Lar ||| Buffy & Angel

Blood Simple - Ephemeral
by Lar

Email:HERE
Rating: NC-17
Warning: violence, m/m slash, rape, child abuse, language
Disclaimer: Not mine, but if any of them care to visit, I'm quite hospitable.
Author's Notes: Obviously only makes sense if you've read the beginning of the series. Find it here: e t e r n i a t a [e r o s * u n b o u n d]
Dedication: Always to Donna, for too many reasons to list here. And also for Sandy and Oni for hanging in there with me, and for Kismet, who moves me to tears.

And finally, to Puca, my new series beta darlin'. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

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The scent of blood would never leave the apartment where Wesley died. There was too much of it, soaked right through the cheap carpet into the warped wooden floorboards beneath. And right now, while it was still wet, the smell of that blood was like nails on a chalkboard for Faith.

She'd drank her fill of him, savaged his body over and over in a feeding frenzy that culminated in her orgasm. Now she stood in the tiny cramped bathroom and looked at the absence of her reflection in the spotted mirror over the sink. Despite being covered in blood, there was simply nothing there looking back. Her mind refused to grasp the concept of nothingness and she couldn't break the stare. She raised a gory hand and let it press against the glass, wondering at the effect of the smeared trails that appeared out of thin air. She did it again. And again.

Suddenly she exploded with a shriek of anger and fear, driving her fist through the glass, adding her newly borrowed blood to the shards that rained down into the sink and the floor. A few glittering pieces caught in her hair and she shook her head, listening to them join the remains. Her chest was heaving with ragged breaths that tore at lungs unused to the flow of air. A thin keening cry issued from her with every exhalation. Slowly, she sunk to her knees, mindless of the glass that dug furrows into her feet, shins and knees. Tears cut clear paths into the drying blood on her face and she rubbed her hands into the mess. Faith began to rock as she sobbed, but she wasn't even sure what she mourned.

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Spike woke to the most unusual sensation of being held. Not captured, not imprisoned, but held like a lover. It had been nearly a century since he'd experienced that sensation with this partner, and he was loathe to move and disrupt it. Snapshots of the past few hours flipped through his mind. What the hell had he been thinking? This had never been in the plan.

//This is why I don't work things out in advance// he mused. //Everything gets buggered in the end anyway//

He let his gaze fall on the big hand that rested on his chest, enjoyed the weight of the arm on his shoulder despite himself. How many years had he awoken, arms and legs tumbled about with his Sire and Dru, all of them naked and lounging like magnificent sated beasts? How many nights had he spent as he had spent last night, being held and fucked and drained, sometimes weeping with the pleasure and pain of it? How many nights since the last time had he wept to *himself* for the loss of it all?

But he had steeled himself to it, made himself content with the knowledge that he had Dru and she was something he could wrap himself around and get lost in. If she could not fill every part of him that was empty, then perhaps there were things that were just not meant to last. Vampires especially, eternal creatures that they were, learned that nothing was a constant in this universe. When he felt the emptiness that the loss of his Sire aroused in him, he simply drowned himself in the scent and feel of Dru, and the blood and deathcalls of their victims.

Decades of that. Years upon years of black pain and red death. Seeming eternities of yearning for completion that he knew would never come. Restoration of his Sire's soul had robbed Spike of something precious and his anger was immeasurable. Anger at Angelus for getting himself in the situation to be cursed, for leaving him and Dru to themselves so *he* could preen and cavort for his Dam, allowing himself to be treated like a pampered pet who accepted any gift given without thought for consequences. For being too bloody stupid to realize that the Romany were not to be trifled with.

Spike found himself grinding his teeth at the memory, at the emotions screaming inside of him, old beasts set free of rusty cages that would not be easily recaptured. And then Angel stirred beside him. Spike closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and swallowed down something huge that stuck in his chest and burned him from within.

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Skin against skin.

That was the first conscious thought in Angel's mind as he woke from what he thought had been a dream. A dream inspired by the scents and miseries of old times lost to him, and desires for those things he would never have again. A dream he had had often enough to be familiar with the outcome by now: empty bed, empty arms, bitter disappointment in his mouth, sheets stiff with drying semen spilled in lonely fantasies.

But not today. Today it was the feeling of cool skin against his own, tight muscled buttocks nestled against his abdomen, smooth expanse of chest under his hand. The smoky smell of guttered candles still lingered faintly under the other odors of cigarettes and sex and the essential smell that was Will, something surprisingly clean despite the nature of his Childe. The scent of the ocean, perhaps. Whatever the case, it was Will to the bone. Angel resisted the urge to burrow his face into the skin laid out against him and just...inhale. Refresh the sensory memory.

Will would never allow it. He was already awake, grinding his teeth for some reason, and Angel could make a relatively intelligent guess as to the cause of it. But he was lying still, so Angel stayed still too, and let his mind wander. There were precious few moments like this in their history together, just the two of them alone, and quiet. There was more fighting and pain between them than anything else. The thought saddened him suddenly, as if it was the first time he'd ever made the connection.

Angel blinked and got a vivid memory. Will, shirt off, breeches undone at his Sire's command, cock hard and straining towards him. But his jaw was clenched in anger and the fire in his blue eyes was not born of lust or passion, but of hatred. Raging and unmitigated hatred of his Sire. And Angel - Angelus - was smiling at Will, taunting him for his arousal despite the anger. It had been about Dru of course. It had always been about Dru. Angelus had loved to use her as the surest form of torture to get Will to do his bidding. And that night Angelus had made him stand and watch yet again as he had brought her to climax over and over, roughly, crudely, until she was weeping. But never once had she asked him to stop, never did she beg for mercy. And every time she came, she screamed his name: Angel. Angel. Angel. And Will had been so hard at the end of it, despite himself, despite his anger and his hatred and his desire to protect Dru, that he'd come too, screaming the same name, as Angelus had thrust into him over and over, not even allowing Will the use of his own hand to satisfy himself. Will not needing anything anyway, other than the thrust of the cock inside of him and the piercing of the fangs at his neck.

How Will had hated him that night. He'd spit at him the moment he was allowed to get to his feet, gathered Dru up in his arms and stalked down the hall to his own room, kicking the door shut behind them.

Back in the present, Angel jumped at the memory of that slamming door echoing in his head. Spike was looking at him now, he realized. He had a curious expression on his face and Angel gradually understood it was his best attempt at patience.

"I never took you for the hand holding type," he finally said, scarred eyebrow cocked at Angel's confusion. Slowly, Angel looked down and saw he had indeed captured Spike's hand sometime in those minutes of his flashback and was squeezing it. Hard. He let go as if he'd found himself clutching a cross and Spike shook some feeling back into his fingertips.

"Spike," Angel began. Stopped. Realized that they were still spooned together from the waist down and that if his mind hadn't been on it, his cock had been right on topic. And that Spike was well aware of the way it was pushing insistently into the crack of his ass. Was, in fact, pressing lightly back against him.

"Spike," he said again. His voice was deeper this time, something else there that wasn't in the first attempt at speech. Angel's eyes locked on Spike's, saw equal parts lust and amusement in the blue depths.

"Just shut up, would you?" growled Spike before he twisted himself around and put a hand behind Angel's neck. "It's just what it is. Don't try to sort it out now."

And Spike's kiss effectively shut off whatever reply might have been in Angel's mouth. Instead Angel let himself be pressed back into the mattress by the other man, tasting his tongue as it slipped between willing lips and explored teeth that were blunt for the moment but promised to become sharp and wicked soon.

For the moment, Angel allowed the other man to be the aggressor, letting Spike's nimble hands run over pale flesh that thrilled to the sensation. And when one of those hands slid lower, slipped between them to grasp both their cocks in a loose fist, they pumped together, a slow and exquisite rhythm that was just the beginning.

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Faith shook water from herself like a puppy and then stepped from the shower. The cooler air of the room made her skin, warmed by the shower, prickle into goosebumps and her nipples tighten. Shivering a bit, she stepped lightly over the rest of the shards and out into the bedroom, towling her body lightly as she walked. Through the doorway into the living room, she could see Wesley's shoes, the bottoms of them shiny with dried blood. She looked away quickly as she dropped the damp towel to the floor and stepped over to the tiny chest of drawers. As her hand reached out to open a drawer, she saw it shaking slightly. With a huffing sound of annoyance, she grabbed the handle and pulled the drawer open roughly.

She stared down into a single row of black socks, neatly rolled. Several pair of white boxers. And a small pile of crisp white undershirts. She stood there unblinking for a long time as memories washed over her.

Faith, ten years old. Long hair pulled back in a single braid, red bow tied on the end of it. Both bow and ribbon are loose and slightly sloppy because she has done them herself. Momma is on the couch in the living room and Faith can smell the alcohol from here. She's passed out again, and she's snoring. Faith's nose wrinkles unconsciously as she puts away the clothes she's washed and dried and folded herself.

Daddy's clothes.

Daddy's socks, never rolled, just the tops folded over. Daddy's undershirts, always ironed and then stacked end to end so the pile remains even and the shirts unwrinkled. Daddy's underwear, folded three times and stacked the same way. Everything in its' place because that was the way Daddy liked it. And Faith is so careful to make Daddy happy.

It's so much better when Daddy is happy. Because when he isn't...oh, then it's bad. There's yelling and there's hitting. And sometimes there are worse things than that, things that make her cry for hours, pillowcase stuffed in her mouth so he won't hear and come back and hurt her again. When he does those things to her, her face pressing into his chest while he grunts and pushes and hurts her down there between her legs, all she can see is that white undershirt that she had washed and dried and ironed just right...

Faith shook her head and saw that the undershirt she was staring at was wet. She put a hand up to her face and felt the tears sliding down her cheeks, wiped them away slowly. With a deliberate motion, she reached into the drawer and picked a dry shirt from the bottom of the pile. She shook it out and pulled it over her head, lifting her wet hair out of the collar. She smoothed it over her chest, saw how it fell to her hips and let the shiny dark curls of her pubis show below the hem.

Blinking, she opened the rest of the drawers and took out a pair of gray pants she found there, cinching them tight around her waist with a gray and burgundy patterned tie. She bent over and rolled the cuffs up once, not noticing that they unrolled almost immediately. She looked for a button down shirt but found none in the drawers in the bedroom.

Reluctantly, she glanced towards the living room again, stared at those feet in the loafers as if they would go away if she just looked long enough. But she was getting jumpy, she could feel the sunrise coming in less than an hour, and she had to get back to the car. Not taking her eyes from the corpse, she reached behind her to the bed and grabbed the thin chenille cover, dragging it behind her as she padded towards the door.

The body was not pretty to look at, even for Faith who had done the damage. There were bites, gouges, missing flesh. Splashes of blood everywhere. His eyes were thankfully closed, but his mouth was open and that bothered her. She could hear his final sounds, feel the way he had slid from her, the last of his ejaculate hitting her thighs in a hot stream as he slipped to the floor and died.

Faith shuddered, whipped the bed cover over his body quickly and stepped to the closet. There were the shirts, white broadcloth, pale blue and one light yellow one. She snatched the blue one from its hanger and slipped it on, letting it hang loose around her. She caught a faint scent of cologne on it, realized he must not have washed it after wearing it the last time, and gave a hiccuping sound that might have been a sob. She spied the leather jacket then, way in the back of the closet, hidden in the shadows, and grabbed that, too. She had one arm in the sleeve when she realized she couldn't get out the door without moving his body.

"No," she whispered out loud. "No, no, no..."

Her head whipped around, spied the window and without a thought she took three running steps and threw herself into the thin glass, not even considering that there might not be a fire escape out there to break her fall. But there was, the rusty metal biting into her feet when she stood. She glanced over the side, judged the distance and then leapt gracefully over the railing. She landed on her feet with catlike precision and shrugged the jacket around her properly before setting out for the garage where they had left the car. Spike would be meeting her there soon.

With sunrise urging her on, Faith hurried towards her destination as the sky grew paler at the horizon.



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