Title: The minutes before waking up
Fandom: AtS, post NFA
Status: finished - 439 words
Genre: angst, Spike/Connor, implied slash Spike/Angelus, and implied Spike/Drusilla
Notes: Originally posted 28th July, 2005
Short summary: written for summer_of_spike. Spike remembers.

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He could still taste ash in his mouth, didn’t matter how much he tried to get rid of it, it still burned. They didn’t quite know why they had survived, not even sure how because they’d escaped the burning around them that had turned most of LA’s inhabitants to oily ash that stuck to every surface, except when rain came to wash it down the streets in black puddles and greasy stains. Not even the raindrops tasted like they were supposed to. The clouds had been sucking up too much of the black smoke that billowed from the ruins and it left it tar-like in it’s taste, made things feel too much like they were back home… then. When fires were built with peat, gaslights on the streets and women in long ankle-dusting dresses and everything smelled like wet dirt, sweat … and home. It created a longing for simpler days, a longing Spike hated because there had been nothing good about England, now had there?

But that little voice inside spoke of hot blood gushing down your throat, Drusilla’s body curled around you in bed and the heady smells of family, sex and Angelus voice in his ear as he was told to lie still and sleep.

He missed that voice, those words and that special brand Angelus had of showing you he liked your efforts to please him. Punishing hands turned to stroking ones, pain and pleasure mixed into one and he could say his name, beg him and be rewarded. He was a good boy, hands curled into his hair, curving around his skull holding him in place as he’d be used. But he wanted to be used, he wanted to taste to feel, to be held in place and be showed what to do. Be ordered and know he was pleasing his grandsire, to beg for more and be given. Soft and skimming teasing above trembling skin, fangs cutting into skin soothed with tongue leaving wet trails, shivering needing aching for more. Rough and hard, taking on as much as he could, only struggling to be closer, to have him fill him up, make him whole, show him he’d been good.

Those times were when he woke up curled around his human, his nose in the nape of a warm neck, the long strands of soft hair tickling his face and sleepy breaths curling around him under the shelter of the covers. Angel’s boy with Angel’s scent. For these minutes past and present blended and for a second he was happy and there was no hole inside empty, missing an important piece of the puzzle.