ficlet: The Reason

this uh. came out of nowhere one night when I couldn't sleep. and I was thinking about what Spike would think about when he couldn't sleep. and naturally, it was all about Angel. :P




Title: The Reason
Author: Mel (thatotherperv)
Rating: uh...PG-13? discussion of cocks, but no action.
Pairing: all of them. and none of them. vague enough for you?
Summary: Sometimes when he should be sleeping, Spike thinks about why they all love Angelus best.
Warning: err...only warning I can give is that it went a wee bit meta on me. sorry for that.
Disclaimer: so not mine, in any profitable way. but you can't stop me from making them walk and talk and whine in my head.



Sometimes Spike lay in bed, staring at the ceiling through the filtered light from the curtains, and wondered why they all loved Angelus best.

It was an old game. It had kept his sometimes-insomnia company in London and Paris, Shanghei and Cairo, Madrid, Budapest, New Delhi, New York, St. Petersburg, Athens, Berlin, Chicago, New Orleans…Sunnydale. Rio. Los Angeles.

Sometimes Dru was there, head tucked under his chin and purring like a kitten. Sometimes he even played the game with Angelus sprawled hugely right there beside him in the bed.

Often, he played it when he was alone and lonesome.

Once, when he was with Buffy—the one time she slept skin to skin against him, in a house in shambles. Before she jolted awake with disgust and accusation, and Spike was reminded that they didn’t just love Angelus best…they loved Angelus only.

Mostly it was a bitter game. It amused him during some of the worst moments of his life. Occasionally it ruined the best ones as well, because even in his absence, Angelus still fucked him. Some part of him never forgot that. Always waiting for the other shoe.

So he played the game on that wretched night in London when he found out Dru was never to be his, and also on that sleepless night in Sunnydale where he held Buffy in a stranger’s house and allowed himself to hope that she might want to be. It kept him company the nights after Angelus went away—when Drusilla could hardly sleep for all her wailing. They plagued him with doubt after his first slayer, when all the delirious celebration died away and Spike knew that the reverence he saw reflected back in his goddess’ face was only a temporary reprieve from the worship of that tosser.

And when Darla let Spike into her bed the second time Angel disappeared, moaning and commanding as Spike held her down and hammered her hard from behind, he didn’t imagine for a second that it was him she was fucking. And he couldn’t blame her…if you liked being dominated by your get and he was never coming back, it was best to keep it in the family. Especially if the substitute had a healthy respect for what fate would befall him should he ever brag about it.

But what really chapped Spike’s ass was that it didn’t matter what Angelus was or what he did, the magic never wore off. Souled or evil, kind or calloused, bat-shit insane or so anal-retentively strategic his arsehole was complaining of fatigue, they still loved him.

Even when they hated him.

What was it? What was it about him that drew them all to him?

Maybe it was as simple as his arrogance. There was always that. Angel firmly believed the planets rotated around his cock (whether he’d admit it or not), and people could sense that sort of thing. Submitted to it despite themselves, as surely as they submitted to gravity.

But maybe it was the way he could look at you. Scowling or laughing, full of favor or scorn—whatever the emotion, when Angelus looked at you, you didn’t doubt that for that moment, you were the center of his universe. Like he saw you, stripped bare. Kept you were pinned there, unable to move, until he let you go.

Or perhaps it was the fact that once he did…once his attention shifted elsewhere with the same intensity he’d given you, your only thought was how to get it back. How to get that single-minded focus trained back on you, so that you could feel as though you really existed again. That you were solid, substantial and important.

Of course, there was one possibility for Angelus’ popularity that was far more coarse, and sometimes to Spike’s way of thinking, far more likely. He was a brilliant shag. And Christ knew the bastard spread it around enough, back in the day—everybody had a taste, whether they survived the experience or not—and it appeared that his celibacy post-soul only served to make it a valuable commodity.

What the bloody hell was it? No one thing seemed likely, considering the diverse array of prey he’d snared. Maybe it was all of them—different strokes for different folks, and all that. Spike reckoned he’d combed through all the possibilities over the years…from the likely to the trivial…paranoid. Absurd.

He didn’t suppose Angel really carried little bits of magic crack-rock in his pocket. Probably not, anyway.

But when Angelus smiled…Spike wondered if they weren’t all bewitched after all. Those that worshipped the sod, Spike meant. For them, it was a rare treat. There wasn’t much that could make Angelus smile—really smile. He smirked his mockery, sneered cruelty, grinned maniacally over his wicked plans. Cold, calculating turns of the lips were a dime a dozen.

But his real smile was hard won, because he was a stingy bastard in everything he did. It didn’t matter much how hard you tried to please him. Plotted out elaborate games and brought home his favorite prey…or hair product, whatever the poof preferred these days. You could beat yourself bloody for it and get nothing but a glance and a humoring pat, until there seemed to be no real point to the whole endeavor.

And then…maybe for no real reason at all, that you could see, it happened. The tosser’s whole face lit up and the glare of it made your chest all tight, and then you were smiling back despite yourself. And maybe…if he were in really good humor, he’d clap you by the neck and laugh and say something nice. Maybe he’d say he was proud, though not in so many words. He’d say, ‘That was brilliant,’ or ‘Good to have you around, boy,’ or ‘Bloody hell, I wish I’d thought of that one.’

Or in Angel’s case, ‘you are the dumbest shit to ever walk the earth’…as he shook his head and fought back a laugh.

And then the moment would be over and once again you were a stupid prat, full stop, and that shining moment of approval was all you could think about till another fell in your lap.

Yeah. That last one might just have been it.

The fact was that Spike didn’t know the reason for Drusilla’s devotion, or Buffy’s, or Darla’s, or Penn’s…or anyone else’s for that matter, and he probably never would. Wasn’t exactly dinner conversation, and Spike doubted they understood their own motivations anyway. But in those quiet hours, when his pride was a little paler and he told himself the truth, Spike admitted that he was completely sure of his own.