Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10643277.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer, Angel:_the_Series
  Relationship:
      Spike/Original_Male_Character, Angelus/Spike_(BtVS), Angelus/Spike_(BtVS)
      |_William_Pratt, Xander_Harris/Other(s)
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-04-15 Words: 3017
****** Father Figures ******
by felisblanco
Summary
     Spike's relationship with various father figures during his life and
     later existence.
Notes
     I'm smokin' tonight. Well not really. I've been trying to push this
     one out for a long time, very long delivery, makes me happy my real
     children were born by c-section.
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/userinfo_v8.svg?v=17080?v=146.4]
willa_writes has been a tremendous help and I love her to tiny little pieces.
Best beta eva!!
London, 1852
The agitated man pacing the floors has given up hope. There is no place left
for such follies in his heart, filled as it is with dread and horror. Nothing
good can come out of this... nightmare. It is too late. He has surely lost her.
Lost them. He never even got to know his unborn child. The center of their
happiness and now the killer of his beloved wife. Because even if her screams
yet pierce the air, it can not be long now.
He should be in there with her, not out here. Useless. But according to the
evil wench, the bastard midwife, it is not a man's place to tend to women's
troubles. As the shouts turned to cries and then screaming, he tried to get
past her plump, putrid body. She pushed him back and slammed the door in his
face, turning the key.
He swears he will kill her, wring her fat neck. Her cackling laughter can be
heard through the door.
This is it! He can not wait any longer. He must be beside her, his darling,
these last moments of her life. Determined he turns to attack the door when the
sudden silence stops him. Oh God. It is too late. She is gone. All fight drains
out of him and he sinks down on the floor, hiding his face in his hands. That
is when he hears a faint wail. Confused he stares at the locked door. Can it
be? Slowly he gets to his feet, about to go and knock when the key is turned
and the door opens.
"Congratulations, sir. It's a healthy baby boy."
As the most wonderful woman he has ever met puts a tiny bundle in his arms, she
pats him with a smile.
"And your wife is well and happy. She is resting for now. But all in all, an
easy delivery."
She goes back in, leaving him staring after her in confusion. His beloved is
not dead? Dazed, he looks down at the wee creature. It is red and wrinkled and
the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Slowly he starts rocking the baby,
stroking the greasy chin with his finger. His son pouts his lips and hiccups,
vast blue eyes blinking at the man holding him. He lets loose an exasperated
cry.
"Sshh, little one. My sweetest... William. Father is here. No harm will ever
come to you, my beautiful boy."
Numb with awe, he takes the child in to meet it's mother.
 
London, 1859
'Don't move, don't cry. Don't make your mother sigh.'
Except mother isn't here now. She's gone away on a trip. Or so they've told
him. But he knows she's at that place. The hospital. Where people go and
sometimes don't come back. He knows, because she would never leave him
otherwise. She always looks out for her boy. "Run!" she whispers. "Hide!"
And he does. He runs upstairs and hides in her closet, burrowing his face in
her clothes, breathing in her sweet scent. There are not as many clothes now,
though. She has taken with her all her warm night gowns and the woolen shawl he
likes best, because it's warm and reminds him of her embrace.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Walking into every room, searching. But he can
be quiet. Quiet as a mouse. He will never be found. Never. Into the bedroom,
then turning to walk away again, and that's when it happens.
Such a small sigh. So very tiny it shouldn't have been heard at all.
But there is a dead silence, and then the closet door is ripped open. He hardly
has time to close his eyes against the blinding light before he's jerked out
and thrown face down on the bed.
He tries so hard not to cry even though he knows what will happen, because he's
a big boy now. Mother said so. He's almost seven...
 
Eton, 1865
He dreads the Sunday services. The chapel is cold and the benches hurt his
tender backside. Seems he gets flogged a lot more than the other boys. He can
take it, he never cries. Not even when the cane sweeps down so hard his whole
body shakes. He wants to tell Master Evans he will never break him, that this
is something he can handle. After all, he survives being the older boys'
favorite.
This particular Sunday he can't help fidgeting. He can feel his wounds opening
up, and he worries that the blood will start seeping through. He can see Rev.
Jones casting an eye in his direction every now and then, so he does his
damndest to keep still.
But it just hurts so bloody much.
Startled he says a silent prayer, asking The Lord to forgive his blasphemy,
even if it was only a thought.
He tries to make a quick escape as soon as the service is over but the Reverend
heads straight for him. Asking him to please accompany him to his office. He
has no choice but to comply, though he is walking stiffly from the pain and
hoping against reason that the blood running down his legs will go unnoticed.
When he sits down as he is ordered he can't help flinching, making the old
man's eyes narrow. He walks over to the boy, pulls him up and takes down his
trousers, an act much more humiliating than the caning ever was. Then his
clothes are re-arranged gently and he is sent back to his room without a word.
Master Evans never touches him again.
 
London, 1880
The heavy punch throws him against the wall again. Stars twinkle before his
eyes. He tries once more to stand up, determined to fight it to the end. But
the pain from the broken bones, the blood loss from gut-deep wounds, his
spinning head and too-heavy limbs -- it all works against him. Before he knows
it he's been pushed down, then flipped around.
Still he struggles, even though in his dead heart he knows it is futile. He has
been beaten beyond recognition twice already, in his short new life, for
reasons far less important. This battle, the most crucial one of them all, he
will not win either. Not only is his strength only half of his Sire's, but the
panic that seized him when he realized what was about to happen made his
movements clumsy and his reflexes slow.
He never had a chance. Not now, not ever. What seemed to have been his lot in
life, now goes on beyond the boundaries of death as well. But that doesn't mean
he'll resign himself to his fate. Not willingly.
As his breeches are torn, he bucks and curses. When his Sire's weight pins him
down he kicks his feet. As his cheeks are spread he whips up his head, hoping
to catch the bastard's nose. When the blinding pain cuts through him he roars
with rage, not letting the wanker have the pleasure of his tears or the delight
of his heart breaking.
When it is over he is picked up of the floor and put gently on the bed. A cool
tongue licks his wounds, not letting a single drop go to waste. He turns his
head in bewilderment, trying to comprehend this turn of events. When he feels
his cock hardening it dawns on him. To get pleasure he must have pain. There
will be no sweet kisses in this relationship.
China, 1900
When Darla shows up with Angelus on her arm it's like God walked into his
presence. His Sire's disappearance two years earlier had left him sans purpose
or direction, until he'd found his niche taking care of Drusilla. She is his
now, to hold and have, whenever he pleases. She gives him such delight and has
the wickedest taste in torture, but she is not Him. And He is all he wants.
So when the first shock wears off and the old need fires up inside him, he
waits for Angelus to make His move. Time passes and nothing happens. Not for
lack of trying on Spike's part, that's for sure, because he taunts Him in all
ways possible. He licks his lips, staring at Him while Dru sucks him off. He
brings home the prettiest boys he can find, grinding up against them as he rips
savagely into their throats, knowing He is watching. He can smell His arousal,
a heavy musky scent, and the eyes darken with desire. But that is as far as it
goes.
Until finally after a particularly bloody hunt, finished off with a delightful
release into the young lad's torn arse, Angelus reacts. He grabs Spike by the
neck and pins him to the wall, leaving the emptied corpse to slide like a heap
to the ground. He presses His body against him, His erection hard and evident.
His breath is ragged, which goes straight to Spike's groin, because Angelus
never breathes. For a long time they stand still, their noses almost touching,
eyes darkening until they are like puddles of ink. Suddenly Angelus lets him go
with a roar, then turns away and stalks into the night, leaving Spike trembling
with lust. When he gets home, his Sire is gone again.
Sunnydale, 1998
"Oh, Drusilla? Come to Daddy."
Her hysterical giggles and Angelus' hungry growls echo through the halls of the
mansion. All Spike can do is sit there and listen. Listen to their loud
rutting, her passionate moans, interrupted by yelps of pain; his heartless
laughter and howls of release.
Later she will come to him, clothes torn, blood dripping from her wounds and
reeking of his spill. She'll run her hands all over him, cooing incoherently,
making him moan and growl. But she knows better than to indulge him. It is not
her place anymore. She is only getting him ready for Daddy.
Daddy wants him hard and trembling with need. His useless legs can not give his
Sire the chase he loves so dearly so Drusilla does the heating up. For both of
them. And God help him, after all these years he still feels the need every
time his Creator walks into the room, even though he fights him with teeth and
claws until he is pinned down and taken without mercy. This version of Angelus
does not offer any comfort afterwards. Instead he dumps Spike unceremoniously
back into the wheelchair, not caring if he misses and sends Spike sprawling to
the floor.
Sometimes he has to lie there naked and cold for hours, until Dru comes looking
for him. He bides his time, feeling the spine mending, waiting for the day when
he will rise again and strike the bastard hard.
But still he wishes for a single kiss...
Sunnydale, 2000
Luckily for Spike, Xander's father never comes downstairs. A few times the door
opens and the stench of smoke, booze and just plain filth, slides through the
air, assaulting his nostrils. The git shouts for the boy to 'get his lazy ass
upstairs' before slamming it shut again.
It would be interesting to observe the whelp's reaction, if the smell of fear
wasn't nearly choking him. Spike wants to tell him to just go, walk out and
never come back, and please God, take him along.
But he says nothing.
Instead he has the decency to look away, giving the boy some privacy in his
fear. At least until he has walked past him and is heading up the creaking
stairs, each step heavy with dread. He longs to tug at his ropes, wrench
himself free and shove the poor thing aside. Stalk upstairs and rip the
fucker's throat out. Only he's too weak with hunger to break the ropes, isn't
he, and too scared of the blinding pain in his brain to do anything more
drastic.
So he does nothing
He just sits rigid, sweat running down his back and making him stick to the
fake red leather of the chair he's tied to. Knuckles white, teeth gritting,
eyes yellow. At times like this he wishes he didn't have such acute senses.
Even though a deaf person could hear the screams, at least he would be spared
the stench of tears and cum, the sounds of soft weeping and animal grunting.
And he doesn't need the visual, he has had it branded into his brain since
childhood.
When the boy comes stumbling back downstairs, they avoid each others eyes.
Soiled clothes are shed behind a curtain and put in the washer, bruised skin
scrubbed red under scolding water. Spike closes his eyes, breathing himself
calm. Maybe he should tell the boy it isn't his fault. Maybe he should offer to
get rid off the bastard. Not himself of course, bloody G.I. Joes saw to that,
but he still has some connections. Or maybe he should drop a clue to the witch
when the opportunity rises.
 
But he does nothing.
 
Los Angeles, 2004
It is strange the way their relationship picks right up again. Except it isn't
really a relationship, is it. Even if they bicker like an old married couple,
even if they, on occasions, share memories not too painful, even if after a
long day of battling creatures and contracts they find release in the same grim
game. Spike's heart isn't really in it, although his dick is, and he can feel
that Angel is only going through the motions too, not really enjoying himself.
It isn't until one night, when they are both too exhausted to do anything more
than collapse naked on the bed after the slime-cleansing shower, falling asleep
side by side and forestalling Spike's usual retreat to the couch, that it
changes.
He wakes up unexpectedly, confused by the unusual comfort. When he opens his
blue eyes he is looking straight into brown ones. Not cold or empty or mocking,
the emotions he's used to handling. Instead, they seem to hold consideration or
even wonder.
Time stands still.
When he sees the old hardness returning he finally wakes up from his stupor and
grabs the back of Angel's head, drawing him in for The Kiss. It is made of one
hundred and twenty four years of longing, one hundred twenty four years of
passion, one hundred twenty four years of repressed love. His head is swimming,
his heart struggles to beat, and his soul weeps for time lost.
When he comes to, Angel is staring down at him, gasping for breath and pupils
dilated in shock. Spike has never been so afraid in the whole of his existence.
He wants to beg for forgiveness. Beg for a step back in time.
Instead he lies there silently, awaiting his punishment. Angel's raising hand
makes him wince and he closes his eyes, preparing for the blow.
The gentle caress startles him, fingers travel over his face, light like
butterfly wings. Over his cheekbones, touching his earlobe, running along his
jaw, finally reaching his lips. There they linger, tracing soft lines. Spike's
breath hitches and tears prickle behind his eyelids. He can feel Angel's gaze,
burning his skin and finally he can't take it anymore. He opens his eyes,
blinking to clear his vision. Whatever he expected it wasn't the tender smile
or the sad eyes looking down at him.
"My sweet William, my beautiful boy."
His soft words make Spike tremble with emotion even if he fears they are his
eulogy.
"Your boy, " he replies hoarsely, "always your boy."
Angel's lips descending on his make him close his eyes again. Their second kiss
is softer, sweeter. In his refuge of darkness he can feel every inch of his
skin that is being touched by his Sire. Thigh on thigh, belly to belly, hand on
shoulderblade but most importantly, lips on lips. When the cool tongue seeks
entrance he opens up with a moan. The sound urges Angel on and he presses his
body closer, seeming to melt them into one being. Spike isn't sure where he
ends and where Angel begins, who is touching whom where, who is mumbling what.
It all blends together into one swirl of sensations and emotions. When Angel
pulls back and looks at him with hesitation Spike's dark blue eyes blinking are
all the encouragement his Sire needs.
They have never taken it so slow. After all this is virgin territory for both
of them. Spike gathers that Angel's one night with Buffy was probably a bit
like this. All of his never were.
They keep kissing through the whole experience. Though they might leave each
others lips momentarily - there are so many other places to taste and nibble.
But after a while they always come back for the real thing. And for the first
time Angel sees want in Spike's eyes as he is breeched. For the first time
Spike feels how it is to be prepared with wet fingers, gently stretching him.
For the first time there is more moaning than grunting, more sighing than
growling, more giving than taking. For the first time Angel watches Spike's
eyes roll back as he hits his prostate, feels his face ripple into demon as his
orgasm is building, hears his lips cry out Angel's name as he comes.
For the first time he waits until he is sure that Spike has had his pleasure
before he comes himself.
They lie together afterwards, entangled in each others embrace, lazy fingers
running through damp curls, soft lips tasting each other every so often. Spike
struggles to stay awake, afraid that tomorrow all will be as it was and it will
break his heart. But Angel's soft caresses are lulling him to sleep and finally
he can't fight it anymore. With a tiny shiver he goes slack and soon he is
breathing evenly.
Kissing the sleeping man's brow, Angel pulls him even closer, inhaling his
scent. As he whispers a gentle 'thank you' into his childe's ear he prays that
this night will only be the first of many he doesn't have to spend alone.
Fin
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