A bit of a different fic... 'Two Fusiliers' - s/a - part one
As some of you know, the 14th was sweptawaybayou's birthday. Yay! And some of us got together and made its_snow_day - a comm *just for Snow*! 'Cause we luff her and she deserves it.
Anyway, I posted a bit of Spike/Angel fic over there, and am planning on adding more to it. So I thought i'd re-post it *here*. Mainly 'cause i'm just...weird. I wanna have *my* stuff in *my* journal, even though this fic is *all* about Snow.
*cough*
Anyway. Here t'is. The title is from the poem by Robert Graves, Two Fusiliers.
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...'>
Well, we've been lucky devils both,
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...
Sometimes, being drunk just wasn't enough. Not nearly bloody enough. Spike looked down with blurred satisfaction at the dead demon at his feet. Kicked out with his left boot, shaking off the bit of viscera that clung to its toe.
*Won't be makin' cracks about...whatever the fuck he was makin' cracks about,* Spike thought, and turned in a slow half-circle. "Anybody else? I'm up for all you bastards." A mini-skirted vamp gave him a sultry look and Spike grinned. "Especially up for you, darling. It's fight or fuck time."
"How about it's bedtime?"
Spike turned more, toward the voice. "Bedtime? I'm all grown up, mate - not nearly late enough for... Oh. It's you."
"Yeah, it's me," Angel said, little quirk of his lips upward and Spike snorted.
"I already had you." Spike stepped away from the demon corpse and pushed out of the ragged circle of on-lookers, heading for the bar. Angel grabbed his arm.
"Spike, we need to talk."
Spike jerked his arm free. "We bloody well do not." There was already a shot waiting for him at the bar and Spike drained it in a gulp, setting the glass back down precisely in its little wet circle.
"Spike - stop being a stubborn ass and -"
"Angelus, stop being a pain in my arse and piss off! Unless you're angling to have a pain. Like I said, it's fuck or -"
"Fight time. Yeah, I heard you. It doesn't get any better with repetition." Angel leaned against the bar and Spike leaned away from him - gestured for another shot. The bartender obliged - shot Angel a look. Angel shook his head.
"Oh, not drinkin'. Of course you're not. Just here to get on my last bloody nerve." Spike downed the waiting shot and then growled when Angel lifted the glass out of his hand - turned it upside down on the scarred wood of the bar.
"I said we need to talk, Spike. Not fall face-first into the gutter."
"And you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, you drunken Irish sot," Spike snapped, and Angel's chin went down and his eyes flashed fire.
"Spike. I will drag you out of here by your fucking ear if I have to," Angel growled, and Spike laughed.
"You'll bloody try. Christ." The crowd had gotten quiet - watchful - and Spike curled his lip in disgust. "You know how to suck the fucking life out of every sodding thing under the sun, don't you." Spike dug into an inner pocket and came up with a wad of bills - scattered some onto the bar top. Turned on his heel and strode out. Angel, of course, followed. *Like a bloody stray dog.*
It was drizzling outside - rain like a fine mist, making the edges of things sparkle - making the city shine. It actually made the air smell almost good, ozone and cool air sweeping in from the sea, dirt and exhaust weighted down and coating the roads instead of riding the breeze. Spike headed downtown, toward his flat, and utterly ignored Angel. Or ignored as best he could a six-foot-whatever hulk of black leather and gloom. He lit a cigarette instead and smoked it rapidly, flicking the butt away into the fire-stained rubble of a collapsed shop. When he got to his building, he took the fire escape up instead of using the door, because he just wasn't in the mood to confront the whack-job junkie who inhabited half of the fifth floor.
Spike's flat was most of the seventh floor. Nine was too damaged to be habitable and eight was a much-needed buffer between the two. Spike shouldered the floor-to-ceiling window open and stepped inside, knowing Angel could follow but hoping that maybe -
"Ow! What the hell?"
*Gotcha.* Spike grinned - turned around to see Angel rubbing the back of his neck and looking bewildered. "Ward or two - protection spell. If you were human, you'd be flat on your back."
"Huh." Angel came all the way inside - stood there, surveying his surroundings. Spike saw his eyes widen and then narrow and Spike snorted softly and went over to his 'bar', fishing a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and finding a glass. The walk - his anger - had sobered him. After a moment, with a sigh, he got another glass.
"Come on and have a drink, then, instead of standing there and staring about like a great lummox."
"Spike..." Angel said, and his voice was just...tired. "Jesus, can you just -"
"No. Really can't," Spike said. He put bottle and glasses down on his table, a salvaged Hepplewhite from some gallery uptown. It was a little scarred, but the inlay still looked good. Angel moved over slowly as Spike eased out the cork and poured them both a drink. Angel picked his up and swirled the liquid around in the glass for a moment, taking a little sniff before he drank it down. Spike just tipped up his glass and gulped because fuck, he was just not in the mood for...
Anything. Any of it. Spike felt his fingers tightening on his glass and he forced himself to relax. "Come back to the scene of the crime for a reason, Angelus, or are you just slumming these days?"
"Don't know why I even fucking bother," Angel muttered, putting his glass down with a crack.
"I really don't either, mate." Spike jerkily poured himself another drink, angry that he was angry - angry that he could still, after all this time, feel... *Betrayed. Abandoned. Cheated, by god.* "Why not just fuck off back to wherever the hell your batcave is and leave me be."
"I'm not here for me, Spike. I'm here because Buffy -"
"Oh fuck you!" Spike hurled the glass at the nearest wall, taking no satisfaction in the chime and shatter of heavy crystal. He took two quick strides around the table and was all but on top of Angel, chest to chest and his hands balled into fists. Glaring into dark eyes that glared back, flare of gold in their depths that matched the surge of rage that flared, hot and sharp, in Spike's chest. "That doesn't work anymore, Angel. And you bringing her up just makes me think you're more desperate than you look."
"I'm not - look, Spike, I wouldn't have even come here if -"
"If Saint Buffy hadn't pouted her pretty mouth at you? Christ, you're pathetic." Spike turned his back on Angel and picked up the other glass - filled it and drained it and considered throwing it, too, but he actually liked these glasses, and he'd be damned if he was going to break them all over Angel. *Had enough of that three years ago...*
"Spike, just shut up and listen, for once. There's something big coming. A whole new level of evil. Worse than -"
"Wait - let me guess." Spike stalked to the fireplace that bulked against the far wall, staring blindly down at the shimmering bed of coals that was all that was left of his afternoon's fire. "This is worse than the First? Than the Circle of the Black Thorn? Worse than some sodding wanker of a worker bee bringing his favorite Old God back to life? Been there, Angelus, done it, got the bloody scars to show for it."
"This is different, Spike! This isn't some apocalypse we can fix by - by killing the right thing or chanting the right spell. You know that the Slayers are getting more...organized. Starting to use military tactics -"
"Yeah, I've heard it," Spike snapped. He'd heard more than that. Heard that they were sidling up to the government - heard that they were starting to take on the trappings and tricks of a certain secret military organization and Spike...did not approve. For a lot of reasons. He kicked at a sliver of wood that had fallen onto the grate and turned to face Angel. Was a little dismayed to find him not five paces away. "They're making themselves damn unpopular, too. What's your point?"
"The point...my point - is that the demon world is starting to organize, too. It's going to be war, Spike, and she - they - need every soldier. Every champion."
*God. He really believes it, too. Look at him - like a school boy asked to lead the bloody procession...* "That right, Angelus? That what they need? Soldiers and champions... Heroes." Spike took a long breath - let it out on a short, shaky laugh. "Well, that's too damn bad, Angelus. Just too bloody bad, 'cause I'm not either of those." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it - blew the slate-blue smoke in a plume up over his head. "And neither are you."
Part two.
Anyway, I posted a bit of Spike/Angel fic over there, and am planning on adding more to it. So I thought i'd re-post it *here*. Mainly 'cause i'm just...weird. I wanna have *my* stuff in *my* journal, even though this fic is *all* about Snow.
*cough*
Anyway. Here t'is. The title is from the poem by Robert Graves, Two Fusiliers.
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...'>
Well, we've been lucky devils both,
And there's no need of pledge or oath
To bind our lovely friendship fast,
By firmer stuff, close bound enough...
Sometimes, being drunk just wasn't enough. Not nearly bloody enough. Spike looked down with blurred satisfaction at the dead demon at his feet. Kicked out with his left boot, shaking off the bit of viscera that clung to its toe.
*Won't be makin' cracks about...whatever the fuck he was makin' cracks about,* Spike thought, and turned in a slow half-circle. "Anybody else? I'm up for all you bastards." A mini-skirted vamp gave him a sultry look and Spike grinned. "Especially up for you, darling. It's fight or fuck time."
"How about it's bedtime?"
Spike turned more, toward the voice. "Bedtime? I'm all grown up, mate - not nearly late enough for... Oh. It's you."
"Yeah, it's me," Angel said, little quirk of his lips upward and Spike snorted.
"I already had you." Spike stepped away from the demon corpse and pushed out of the ragged circle of on-lookers, heading for the bar. Angel grabbed his arm.
"Spike, we need to talk."
Spike jerked his arm free. "We bloody well do not." There was already a shot waiting for him at the bar and Spike drained it in a gulp, setting the glass back down precisely in its little wet circle.
"Spike - stop being a stubborn ass and -"
"Angelus, stop being a pain in my arse and piss off! Unless you're angling to have a pain. Like I said, it's fuck or -"
"Fight time. Yeah, I heard you. It doesn't get any better with repetition." Angel leaned against the bar and Spike leaned away from him - gestured for another shot. The bartender obliged - shot Angel a look. Angel shook his head.
"Oh, not drinkin'. Of course you're not. Just here to get on my last bloody nerve." Spike downed the waiting shot and then growled when Angel lifted the glass out of his hand - turned it upside down on the scarred wood of the bar.
"I said we need to talk, Spike. Not fall face-first into the gutter."
"And you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, you drunken Irish sot," Spike snapped, and Angel's chin went down and his eyes flashed fire.
"Spike. I will drag you out of here by your fucking ear if I have to," Angel growled, and Spike laughed.
"You'll bloody try. Christ." The crowd had gotten quiet - watchful - and Spike curled his lip in disgust. "You know how to suck the fucking life out of every sodding thing under the sun, don't you." Spike dug into an inner pocket and came up with a wad of bills - scattered some onto the bar top. Turned on his heel and strode out. Angel, of course, followed. *Like a bloody stray dog.*
It was drizzling outside - rain like a fine mist, making the edges of things sparkle - making the city shine. It actually made the air smell almost good, ozone and cool air sweeping in from the sea, dirt and exhaust weighted down and coating the roads instead of riding the breeze. Spike headed downtown, toward his flat, and utterly ignored Angel. Or ignored as best he could a six-foot-whatever hulk of black leather and gloom. He lit a cigarette instead and smoked it rapidly, flicking the butt away into the fire-stained rubble of a collapsed shop. When he got to his building, he took the fire escape up instead of using the door, because he just wasn't in the mood to confront the whack-job junkie who inhabited half of the fifth floor.
Spike's flat was most of the seventh floor. Nine was too damaged to be habitable and eight was a much-needed buffer between the two. Spike shouldered the floor-to-ceiling window open and stepped inside, knowing Angel could follow but hoping that maybe -
"Ow! What the hell?"
*Gotcha.* Spike grinned - turned around to see Angel rubbing the back of his neck and looking bewildered. "Ward or two - protection spell. If you were human, you'd be flat on your back."
"Huh." Angel came all the way inside - stood there, surveying his surroundings. Spike saw his eyes widen and then narrow and Spike snorted softly and went over to his 'bar', fishing a bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and finding a glass. The walk - his anger - had sobered him. After a moment, with a sigh, he got another glass.
"Come on and have a drink, then, instead of standing there and staring about like a great lummox."
"Spike..." Angel said, and his voice was just...tired. "Jesus, can you just -"
"No. Really can't," Spike said. He put bottle and glasses down on his table, a salvaged Hepplewhite from some gallery uptown. It was a little scarred, but the inlay still looked good. Angel moved over slowly as Spike eased out the cork and poured them both a drink. Angel picked his up and swirled the liquid around in the glass for a moment, taking a little sniff before he drank it down. Spike just tipped up his glass and gulped because fuck, he was just not in the mood for...
Anything. Any of it. Spike felt his fingers tightening on his glass and he forced himself to relax. "Come back to the scene of the crime for a reason, Angelus, or are you just slumming these days?"
"Don't know why I even fucking bother," Angel muttered, putting his glass down with a crack.
"I really don't either, mate." Spike jerkily poured himself another drink, angry that he was angry - angry that he could still, after all this time, feel... *Betrayed. Abandoned. Cheated, by god.* "Why not just fuck off back to wherever the hell your batcave is and leave me be."
"I'm not here for me, Spike. I'm here because Buffy -"
"Oh fuck you!" Spike hurled the glass at the nearest wall, taking no satisfaction in the chime and shatter of heavy crystal. He took two quick strides around the table and was all but on top of Angel, chest to chest and his hands balled into fists. Glaring into dark eyes that glared back, flare of gold in their depths that matched the surge of rage that flared, hot and sharp, in Spike's chest. "That doesn't work anymore, Angel. And you bringing her up just makes me think you're more desperate than you look."
"I'm not - look, Spike, I wouldn't have even come here if -"
"If Saint Buffy hadn't pouted her pretty mouth at you? Christ, you're pathetic." Spike turned his back on Angel and picked up the other glass - filled it and drained it and considered throwing it, too, but he actually liked these glasses, and he'd be damned if he was going to break them all over Angel. *Had enough of that three years ago...*
"Spike, just shut up and listen, for once. There's something big coming. A whole new level of evil. Worse than -"
"Wait - let me guess." Spike stalked to the fireplace that bulked against the far wall, staring blindly down at the shimmering bed of coals that was all that was left of his afternoon's fire. "This is worse than the First? Than the Circle of the Black Thorn? Worse than some sodding wanker of a worker bee bringing his favorite Old God back to life? Been there, Angelus, done it, got the bloody scars to show for it."
"This is different, Spike! This isn't some apocalypse we can fix by - by killing the right thing or chanting the right spell. You know that the Slayers are getting more...organized. Starting to use military tactics -"
"Yeah, I've heard it," Spike snapped. He'd heard more than that. Heard that they were sidling up to the government - heard that they were starting to take on the trappings and tricks of a certain secret military organization and Spike...did not approve. For a lot of reasons. He kicked at a sliver of wood that had fallen onto the grate and turned to face Angel. Was a little dismayed to find him not five paces away. "They're making themselves damn unpopular, too. What's your point?"
"The point...my point - is that the demon world is starting to organize, too. It's going to be war, Spike, and she - they - need every soldier. Every champion."
*God. He really believes it, too. Look at him - like a school boy asked to lead the bloody procession...* "That right, Angelus? That what they need? Soldiers and champions... Heroes." Spike took a long breath - let it out on a short, shaky laugh. "Well, that's too damn bad, Angelus. Just too bloody bad, 'cause I'm not either of those." He pulled out a cigarette and lit it - blew the slate-blue smoke in a plume up over his head. "And neither are you."
Part two.