Whedonland Big Bang Fiction Post 8
Fic Collection (Theme - Hands)
Part 8, 20 Points: Need, Lost, Cold, Kiss
Author: LMX
Fandom: Angel the Series
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Spike/Angel (Kiss)
Spoilers: All of Angel The Series, up to and including the finale
Warnings: Inaccurate timelines
Edit: Betaed by chokolattejedi, despite other far more important demands on time ;) Thank you hugely.
Continuity Warning: The bits and pieces from Lindsey are going to come out fairly non-linearly. I will probably reassemble them once this is all done.
010. Need - A Hand Up (Lindsey + Holland, 387)
He had known his young protégé for five years before Holland realised that what Lindsey wanted and needed more than anything else in the world was attention.
His position at Wolfram and Hart, his attitude and his determination, they weren't about the money or the security - though that made for an easy get out, something they could talk about that wouldn't make Lindsey flame up like the little queen he could be sometimes. It was all about being good enough at his job to be seen. To get that little pat on the head, a pay rise, a promotion. The barest glance of attention made his day.
Lindsey was one of a large family who had too much on their plate when they were growing up. He was the middle of the three children separated only by a year or so but more than 6 years between them and their other three siblings. He'd never gotten the attention from his mother who'd died young not long after the birth of her sixth child, Jamie, and his father had always worked too hard to have time for any of them. Then his father had his accident and it was a rare day he knew which of his sons Lindsey was. Or even that he was one of his sons. Lindsey's older siblings had been working too hard to keep the family afloat to really spend time with him, one of three children all clamouring for attention, and at six he'd been too young to help, more of a hindrance - another mouth to feed, and then there'd just been him, the memory of his sisters too much of a weight on his siblings' shoulders. Just when everything started to settle down, his sister had gotten married and moved out of town and his brothers had gone their own ways and he'd been left alone in the house with a father who could barely look after himself.
Holland had never been one to offer his future competition a hand up the food chain, and Lindsey didn't need or want his assistance, but Holland could see in him a challenge, a survivor, someone he could mould and shape, and someone who would keep the senior partners on their toes. Ever so carefully, Holland made sure Lindsey would be where he needed him when the time came.
021. Lost - A Bad Hand Played Well (Lindsey, 338)
"Face it, Lindsey. You lost." It was possibly the bluntest way Lindsey had ever been told he'd failed, and he clenched his hands on his lap, trying to ignore the preparations going on behind him.
"It wasn't some kind of competition," he ground out. "It was her life."
"If you're going to judge this game on the basis of Darla's life, then you lost four hundred years before you started playing," came the laughing reply. Lindsey still didn't see the humour.
"It wasn't a *game*." He refused to acknowledge that the senior partners probably saw it as such, and enjoyed fucking with the little pieces they controlled.
The man stepped up behind him, started cleaning the skin of his back with some cold solution. "You started with a bad hand, it's true," he continued, "Angel had centuries of history on you, and she was broken - seriously broken. But you still played. You battled for her life." His hands hesitated when Lindsey hissed - alcohol over new grazes. The last few months had been brutal. "You knew you'd lost the minute Drusilla turned her."
"How do you know all this?" Lindsey demanded. "Who have you been talking to?"
"But you kept playing." He picked up one of Lindsey's hands and jerked it up so that he could clean the skin of his arm. For the first time he was in a position where Lindsey could see him properly, and he tried not to stare at the demon and his paw-like hands. He was relying on those hands. "You fought with everything you had. All your faith was in her. No wonder you couldn't stay in L.A."
"So I played my bad hand and I lost. Fine." Lindsey pulled away, took his wrist in the other hand. "What's this, now? If I've already lost, what's the point of all this work?"
"This? This is the world shuffling the pack." The tattooist pulled out a needle and a pot of toxic smelling ink. "Are you ready for me to deal?"
057. Cold (Lindsey, 192)
He knows that time has passed. He’s aware of it in some distant way that suggests that maybe he’s lost more blood than is safe, shivering with the cold and still gripping his bare wrist because he can't bring himself to put pressure on the wound. There’s movement in the crate behind him, but he can’t focus on it or scrape together enough wherewithal to sit up and investigate. To make sure everything has worked the way it was supposed to.
Some part of him remembers exactly what he was supposed to be doing here, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming *pain* and he's having problems thinking past that right now. Still, he isn't surprised - when reinforcements finally arrive - to see them check the box first before giving him a cursory glance to see if he's still alive.
If he shows shown a bit of extra initiative, maybe he'll get more than a glance next time. His hatred for Angel smoulders as layers of illusion are stripped away. Passing out feels like falling into a pool of cold water, he's still shivering when he wakes up in the hospital the next day.
100. A Kiss With A Fist (Spike/Angel, Florence and the Machine, 414)
Spike winds Angel up on purpose. That much at least should be painfully obvious. He reasoning is perhaps less transparent, and he aims to keep it that way for as long as he can maintain this façade. If Angel ever knew what was going through his head, Spike had the feeling he'd lose everything.
For all his bluster you might think it was true hatred between the two of them, or that Spike's jealousy over Angel's history with Drusilla, or even Buffy, had created this old grudge, so deep seated - made into something vaguely warm and companionable with the last few years.
The thing was, Spike didn't hate Angel. Not in the least. They had years romping together through Europe, watching as his grandsire made sure there was nothing more feared in these people's tiny world as him. He had made every attempt to draw and keep Angelus' attention for longer than the moment it took to kick him aside and in those years Spike had nurtured a twisted, masochistic love for him. A love that could not be assuaged by Drusilla's wandering attentions, however loyal he might be to his own sire. He performed for Angel, showed off his every skill and flourish, and fine, maybe he'd never been as artistic as he had been violent, but he'd enjoyed himself. He should have got points for enthusiasm at the very least.
To find him so many years later in such a state had thrown Spike, left him reeling and seeking comfort and reassurance in Drusilla's arms. He'd felt vaguely like, if he could perform to Angelus' tastes, make up for the world lacking his talents, he would be returned to him. He followed in his footsteps, kept close to him in his travels. Every time Angel came close to being happy with someone who wasn't him, Spike make sure it was taken away from him. Angel couldn't stay. Spike needed Angelus back.
It was only later, under the pressure of his own soul, that Spike realised that nothing had really changed between them. Angel still harboured a dismissive hatred and he an illicit love.
So he stayed by Angel's side, seeking every opportunity to garner his attentions, happy to irritate him into violence and throwing himself into their every confrontation with masochistic glee. He knew he could never hope for anything more. Not after all this.
With the weight of centuries of unrequited love, Spike was happy to agree that a kiss with a fist was better than none.
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Part 8, 20 Points: Need, Lost, Cold, Kiss
Author: LMX
Fandom: Angel the Series
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Spike/Angel (Kiss)
Spoilers: All of Angel The Series, up to and including the finale
Warnings: Inaccurate timelines
Edit: Betaed by chokolattejedi, despite other far more important demands on time ;) Thank you hugely.
Continuity Warning: The bits and pieces from Lindsey are going to come out fairly non-linearly. I will probably reassemble them once this is all done.
010. Need - A Hand Up (Lindsey + Holland, 387)
He had known his young protégé for five years before Holland realised that what Lindsey wanted and needed more than anything else in the world was attention.
His position at Wolfram and Hart, his attitude and his determination, they weren't about the money or the security - though that made for an easy get out, something they could talk about that wouldn't make Lindsey flame up like the little queen he could be sometimes. It was all about being good enough at his job to be seen. To get that little pat on the head, a pay rise, a promotion. The barest glance of attention made his day.
Lindsey was one of a large family who had too much on their plate when they were growing up. He was the middle of the three children separated only by a year or so but more than 6 years between them and their other three siblings. He'd never gotten the attention from his mother who'd died young not long after the birth of her sixth child, Jamie, and his father had always worked too hard to have time for any of them. Then his father had his accident and it was a rare day he knew which of his sons Lindsey was. Or even that he was one of his sons. Lindsey's older siblings had been working too hard to keep the family afloat to really spend time with him, one of three children all clamouring for attention, and at six he'd been too young to help, more of a hindrance - another mouth to feed, and then there'd just been him, the memory of his sisters too much of a weight on his siblings' shoulders. Just when everything started to settle down, his sister had gotten married and moved out of town and his brothers had gone their own ways and he'd been left alone in the house with a father who could barely look after himself.
Holland had never been one to offer his future competition a hand up the food chain, and Lindsey didn't need or want his assistance, but Holland could see in him a challenge, a survivor, someone he could mould and shape, and someone who would keep the senior partners on their toes. Ever so carefully, Holland made sure Lindsey would be where he needed him when the time came.
021. Lost - A Bad Hand Played Well (Lindsey, 338)
"Face it, Lindsey. You lost." It was possibly the bluntest way Lindsey had ever been told he'd failed, and he clenched his hands on his lap, trying to ignore the preparations going on behind him.
"It wasn't some kind of competition," he ground out. "It was her life."
"If you're going to judge this game on the basis of Darla's life, then you lost four hundred years before you started playing," came the laughing reply. Lindsey still didn't see the humour.
"It wasn't a *game*." He refused to acknowledge that the senior partners probably saw it as such, and enjoyed fucking with the little pieces they controlled.
The man stepped up behind him, started cleaning the skin of his back with some cold solution. "You started with a bad hand, it's true," he continued, "Angel had centuries of history on you, and she was broken - seriously broken. But you still played. You battled for her life." His hands hesitated when Lindsey hissed - alcohol over new grazes. The last few months had been brutal. "You knew you'd lost the minute Drusilla turned her."
"How do you know all this?" Lindsey demanded. "Who have you been talking to?"
"But you kept playing." He picked up one of Lindsey's hands and jerked it up so that he could clean the skin of his arm. For the first time he was in a position where Lindsey could see him properly, and he tried not to stare at the demon and his paw-like hands. He was relying on those hands. "You fought with everything you had. All your faith was in her. No wonder you couldn't stay in L.A."
"So I played my bad hand and I lost. Fine." Lindsey pulled away, took his wrist in the other hand. "What's this, now? If I've already lost, what's the point of all this work?"
"This? This is the world shuffling the pack." The tattooist pulled out a needle and a pot of toxic smelling ink. "Are you ready for me to deal?"
057. Cold (Lindsey, 192)
He knows that time has passed. He’s aware of it in some distant way that suggests that maybe he’s lost more blood than is safe, shivering with the cold and still gripping his bare wrist because he can't bring himself to put pressure on the wound. There’s movement in the crate behind him, but he can’t focus on it or scrape together enough wherewithal to sit up and investigate. To make sure everything has worked the way it was supposed to.
Some part of him remembers exactly what he was supposed to be doing here, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming *pain* and he's having problems thinking past that right now. Still, he isn't surprised - when reinforcements finally arrive - to see them check the box first before giving him a cursory glance to see if he's still alive.
If he shows shown a bit of extra initiative, maybe he'll get more than a glance next time. His hatred for Angel smoulders as layers of illusion are stripped away. Passing out feels like falling into a pool of cold water, he's still shivering when he wakes up in the hospital the next day.
100. A Kiss With A Fist (Spike/Angel, Florence and the Machine, 414)
Spike winds Angel up on purpose. That much at least should be painfully obvious. He reasoning is perhaps less transparent, and he aims to keep it that way for as long as he can maintain this façade. If Angel ever knew what was going through his head, Spike had the feeling he'd lose everything.
For all his bluster you might think it was true hatred between the two of them, or that Spike's jealousy over Angel's history with Drusilla, or even Buffy, had created this old grudge, so deep seated - made into something vaguely warm and companionable with the last few years.
The thing was, Spike didn't hate Angel. Not in the least. They had years romping together through Europe, watching as his grandsire made sure there was nothing more feared in these people's tiny world as him. He had made every attempt to draw and keep Angelus' attention for longer than the moment it took to kick him aside and in those years Spike had nurtured a twisted, masochistic love for him. A love that could not be assuaged by Drusilla's wandering attentions, however loyal he might be to his own sire. He performed for Angel, showed off his every skill and flourish, and fine, maybe he'd never been as artistic as he had been violent, but he'd enjoyed himself. He should have got points for enthusiasm at the very least.
To find him so many years later in such a state had thrown Spike, left him reeling and seeking comfort and reassurance in Drusilla's arms. He'd felt vaguely like, if he could perform to Angelus' tastes, make up for the world lacking his talents, he would be returned to him. He followed in his footsteps, kept close to him in his travels. Every time Angel came close to being happy with someone who wasn't him, Spike make sure it was taken away from him. Angel couldn't stay. Spike needed Angelus back.
It was only later, under the pressure of his own soul, that Spike realised that nothing had really changed between them. Angel still harboured a dismissive hatred and he an illicit love.
So he stayed by Angel's side, seeking every opportunity to garner his attentions, happy to irritate him into violence and throwing himself into their every confrontation with masochistic glee. He knew he could never hope for anything more. Not after all this.
With the weight of centuries of unrequited love, Spike was happy to agree that a kiss with a fist was better than none.