Title: Behind closed eyelids he can enjoy the touches…
Fandom: Spike and Angel in a non specified timeline except both are souled
Status: finished - 479 words
Genre: slash Spike/Angel, hurt/comfort?
Notes: Originally posted February 14th, 2006
Short summary: see title
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There’s a masochistic part of Spike that likes getting hurt, feeling every bone in his body grate together splinted edges with a blinding pain, forcing him to stay still. Counting time, dreading it to end warring with wanting his body back whole again, as the itchy feeling of skin slowly closing ragged wounds.
Because in his burning ache and dazed brain his arguments are ignored. Hidden secrets he doesn’t admit to himself unless his blood is painting his bruised skin red and black. With his walls down, his mind busy to take the pain, it allows relief to slink through. Removing his choice to move away, to object noisily, when strong hands slide over naked skin with a wet cloth. Not allowing him to object to being taken care of, being pampered. He can let his eyes close and fake it, secretly enjoying it with the bitter taste of still being so bloody soft to want this. Because this is not in the soul, William always treasured this kind of attention. Scarce as it was after Dru took him to meet his new family. Feeling the weirdness, perversity that this reminds him of his childhood and mother drying tears and bandaging a hand burned on the stove.
Somewhere inside he feels the need to tell Angel to move it along, that the gentleness is too strange to even consider. He should tease him about being such a poof, tell him to get his hands off his hot little body or do something useful with them. But he doesn’t dare. Doesn’t want his hands to stop. Doesn’t want to hear Angelus’,Angel’s, reply. ‘Doing you a favour. Like I’d ever touch you because I want to’.
He doesn’t need, doesn’t want to need, Angel’s, daddy’s, approval, nor his overbearing poofness to feel guilt-tripped into worrying about him. Hate is easier than pity. Hate burns, pity just crumbles things inside. Breaks it into itty bitty pieces that stab whenever you see it in their eyes, hazel or brown don’t matter.
Especially Angelus, pity from him is worse than his displeasure. Angelus’ scorn over Dru’s silly, nevergoodenough, poet who’s reeking with emotions. Who never learned how to be cold and calculating enough to fit Angelus’ standards. Never be daddy’s boy.
But behind closed eyelids he can enjoy the touches, even if they’re not skin to skin, separated by bandages. Feel a cool hand on his forehead, and listen to Angel murmur curses about not being careful enough, always running into danger and that he’s a stupid little fuck. Their souled selves have always been better at talking to each other when they can pretend the other one doesn’t hear you. Angelus and William did it differently. Angelus preached with the help of his cane and William listened, Spike needed more welts to succumb but in the end Angelus always got his audience to listen.
Now they pretend they don’t listen, but soak up every word.
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