The In-Between
The In-Between
Fandom: Angel - Sometime in a happier Season Five, with Spike/Fred
Rating: light R, to be safe
A/N: Almost, but not quite the morning after for Spike and Fred. I've been in a romantic mood lately, for some reason...
He’s going to savor this. Likely won’t ever have it again, so he’s going to live every second. He’d call it something like “roses in December” - she’d call it “searing it into the neurons of your cerebrum - although that’s a very far-fetched metaphor and completely unlike what actually happens” - then lapse into a monologue where he’d struggle to keep up and eventually just wait for her to finish.
Every point of contact is brilliantly, vitally alive, a burning trail between the two of them. Her leg, warm and supple, presses pleasantly between his own, a reminder of passion replete - for a few minutes, anyway. His right hand, curled around the curve of her arse, holds her close - she feels closer to him than his own body, and he’s not even going to try to puzzle that out. Her hand, splotchy from chemistry experiments past, scarred by battle (and probably more science experiments) rests right over where his heart will never beat again.
In their cuddled position, her head pillowed on his shoulder, curly amber hair tickling his neck, he focuses on her muscles, soft under her skin, relaxed and trusting against him. She’s totally unguarded in sleep - no hint of tension or doubt. Not that there was any last night, but still - he’s learned not to trust in the morning after.
He flicks his gaze to the glow-in-the-dark alarm on her nightstand. If the diminishing darkness wasn’t already a clue, he knows his time is almost up. Won’t be long before she wakes, gets an awkward but kind-hearted look on her face…
All he wants to do is push back the sun, keep this moment alive forever, locked in that in-between of last night’s dream and this morning’s reality.
Against him, he can feel her sigh, shift her thigh against his. He tenses - here it comes.
Fred inhales deeply against his skin, rubs her cheek against his shoulder. “Spike,” she murmurs sleepily, moves her hand across his chest to hold him tighter. She slips back into sleep as easily as a breath, not quite ready to wake.
Spike feels a rushing inside him, almost like what he remembered a racing pulse to be like. He wants to get up and run to relieve this great swell of emotion, nudge Fred back into wakefulness with tugging kisses, make her cry out in joy until noon.
Instead, he relaxes, committing the moment to memory, but not studying upon it too hard. Content to experience and be experienced, he bends his head to press a kiss to her forehead. What would have felt like a greatly daring move only seconds ago is now the most natural of actions - to curl his arm about her waist, pull her tight to his chest, and sink back with her into dreams.
Fandom: Angel - Sometime in a happier Season Five, with Spike/Fred
Rating: light R, to be safe
A/N: Almost, but not quite the morning after for Spike and Fred. I've been in a romantic mood lately, for some reason...
He’s going to savor this. Likely won’t ever have it again, so he’s going to live every second. He’d call it something like “roses in December” - she’d call it “searing it into the neurons of your cerebrum - although that’s a very far-fetched metaphor and completely unlike what actually happens” - then lapse into a monologue where he’d struggle to keep up and eventually just wait for her to finish.
Every point of contact is brilliantly, vitally alive, a burning trail between the two of them. Her leg, warm and supple, presses pleasantly between his own, a reminder of passion replete - for a few minutes, anyway. His right hand, curled around the curve of her arse, holds her close - she feels closer to him than his own body, and he’s not even going to try to puzzle that out. Her hand, splotchy from chemistry experiments past, scarred by battle (and probably more science experiments) rests right over where his heart will never beat again.
In their cuddled position, her head pillowed on his shoulder, curly amber hair tickling his neck, he focuses on her muscles, soft under her skin, relaxed and trusting against him. She’s totally unguarded in sleep - no hint of tension or doubt. Not that there was any last night, but still - he’s learned not to trust in the morning after.
He flicks his gaze to the glow-in-the-dark alarm on her nightstand. If the diminishing darkness wasn’t already a clue, he knows his time is almost up. Won’t be long before she wakes, gets an awkward but kind-hearted look on her face…
All he wants to do is push back the sun, keep this moment alive forever, locked in that in-between of last night’s dream and this morning’s reality.
Against him, he can feel her sigh, shift her thigh against his. He tenses - here it comes.
Fred inhales deeply against his skin, rubs her cheek against his shoulder. “Spike,” she murmurs sleepily, moves her hand across his chest to hold him tighter. She slips back into sleep as easily as a breath, not quite ready to wake.
Spike feels a rushing inside him, almost like what he remembered a racing pulse to be like. He wants to get up and run to relieve this great swell of emotion, nudge Fred back into wakefulness with tugging kisses, make her cry out in joy until noon.
Instead, he relaxes, committing the moment to memory, but not studying upon it too hard. Content to experience and be experienced, he bends his head to press a kiss to her forehead. What would have felt like a greatly daring move only seconds ago is now the most natural of actions - to curl his arm about her waist, pull her tight to his chest, and sink back with her into dreams.