain't gonna give up this chance to have you to meself again. Don't care how many bleeding bottles of whisky it takes. And where the fuck is my blood?'

'Hello, Spike. Nice to see you again, too.'

No one in the room would have noticed anything untoward, given how quietly Spike had spoken to Angel, had Spike not, at that quiet reply from the figure sitting on the counter, leapt back two feet with a high-pitched scream.

Angel just looked at him with his deep brown eyes with a highly amused look on his face. On his very substantial, very beautiful face.

'Any chance you might be thinking about hot pokers, Spike, seeing this is the first time you've seen Angel since that little, 'how to win friends and influence people', episode of yours.' If Spike's brain was working at all, he would have surmised from the Watcher's comment that he, too, could see this talking Angel. As his brain wasn’t working, he ignored the comment, and just put his hand out to Angel, tentatively touching Angel's hand, which was lying on his lap.

Hard. And so was the hand.

Oh fuck.

Spike looked wildly around the room. Everyone was looking at him. He had the insane desire to cry out, 'Can you all see him, too?' But he wasn’t sure if it would be a good thing if they could or not. Would that mean his insubstantial Angel had become so real other people could see him, or did it mean… fuck, no. Surely anything but that. He looked again. He had to admit, there were subtle differences between this Angel and his Angel.

This Angel was wearing hair gel again. For some reason, over the two weeks Angel had been with him, Spike had made him stop wearing hair gel. There was just something about the smell of that particular item that made Spike think too much about wanking in the dark alone. It had become his sad smell, and he didn’t like sad, not when he now had an Angel to be happy with. So, no hair gel had been the rule. But this Angel had in the incredibly expensive, totally poofy hair gel he always wore. And this Angel, as Spike had already pointed out to him, was fully dressed. His Angel had paraded around naked the whole time: after the first night anyway, and who was Spike to disagree with Angel’s choice of undress?

This Angel was also looking supercilious and poofy, and his Angel had not looked like that since Spike's first wanking session with him had wiped that look off his face permanently.

So, there were subtle differences. He put his hand out again and, this time, ran one finger over this Angel's lips. If the others were watching before, they were riveted now. Spike had marched in, gone to the fridge, spent some minutes apparently engrossed in its contents, given an unholy scream, jumped impressively - even for a vampire - and was now running his hands over parts of Angel's body. Most entertaining, even for Spike, who they found quite entertaining anyway. They couldn't wait to see what would happen next.

Disappointingly, Spike seemed to find what he wanted in Angel's lips, and to have confirmed there whatever it was he wanted confirmed, because he suddenly screamed again and ran out.

And what was even more annoying, Angel hopped off the counter and followed him out. Given he had come to Sunnydale to help them with a particularly nasty demon, they thought that was a pretty bad show. Or Giles did, in that particularly English way of his. But what was the most annoying thing, was that they were clearly not going to be privilege to the follow up of the 'Spike screams and feels up Angel' spectacular they had just witnessed.

How extremely disappointing.

Chapter 2

As it happened, however, the Scoobies were the amused recipients of most of the Spike and Angel roadshow over the next few days.

Angel had come to help them with a demon and would not renege on his offer. Spike was starving and needed their blood supplies, and seemed to have found an expedient way to cope with Angel. He ignored him... totally.. .as if he were merely that insubstantial trick of the light. He’d come to this brilliant ploy the night before whilst sitting outside the street cafe in which he had taken refuge, after being chased for five miles by Angel.

Now, Spike could run like the fucking wind when he wanted to. And he had wanted to. When he’d felt those soft, slightly dry, totally kissable lips, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this Angel was the one and only Angel: his sire, his ex-best friend, his ex-lover. So, fuck, he’d flown out of there like the incredibly fit, strong, fast demon he was. Oh, yeah, he could run, he really could. But he couldn’t actually fly. A trick he swore Angel had acquired over the extra hundred or so years he’d had in demon form. Cus Angel fucking kept up with him. But Spike had one thing still going for him, he was unembarrassable, whilst Angel, he knew, was not. Angel was a much hated, poncey, fuck-up who would blush at his own skivvies, if he could blush.

So, Spike decided not to even try and out run him; he just let him run with him through town, cus no way would Angel try anything unseemly, like tackling him in the public high street of down-town Sunnydale.

Then Spike spotted the street cafe and stopped.

Brilliant.

If he’d taken Angel to his crypt, firstly he would be alone with him, and he was not going to let that happen any time this side of the next millennium and, secondly, Angel would see where, and more importantly, how he lived. Not good.

So, he stopped at the café and ordered hot chocolate.

Angel stopped, too, of course, and stared at Spike for a while, expecting him to speak. Well, that was Spike’s whole plan. It had come to him as he was running. If he had seen, talked to, kissed, and loved his insubstantial Angel, and it had seemed real, then this Angel, who he hated and who he had just made the most embarrassingly wussy speech to, was just going to be ignored. Yeah, treat him like the insubstantial trick of light, and the other one, his one, as real. Then this Angel might just go away. Good plan.

Made perfect sense to Spike.

Spike sipped his hot chocolate thoughtfully. He could hear a noise and took it to be Insubstantial Trick of the Light trying to talk to him. Well, light can’t speak; that’s just silly, and one thing Spike was not, was silly.

This hot chocolate was the bloody bollocks though.

Half an hour later and Insubstantial had gone quiet. He was still there, unfortunately, but silent, so,, thank God for small mercies. Spike tried to carry on home, but Insubstantial came along, too. So, Spike decided the best thing to do was to avoid his place completely and head back to the Watcher’s for his blood. As he intended to ignore Insubstantial completely anyway, it didn’t matter where he ignored him.

So, as it happened, the Scoobies saw the next exciting instalment of ‘Spike Behaves Like a Complete Wuss’ rather sooner than they expected: about an hour after the previous riveting episode.

Of course, they’d passed the time in idle, and totally inaccurate, speculation as to Spike’s strange behaviour. Only Giles thought he had the faintest inkling of what it might be about. He, of course, knew nothing of the extent of vampire sexual deviance - deviance in that they’d fuck anything, anytime as long as it didn’t want paying. No, Giles had a vague idea about Sire / Childe bonding rituals that just might be conducted... gosh, naked, but the idea of Spike having sex with anyone was frankly so abhorrent to Giles he tried never to think about it at all.

When Spike came back, seemingly his usual, irritating, loud, demanding self, they thought their fun for the night was over. They were delighted, therefore, to discover that Spike had now moved on from screaming Spike and jumping Spike and touchy feely Spike, to Spike being a bizarre 'I cannot see or hear Angel' Spike. And that was the best Spike of all. That was just hilarious. Didn’t matter what poor Angel did, Spike didn’t see or hear him. If Angel was talking, Spike would start up another conversation right over him... as if he wasn’t there.

It was even funnier as it was clearly getting to Angel and getting him… flustered. None of them had ever seen Angel... flustered. Well, they assumed Buffy had... right before Angelus came to fluster around some more... surely even Angel got flustered when he... you know... did it! But they hadn’t been there then, and they couldn’t catch Buffy’s eye and get her to one side to ask her now. But, given her avid studying of the Spike and Angel situation, she, too, was riveted.

This continued the rest of the night and the following day. Spike tried to go home once or twice, but Angel got up as if to follow, so he plonked himself back down and stayed. He was particularly pleasant and chatty to everyone. He even helped wash up. Anything, just to let Insubstantial know he was ignoring him.

Which is how he got hoist by his own petard later that evening. Trying desperately to let everyone, especially Insubstantial, know that he was ignoring said trick of the light, Spike got coerced into going on the demon hunt with them. Insubstantial said it was time to go; Spike immediately took up residence on the couch, seemingly intent on watching the TV. The Scoobies, desperate not to miss any available amusement from the bizarre blond vampire, challenged him that he wouldn’t go because Angel had suggested it. And that put Spike in a dilemma. If he stayed, he'd be admitting it was because of Angel, but Angel was not real. If he went, he admitted that they were manipulating him. As his obvious indecision only brought on more mirth from the surprisingly evil humans, he decided to take the lesser of the two evils and go with them. He decided that this would clearly show his position that Angel did not exist, without the necessity for him to have to say so

Having to sit next to him in the car, however, did not really add weight to this assertion. That was extremely difficult, especially as Red squeezed in next to him and told him to move up. Everyone looked at him. If he didn’t move and push his thighs right up against Angel's then, again, he was admitting that Angel existed. If Angel didn’t, as he clearly didn’t, then why wouldn’t he move up? Fucking humans were so going to pay for this. So he moved over. Why not? Only an Insubstantial trick of the light in that spot. Unfortunately, one that could in all probability smell his arousal. One that Spike could all too substantially feel against his leg. He tipped his head back on the seat, closed his eyes, and tried to think good thoughts. As he had very little experience of those, he ran out fairly quickly, and reverted to his favourite daydream: railroad spike meets human. He varied just which human was meeting his spike, depending on who was talking at the moment. Thus, he pleasantly passed a potentially awkward trip in the car to the demon spawning ground.

But the Scoobies weren't finished with him yet. They paired off for hunting and fighting, and paired him with Insubstantial. As Spike's ploy did not actually extend to telling them that Angel didn't exist, cus that would have just made him seem childish and would have left him open to accusations of being totally fucking insane, he could not protest this pairing on the grounds that he would, in his view, be on his own and vulnerable. He just had to give that impression that this is what he thought by his demeanour and actions. So, he walked on, without waiting for Insubstantial. He was incredibly impressed by his own tactic and walked around on his own for quite a considerable amount of time. Excellent tactic, until Insubstantial shouted a warning to him. Fuck it. He couldn’t let himself react, cus then he would be admitting that Angel was real, and that meant that he, The Big Bad, had made a passionate declaration of love to Angel, at the same time as telling him that he had been fucking an Angel fantasy in his crypt for two weeks: ie, that he was a total geek.

So, he ignored the warning and got punched through the stomach by a fence post swung by the ugliest looking demon Spike had ever seen. It didn’t look any better from his position on the ground. It looked slightly better on the end of its own fence post when said weapon was thrust through its neck. Funny how strong tricks of the light can be. Not funny when Insubstantial picked him up and cradled him in his arms. Even more unfunny when Insubstantial gently lifted up his T-shirt and inspected the gapping wound in his stomach.

But he thought he did the best thing, which was to pass out and not come round again 'til he was tucked up on the couch at the Watcher's. But when the trick of light brought him a mug of blood, he turned his head and ignored it, even though he was starving and needed it to heal.

Insubstantial was clearly starting to take all this to heart. He was becoming despondent. Broody even, which was so un-Angel like, not, that no one even noticed.

He started to give up trying to talk to Spike. But he kept looking at him. Whatever Spike did, wherever Spike went, the trick of the light was watching him, like some spooky picture in a haunted house. It was really pissing Spike off. He could feel Insubstantial plotting against him; so, when Spike considered no one would notice, he left to go home again. Insubstantial didn’t follow this time, and Spike was able to get back to his crypt - after several long and devious detours to ensure he wasn’t being followed, one of which included a fairly lengthy stopover at the Bronze to spend some cash he had stolen from Giles on copious amounts of beer - happy in the knowledge he’d made a valuable contribution to destroying Angel’s life a bit more.

Eventually, he had to go home. He came in slowly, peering between his half closed eyes. He had no hopes of finding his Angel there at all. He'd been gone too long and had had to face the lunacy of his own loneliness. So, he was absolutely delighted to find his Angel, naked, and waiting for him on the tomb, exactly where he had left him. Spike gave him one of his very best smiles. The one he reserved for good thoughts of Angel and started to tell him all about the Insubstantial incident and why he’d stayed away so long.

His Angel was an avid listener just as before. It relieved Spike’s mind to tell his Angel just how hideous it had been finding out he had professed love to Insubstantial. Cus Insubstantial didn’t want Spike’s love, had never wanted Spike’s love. Spike enjoyed telling all this to his Angel again. He particularly dwelt on all the past evidence he had stored up in his own mind to prove that Insubstantial had never really loved him. He went carefully through his turning, through their time together, and thought, all in all, given he had a serious stomach wound and was tired, hungry and drunk, he gave a fairly accurate account of his miserable life with Insubstantial.

One of the things Spike was particularly keen for Angel to understand was why he loved him so much, but hated Insubstantial: why he'd made passionate love to Angel for two weeks and told him over and over how much he loved him, but at the first opportunity to tell the real Angel, he'd run like fuck.

Spike was clear on why this was so, but he felt Angel was still puzzled, so he took the opportunity to get it clear in his own mind by explaining it to his ever willing audience.

Talking to and loving his Angel was very easy, and he was very happy to lay his heart bare to him. Talking to Insubstantial had never been easy with or without a soul. But especially since that ghastly evening in the school hall, nothing had been the same for Spike, for Spike had realised that, far from Angel wanting to be his lover again, he didn’t, in fact, even want to be his sire or his best friend again.

Angel sat impassively on the tomb while Spike told him how miserable he'd been since he found out that Insubstantial was still around, but souled: that he was only a few hours away, but not bothered about his Childe. That all the longing and desperation he had experienced, for the hundred or so years that he had thought Insubstantial was dead, were for nothing.

Spike was particularly anxious that his Angel understand just what it was that Insubstantial was missing, cus Spike intended Angel, when he was substantial enough, to be the recipient and main beneficiary of his unique brand of loving. Cus if there was one thing he knew about, it was love. He was love's Bitch and not afraid to admit it.

Spike was scathing about Insubstantial's own self-knowledge. How could he have expected to be satisfied by a mortal girl? Insubstantial needed Spike. That was very clear to Spike, but he was not going to face humiliation and rejection by pointing this out to him.

He glanced over at Angel who was looking satisfactorily substantial. One look at Angel's red-tipped, weeping cock made Spike realise that Angel wanted him to go into specifics about exactly how much of a bitch he could be, and that was exactly why Spike preferred his Angel to the real one. His Angel was clearly getting excited by thoughts of Spike. The other never did apparently: the other one was pathetically trying to be a human male.

Spike walked up close to Angel and asked him the very reasonable question: if given the choice, would he rather pound into a fragile female body, or his, hard, cold, enduring one? To illustrate the answer he required from Angel, he ripped off his coat and shirt to expose his hard, lean body.

'Come on, Angel, tell me; how many hours could you pound into me?'

Angel was clearly impressed by Spike's argument, cus his eyes were dilating, and his hands had strayed to his cock. Spike was pleased by this response. He felt, in some perverse way, that he was getting his own back on the Insubstantial git he'd embarrassed himself in front of. Quite how he'd have explained this logic to anyone, he wasn't sure, but he felt it was so, and that was good enough.

But Spike didn’t want his Angel to see him in just a sexual way, although that, clearly, was critical, too. No, he wanted Angel to be something more than that. He wanted to stop being lonely, and he wanted Angel to do that for him. He wanted Angel to be his best friend again.

He stopped pacing and shouting, and looked at Angel. Angel looked back at him.

Spike knew he could tell him everything, even this. After all, his Angel had the uncanny knack of reacting to anything Spike told him exactly how Spike wanted him to react. So he told him. Told him how lonely he was, how scared being chipped made him, and how confused he felt about everything most of the time. He even told him that he felt like a wuss most of the time, cus he had this ridiculous reputation as the Big Bad to maintain, when now he felt neither Big nor Bad. He'd rather watch TV quietly, have a few beers with some mates, and do the odd spot of recreational sex.

By this time, Spike was getting quite angry with the Insubstantial one, who he saw as the main cause of all his current unhappiness. So he told Angel a secret. He knew by Angel's reaction that he promised to keep this secret. Spike put on a dramatic and mysterious pose, as he felt befitted such an important secret, and told his Angel that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Insubstantial was as lonely as him.

He expected a shocked look from Angel and was not disappointed. So, he told him, sadly, how Insubstantial seemed so bloody miserable all the time. No one understood him, no one loved him; whereas he, Spike, understood him completely, and loved him beyond his ability to speak of it.

Angel never spoke; Angel listened to him but, most importantly, as far as Spike was concerned, his Angel was loving him at that very moment, just as much as Spike wanted to be loved. And that was a lot. He told him this, too. He could tell his Angel anything.

Spike told his Angel about his ploy of ignoring Insubstantial 'til he went away. And looking at his Angel now, it seemed as though he had indeed gotten more substantial in direct, inverse proportion to Insubstantial being ignored.

Spike desperately wanted to touch his Angel, but he knew he’d only pass right through him, and he didn’t need that right now. Couldn’t cope with that right now, not after having had Insubstantial's arm wrapped around him as he carried him to the car. Insubstantial who seemed to have the strongest, best, most substantial arms he had ever been held in. He put that paradox to his Angel but, as usual, Angel had no answer for Spike; he only continued to sit on the tomb, but he did seem particularly thoughtful. Spike appreciated that. He thought his sorry situation deserved rapt attention and deep thought.

By now, Spike was so wound up, he knew only a good shag would calm him down. However, he was not likely to get that from Angel, who was doing his best to look real, but had very little other than Spike's over-active imagination to go on.

So, Spike decided to settle for a hand job or, if he could muster up enough imagination, a blowjob.

At last, Spike invited Angel to bed and hoped that if he drank enough alcohol in one go, at least he’d feel those lips again. Spike took out the brandy, whisky, and vodka bottles he half-inched from the Watcher’s and started on the Smirnoff. He drank it like water, propped up on his pillows, watching Angel, who was lurking in the shadows of the crypt. By the time he made it to the brandy, he was sure Angel would be substantial enough for at least one, eyes-closed kiss. So he lay down, got his hand just right on the pillow alongside his face, bunched up the spare pillow, and closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he was delighted to find cool, quite substantial feeling hands on his back, rubbing from his neck down to the base of his spine, and on over his arse to slip in and fondle his balls.

He turned over onto his back but, to make sure he didn’t look, he clamped his hand over his eyes. He promised Angel he would keep his eyes closed but, oh, please, don’t stop, please be real for me.

So, Angel was. Angel’s cool hands continued their loving of Spike. They moved to his cock without even Spike’s hands being there.

This was the best Angel had ever been. He was slowly becoming real. Spike had known he’d only have to be drunk enough and this would happen.

He was surprised, however, that only three bottles of neat alcohol could make him actually feel Angel’s cock in his arse. He'd have thought this much hardness, from a trick of the light, would have taken a lot longer to induce. He wished he'd tried this mixing drinks thing before. Cus this was very, very nice.

In fact, this seemed too good a fantasy even for Spike, who’d been able to fantasise a Master Vampire living in his crypt for two weeks.

But he could feel that huge, thick cock pushing slowly, inexorably, into his near-virgin entrance. A hundred years closed-for-business made it a virgin ass in his book any day. And then, only this cock had been in it anyway. And it seemed to remember and respond to its favourite cock, cus Spike’s whole back passage started throbbing and contracting to the feel of Angel’s penetration. It was like a fucking orgasm in his ass. He could actually feel Angel's true weight on top of him now, not just that light pillow-like feeling he had felt before. He had always particularly liked being underneath Angel - being crushed by Angel.

The sensation of Angel's cock was good as it was, but it got even better when that insistent strong, rhythmic pulsing in the muscles of his hole caused Angel to groan.

The first sound Angel had made in two weeks.

Spike’s eyes flew open, and he took his arm away and stared at Angel.

Angel stared back at him.

This time, Spike’s scrutiny of Angel did not make him less substantial, as it had done so many times before. If anything, the look of rapt attention on Spike’s face only made Angel’s cock swell more in Spike’s tight passage, and Angel's face soften to one of almost believable love.

Something was not right here but, as almost everything else was, in fact, totally right here, Spike sent up a small prayer of thanks to the God of alcohol excess and didn’t question it too much. Or at all in fact.

Clearly he was now totally insane.

But if this was insanity... fuck, bring on those white coats, bring on the Big Nurse, cus he liked it.

He took a risk and kept his eyes open. Angel responded to this daring move by not only starting a deep, hard, thrusting rhythm but by pumping Spike’s cock all by himself. Without Spike’s hands being there first.

Not only that, just as Spike was coming to his explosive orgasm, and his cock was swelling in Angel’s hands, the blue veins standing starkly out from the cool white skin; just as he came, Angel bent over and swallowed him, as Angel's own cold flood filled Spike’s body. And that was the weirdest thing that had happened all night. Cus Trick of the Light Angel, as Spike knew his Angel to be really, had now become so real that he was producing cold, Trick of the Light cum and, even stranger, he actually swallowed Spike's… without it passing through him. Spike’s seed did not cascade uselessly and unwanted to the floor. It was clearly wanted very much and swallowed by this alarmingly substantial Angel.

Spike put out his hand again to Angel’s lips and laid three fingers lightly on them.

He was never sure in the weeks to come - the weeks when he shared a lot more with Angel than his small box of treasures, his heart, and his sticky porn mags, in the weeks when they were all in all to each other and no amount of penetration could bring them close enough together - in these weeks he was never sure whether it had been Angel’s lips that had again confirmed to him that this was the real Angel, or the fact that this Angel smiled at him, told him that he was a complete pillock, but that he loved him, too.

Spike always maintained the first; Angel swore it was the second. But it gave them something to argue the toss about, funnily enough, usually when they were tossing.

Angel, sometimes, took the opportunity of these enjoyable, mutual wanking sessions, which they indulged in when too spent with thrusting, licking, biting, sucking, howling, laughing, and teasing to do much else, to maintain that Spike had really known all along that the very, very substantial Angel he’d found on his return to the crypt had been the real Angel.

After all, as he said, there was no way a cock that big and hard, that red and weeping, that enticing and alluring as his had been at the sight of Spike, could have belonged to anything that was merely an insubstantial trick of the light.

Chapter 3

Angel had only come to Spike's crypt to humiliate him. This was one of his favorite sports. He had heard Spike's astonishing confession with glee: more ammunition on him in one go than he could have dreamt of. So, when Spike had left to go home, he found out from Buffy where Spike lived and went there to wait for him.

A simple plan, but one in which he had not counted on coming under the spell of Spike's Angel. He was there in the crypt, his presence palpable. And it made Angel mad. How dare Spike prefer this Angel to him? His layers of guilt shifted to accommodate another guilty thought: he had not been a very good friend to Spike during the last few years, had not been a Sire and had certainly not been a lover, all three of which he had been once and remembered.

Angel was a complex and deep character. Or, at least, that’s how he wanted others to see him. On bad days, he had the overwhelming dread that he was nothing more than an Irish lout with a tendency to run to fat, with little education and who had a liking for viciousness and littleness that had thrived on being a demon. That was on really bad days.

He knew he was irresistible to most women. It was knowledge that worried and scared him. He knew he was equally irresistible to some men. But this knowledge made him even more uneasy. He was under no illusion about his sexual needs and desires. He needed sex all the time, and desired anything that moved, or had been moving within the last day or so. He prided himself on keeping this side of his character from everyone, especially Buffy, who conveniently fell for his 'I'm really just a complex, melancholy young man' act and had only found out his true nature due to an unfortunate foray into sex with him.

He had known it was a bad idea from the moment they started undressing. Nothing about curses or gypsies though; no, he had taken one look at Buffy's slim, naked body and wondered how he was to do anything worthwhile with that. The last time he had had sex had been a hundred years before with Spike. It had been violent, manic, vicious, bloody, painful, long, and absolutely incredible. Even Spike, who had once walked away from being hit by a slow moving steam train when he had fallen drunkenly on the line, even Spike, had had trouble walking for a week after that five hour, glorious pounding from Angelus. So Angelus' reappearance had had very little to do with a moment of perfect happiness, and a lot more to do with an overwhelming need to get away from the soft, sweet, female body and find some much needed relief.

Of course, Angel now foreswore all sex, and that almost drove him insane with suppressed desire. But he tried to see himself as a chaste, worthy warrior, fighting for the Right. This, of course, was only on good days: days when he wasn’t the fat, Irish peasant.

On some days, Angel felt he was only just holding it all together. This was not really surprising, considering his unusual history. He'd had a miserable childhood with a domineering father; he'd been kicked out… well, he'd left, same difference when you've no job, no prospects, and you get killed by a small blond vampire. He'd been a Master Vampire; he'd been cursed; he'd gotten his soul back; he'd lost it again; he'd been sent to hell; he'd survived hell; he'd had to leave his love; he'd had to become a detective and, finally, to cap it all, he'd had to work with Cordelia Chase. So, occasionally, he gave himself a little slack, and allowed himself to be a bit fucked up. Not that he disliked Cordelia. She was one of the few people who saw right through his 'nice young man' act. She ate, slept, and worked with a stake close to her heart and often told him to get over himself. This was good for Angel who did need to get over his previous, hideous, two hundred and fifty year life and unlife. It was just that, most of the time, he had no idea just how he was supposed to do this.

So, some of these thoughts had definitely been in his mind when he went to Sunnydale in answer to a request for help from Buffy. Turning up anywhere in his beautiful car helped him sustain his chaste warrior fantasy, and not fuel his Irish peasant nightmare. Buffy and the other girls always made him feel like a mysterious, dark, slightly menacing, avenging figure with a heart of gold. And he liked that. He especially liked it that they all thought his re-emergence as Angelus had been the result of a moment of pure happiness. He particularly liked the idea that they thought he could cause a moment of perfect happiness in anyone during sex. It spoke well of his technique.

He also liked going to Sunnydale, because he got to see Spike. He liked seeing Spike, because it always made him feel smug and superior and successful to see just how well he was coping with being a vampire in a human world, compared to Spike, who was usually drunk and always highly emotional.

He had been particularly delighted, therefore, to see Spike stomping in only a few moments after his arrival. Pleased to see that Spike was annoyed to see him, and transported beyond delight to be the recipient of Spike's passionate confession whilst rummaging in the fridge for blood.

He'd listened attentively, not wanting to disturb Spike's train of thought. So, he heard Spike declare his love for Angel, heard the underlying loneliness there, heard, distinctly, the promise of friendship and good demon sex that Spike offered. Most of all, he heard that Spike had, by now, become so unhinged, that he had not only created a fantasy Angel in his crypt, but that he thought he, Angel, was that insubstantial trick of the light.

But nothing in the entire speech delighted him as much as Spike's reaction to his amused reply.

He'd never seen Spike jump vertically two feet in the air and had, certainly, never seen him do it whilst producing a high-pitched squeal of terror. Angel was very pleased with himself and glad he'd come to Sunnydale.

This was going to be interesting.

Determined not to let promising Spike out of his sight, he had no choice but to follow him when he left.

He hated running. It was undignified and didn’t show off his features to their best advantage and made those deceitful thoughts about being too fat start to surface again. Nevertheless, he effortlessly kept up with his much younger prey and virtually ran side by side with him till they reached Sunnydale Main Street.

Now Angel was in a dilemma. He wanted to stop Spike but would never stoop to an unseemly display in front of all these humans. It just wasn't him. It would ruin his pants if he tackled Spike. He was positive Spike would resist such a tackle and there'd be fists and blood and ruined hair. Without being able to see in a mirror, it took him long enough as it was to do his hair. So he compromised and just ran along, too.

He expected Spike to go back to where ever it was he lived and then he'd have his opportunity to bait, fight and generally piss Spike off. So Spike stopping at a café and sipping Hot Chocolate had rather fazed Angel. Fazed and annoyed him. Spike appeared to have taken control of this situation and that was intolerable. He wasn't used to Spike getting the upper hand, unless said hand happen to contain either a crowbar or a hot poker. And Angel had developed a very easy way to deal with those memories. He just never thought about them, as if they had never happened. So he was absolutely furious to find those tactics being played against him, by Spike. Spike was ignoring him. More, Spike was actually giving the impression that Angel did not exist and was not talking to him. It was a bizarre but effective display. Angel was almost as impressed as he was furious. He put up with it for about half an hour, was in full flight, telling Spike how much he needed to sober up, get a life, become respectable and all the other things he knew would particularly annoy Spike when the object of the improving lecture, got up, left him to pay the bill and sauntered on down the street. When Angel started to follow, Spike spun on his heel and headed back to the Watcher's. He seemed in no rush now. He browsed in windows, he stopped for a cigarette. He wandered into Giles' with an air of complete unconcern and finished helping himself to the blood in the fridge. Angel trailed after him like the invisible man in a bad Hollywood movie.

He was not invisible to the humans, though, and it was clear by their faces that they had high hopes of enjoying more amusing entertainment at Angel's expense. This did not fit at all well with Angel's view of himself or how he expected them to view him. He was not funny. Spike's behaviour, which made him look ridiculous, made him blood-red with anger. He could literally feel his blood boiling with rage when Spike interrupted his conversation, when Spike continued to watch TV through him, as Angel tried to block the screen. The more Xander Harris snickered, the more Giles tried to placate everyone, the more the girls watched the two vampires like spectators at a tennis match, their heads turning rhythmically from him to Spike, the more all this happened, the more he wanted to do something that would force Spike to acknowledge his presence.

In the end, he suggested the demon hunt just to get out with the humans and away from Spike. He could have ripped Xander's lungs out when the boy pointed out to Spike that by not coming, it only proved he could hear Angel, because, otherwise, he would have come.

Even Angel, though, was slightly amused by the physical pain Spike appeared to be in trying to work out which of his options most clearly made the point that he, Spike, did not hear or see said vampire. He was even more amused when the gang engineered Spike having to sit next to him on the ride.

As Spike's hard thigh pressed against his own, Angel's thoughts had taken a completely different tack. He was remembering traveling with Spike before, when thighs together had become mouths; mouths had led to tongues and tongues inevitably to cocks. His cock swelled at the memory of Spike's small puckered entrance. It throbbed to the thoughts of pressing through the ring of strong, vampire muscle that guarded that soft, welcoming passage. He felt a slight leak of precum as he remembered the feel of Spike, the scent of Spike, the taste of Spike and the sight of Spike cresting in waves of pleasure to his own cock. These thoughts occupied him in the car as Spike seemingly dozed, his head tipped back on the headrest behind him, his elegant cheekbones throwing the seductive hollows of his face into deep shadow, a position that only served to emphasize more his eternal beauty.

Angel was extremely annoyed with himself now. He'd fallen prey, once again, to his sexual cravings. He tried to tell himself that it was not Spike in particular he wanted, just sex. Sex with anyone, anything. He imagined having sex with the humans, pressing his cock into each one of them depending on who was speaking at the time. Had they known it, the humans in the car, Giles, Buffy, Xander and a very squashed Willow might have been horrified that, in turn, they were being impaled on either Spike's railroad spike or Angel's cock. Some of them would have had a hard time choosing between those two options.

Angel's mood did not improve when he found out that he had been paired with Spike for the hunt and kill. If Spike was not acknowledging Angel's existence then in Angel's book that left him on his own, too. He felt slightly vulnerable when Spike stalked off without him. He was tempted to let him go until he saw a huge, hideous demon with awful hair advancing on Spike. He shouted a warning and was horrified to see Spike hesitate, see the demon, but just….wait for it.

Angel thought that Spike had taken this game far enough. He killed the demon effortlessly and knelt beside the creature on the ground who had once been his best and only friend, his favorite, beloved Childe and his passionate, intense, infinitely fuckable lover. The smell and sight of Spike's blood made Angel's now urgent erection just a bit harder, just a bit more painful against his pants. He wanted to plunge his face into Spike's stomach wound, he wanted to lick his entrails and suck on his cock from the inside, but he didn’t think these desires quite went with his chaste warrior role, which, so far, he had maintained all day.

When Spike fainted he carried him back to the car and cradled him in his arms all the way back to Giles'. He wasn’t unduly worried about Spike. It was a minor wound for a vampire. He was far more worried about himself. He held Spike directly over his cock. In fact, if he maneuvered him just slightly, he could hold Spike's backside directly over his cock. This was very enjoyable. He tried to wish away the four layers of material separating them, was pleased to remember that it was unlikely that Spike was actually wearing underwear, and reduced the barrier to three layers. He wriggled slightly under Spike, but had to stop when he threatened to cum there and then. That might be hard to explain when they all got out of the car. So he contented himself with staring at Spike. He had forgotten in the space of the half hour since they had last been the car, just how beautiful he was. Angel never tired of looking at beautiful things. He liked them around him. He remembered having this beautiful face around him all the time, on his pillow at night, on his cock in the morning, on his mind every other moment of the day.

Pissing Spike off was fun, tormenting Spike was better, but best of all, he had to admit, was fucking Spike. There was no getting around it, Spike was very fuckable.

Angel liked using the word, fuck, and used it every chance he got in his head. It was one more little revenge he got on the world that had made him a demon then smacked him on the hand for being one and cut off his bits. Metaphorically. He would never dream of actually using the word out loud, but he rolled it off his mental tongue with glee. Being Spike’s favorite word, too, made it seem as if Spike were present every time he thought it, but this poofy thought was not something he wanted to dwell on. He was happy to admit he missed fucking Spike, he was much more unwilling to admit he missed him, liked his company, and found him entertaining, amusing and a very good friend. If he admitted all that, then he would want Spike back. If he wanted Spike back, he'd have to ask him. And that was as likely as him wearing pink and telling jokes.

But he had now incontrovertible evidence that Spike wanted him. And that was just fine by Angel. He was all for Spike begging and he, Angel, magnanimously granting favors. That's why he had preceded Spike to his crypt. He had every intention of making Spike beg for him and possibly, he would grant a hand job, or if Spike begged particularly well, begging that involved a tongue on Angel's cock, then perhaps, he would even go so far as a blowjob.

But when he got there he was ambushed by Spike's version of Angel. Angel sensed him there, haunting the place. He saw Spike's things laid out as if they had been discussing them, sharing them together. Angel should have been sharing this with Spike. He saw Spike's TV remote placed on the arm of the chair as if they had been watching TV companionably together. He wanted to watch TV with Spike. He saw the discarded and well-thumbed porn mags under the chair. He particularly wanted to share those with Spike. All in all, he was a very unhappy Sire when he saw just how real Spike had managed to make his fantasy Angel.

That's when the plan had occurred to him. He knew Spike was at the Bronze drinking, he'd followed him that far. He knew he had a fairly considerable stash of money, he'd seen him pinch it from Giles. Spike, money and beer equaled incoherent, not very observant Spike. He might just pull this off. He climbed carefully out of his clothes and folded them neatly out of sight and went to sit on the tomb. Then, he got off again and went back to rearrange them into a careless heap. Warriors didn't fold their clothes. Neither did Irish louts probably, but the other alternative, the other persona that he dreaded even more than bog boy was the ponce. Spike had started that one. Angelus had had nothing whatsoever poncey about him. He was a vicious, imaginative killer. But in trying so hard to fit into modern day American life, Angel sometimes felt he had gone too far the other way. A weakness and a concern that Spike had immediately spotted, preyed upon, mimicked, enlarged and never stopped getting pleasure from. So Angel did fear he was a bit of a poof. He did worry that he might come over as a ponce and ruffling up his clothes into an untidy heap relieved him of this worry. He hopped back up onto the tomb. Then he hopped down again and refolded his clothes. He wasn’t going to let Spike win. Cashmere was better left folded, it was just a fact, nothing to do with being a poof.

It was interesting to note that Angel was worried that a pair of folded pants might mark him as a poof and not the fact that he was naked, erect, weeping and waiting to stick his cock up Spike's ass. He knew such mental discussions would only confuse and depress him so, like Spike, he employed the, I won't think about that, tactic. It was effective and allowed him to retain his warrior-like persona.

By the time Spike actually arrived, Angel's backside was suffering from sitting naked on a cold slab of granite for three hours. His cock was suffering even more. He'd been tempted to relieve himself once or twice. He had even had the wicked but highly amusing thought that if he jacked off in Spike's crypt and then buggered off, Spike would come home and find real, tangible evidence that his fantasy Angel was giving himself hand jobs when Spike was out. Angel imagined that this might be the final straw that would metaphorically break some proverbial camel. It might break Spike's final vestige of sanity and, whilst that would be amusing to watch, Angel still reckoned Spike would be more amusing to fuck, so he held off adding real Sire cum to Spike's imaginary Sire presence.

But three hours! Angel had never held off for three hours before, because, of course, swearing off sex didn't mean he didn’t do it himself…frequently, avidly, and enjoyably. He needed no stimulation, he needed no aids, all he needed was a free hand, a few minutes without interruption and time to slip back into brood face should anyone come into the office. So three hours was a bit of a record for him. He felt he might lose it, so swollen was it. He'd heard of limbs getting gangrenous and falling off when they were so engorged with blood. He idly wondered if his would re-grow if it did fall off. It was not a vampire attribute he particularly wanted to put to the test. So, all in all, Angel was as relieved to see Spike, as Spike had been to see Angel.

Spike even managed to surprise him. This was the first time he had seen Spike when Spike was not with him. He very quickly realized that the Spike he knew was the front the real Spike put up whenever he had to deal with Angel. This Spike, who thought he was talking to his Angel, was very much not his Spike. He was new, thoughtful, sad, lonely, sweet, funny and rather vulnerable.

This, Angel decided, was starting to get confusing. He was not Spike's Angel, who was obviously only an insubstantial trick of the light that Spike saw as more substantial than him, who was the real Angel, but who Spike called Insubstantial and this was not Spike, but new Spike who was only real when real Angel was not around.

Angel decided again not to think about all this too much, he was far too engrossed anyway in new Spike's monologue. Spike was laying his heart out like a cadaver on a surgeons table voluntarily saying, 'here you are, examine my innermost secrets.' Angel almost felt guilty to be tricking Spike like this. Until he started to hear just how completely Spike distorted the story of their life together. Angel suddenly had the horrible thought that Spike actually went around spreading these sorts of lies, that he, Angelus, had been a maniacal, sex-mad psycho, a pervert, into torture and sexual deviance. He had the even more horrible thought that perhaps all of this was true. That this was actually how he had been, how he was, not warrior, not Irish peasant, not even poof, but a homicidal, fuck-up. His whole view of himself as an elegant, Master Vampire was shattered. Is this how Spike saw him? Is this how it had been for Spike?

He was plunging into the depths that only a very fragile ego can reach so quickly, when Spike turned to him, asked him if he wanted to pound into him again and stripped off the top half of his clothes. Angel practically came on the spot. Only thoughts of giving away his game, which was providing him with undreamt of access to Spike's mind and now Spike's body, prevented him. But oh, the look of Spike. He'd gotten considerably thinner since Angel had last seen him. His arms joined his torso with deep concave shadows. His abdominal muscles were so clearly defined that Angel actually wondered if Spike had been working out. Then he remembered that this was Spike, who considered a wank enough exercise for one day. Spike's belly button, in contrast to most of the intriguing hollows on his body, was convex. And oh, didn't Angel's tongue throb with desire to lick over that enticing little bump. That would be just like licking the tip of a tiny, hard cock. Fuck, Angel realized he had slipped imperceptibly into poofy mode again and tried to reclaim ground by remembering that at least Spike had called him a psycho. Psychos were scary. They were very rarely poofs. Or not avowed ones. Fuck, they were probably all closet ones. Not a good analogy.

Angel really felt he ought to concentrate more on what Spike was saying, because he had just gotten to the interesting bit. He was explaining just what he wanted to do with his Angel when he became hard enough. As he'd missed the beginning of this speech thinking about Anthony Perkins, Angel realized that Spike was, of course, talking about metaphorical hardness, not the literal hardness that he, Angel, was suffering from. Even Spike, even drunk Spike, even new Spike, could not have missed the fact that Angel's cock was now doing the impression of a well-hung donkey. Not, of course, that Angel had ever looked at a well-hung donkey up close. Fuck it…he had to stop falling into mental traps like that. But Spike's description of the activities he wanted to get up to, literally, with Angel, decided him. His original intention to be Spike's Angel for a while, then leave for LA, had suddenly changed to, stay and do some of the things Spike clearly wanted Angel to do. He felt quite substantial enough for any of the challenging activities Spike was outlining.

So when Spike invited him down to the bed, Angel went.

He almost regretted it when he saw the mattress he was expected to lie on. It betrayed its origins all too clearly. It almost had, 'dump-find', written all over it. Angel thought scabies. Angel thought fleas. Angel had the bizarre thought that if he got bitten by fleas, would he sire a race of evil flea-vampires and would anyone know given they were still, after all, only fleas and fleas bit people anyway. This led on to the thought that perhaps fleas were already vampires which is what he was mulling over when Spike closed his eyes and started bunching up his pillows. Angel really wished he could have some of Spike's remaining alcohol, so he could use it as an antiseptic wipe, just in case. He hadn't planned to admit yet that he was real. He was actually feeling a little less real than when he had arrived earlier. He wanted to retain his advantage over Spike for a little longer and see a little more of this new, interesting, adorable, Spike. Well, quite a lot more hopefully, if Spike would just lift and spread his legs a little.

So, in the weeks that followed, when Angel got over his self-doubt and personality angst, aided entirely by Spike's complete faith in him that it didn't matter whether he was a chaste warrior or an Irish peasant, cus he was still a pillock either way; when he got over being afraid of being a poof because Spike showed him the good bits of being one of those; when he got over being broody and sad and lonely because Spike became the best lover and friend he could have wished for; in those weeks he often wondered just what it had been that had made him decide to show Spike that he was real. One night, lying in Spike's arms as Spike deliberately and thoughtfully rearranged his hair into a hideous, poofy style, he came to the conclusion that it had been the moment that Spike put his own hand to his mouth, pretending that it was Angel's lips. At that moment, Angel had seen his own intense loneliness and sadness reflected back to him more profoundly than any mirror could have done.

He had decided it was time that he, Angel, found himself by helping Spike find him. Time that he admitted he had failed as a Sire, as a friend and as a lover but that being eternal meant he had another chance to put it right.

And being eternal, if he was really, really good, he might one day be just be as important to Spike as had been Spike's insubstantial trick of the light.

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