Title:  Wear that and I'm Calling the Whole Thing Off (extended version of What not to Wear)

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  NC-17

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.  If you think I'm taking any of this seriously, you aren't reading very carefully.

Notes:   This is the second of three stories, each from a different character's point of view.  I originally posted a shorter version of this as a standalone, and I've kept that version posted here, but I promised Elinora I'd expand on that snippet. This version is about 4600 words.  Links to the other threesome stories can be found at the bottom of the page.

Eunice convinced me that the only logical end to Season 5 of Angel was to have Buffy, Spike and Angel wind up as a threesome.  This fic describes an interlude in that relationship from Angel's point of view.

Angel wonders about lots of things, but his train of thought keeps getting interrupted. Poor guy.  Having Spike and Buffy around is playing havoc with his brooding routine.

"I'll be back before dark."

Angel heard Buffy's low-pitched voice as he stepped out of the bathroom, where he'd been fussing with his hair and wondering how it really looked. 

Damn.  He'd spent too much time wondering if he'd gone too long without a change and if maybe he should find a good demon stylist (meaning not anyone Spike patronized) and get some blond highlights.  Angel rushed to the open door that separated the bedroom from the living room, and stopped there.  

Although he'd known that Buffy hadn't been talking to him, he'd wanted to say something, to at least ask her if she was okay, before she left.  But the moment he peered through the doorway, he realized he was interrupting—something. 

Buffy and Spike were having a non-conversation.  Again.

Buffy, chic and perfect in one of the outfits she'd bought in Italy, was standing with her hand on the doorknob, her back to Angel, her face in profile as she stared at Spike.  Spike slouched a few feet away, near the entrance to the kitchenette, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, bare-chested, hair mussed, eyes intent as he met the Slayer's gaze.  Neither moved for several long, slow seconds, then Spike quirked one eyebrow, Buffy's mouth narrowed in a grim smile, and she was out the door.

There had been no caress, no kiss, almost no words.  But Angel knew something had passed between those two that he couldn't fathom.  Somehow, they'd communicated—what?

Spike gave up staring at the closed door like a love-sick poet, and turned to smirk at Angel like a horny satyr.

Angel growled.  "Is she going to the police station?"

Spike shook his head, suddenly serious.  "No.  Visiting the parents."

"Alone?"

"She's not a little girl any more."

Damn.  Angel stalked past Spike into the kitchenette, grimacing at the mess left in the sink from two breakfasts.  He opened the refrigerator, stared with sightless eyes at the contents, and shut the door again without bothering to reach for the container of blood.  He'd lost his appetite.

Besides, Spike had probably put the pitcher back with less than a half-inch left in the bottom, just as he did with the carton of orange juice.  Angel and Buffy took turns berating him for that, but it never helped.  Spike just smiled and did the same thing the next time.

It never helps.  You could do everything in your power to make things go right, but it always went wrong again.  There was always another victim.  There had been one last night, a young woman the three of them had been too late to save.  They'd killed the attackers and rushed the limp form they'd found huddled in the back of the alley to a hospital, but Angel and Spike had known, and Buffy had probably suspected, it was a useless gesture.  There was too much blood, too much bleeding, internally and externally.

To have something to do, Angel turned on the faucet and started cleaning the mess in the sink.   As he waited for the water to run hot, he reached for an apron.  No point in ruining his clothes.  Buffy might appreciate having one well-groomed vampire to return to after her sad errand, and Spike certainly wouldn't qualify. 

Buffy.  She might be a tough, cynical Slayer most of the time, but there were moments when Angel could still see the young girl he'd charmed years ago in Sunnydale.  She could still fall for a touch of romance, if it was handled right.  It was worth it, trying to recreate a few of those encounters.  Not all of them, of course—he remembered a particularly nasty kick and an even more painful knife-blow—but some of those moments had been wonderful.

The girl who died last night had been very young, barely a teenager, younger even than Buffy that first time I saw her. 

It was always harder when the ones they lost were girls.  Not because Angel had any remnants of chivalry left in him, but because they reminded him of Cordelia and Fred, and the moment Willow had told him Buffy had died, and—

"Give us a beer, love?" called Spike.  "Since you're playing Donna Reed this morning?"  The TV roared to life and Angel ground his teeth.  He tore off the apron and returned to the living room without the beer.  He tossed himself into the chair furthest from Spike's and stared moodily at the TV.

Spike gave the news a cursory glance, then moved on to a poker game, where he criticized the players unmercifully after five seconds observation.  Before Angel could comment, the screen showed a brunette who was assuring the denizens of Boston that they would have a sunny afternoon. 

Channels sped by in dizzying fashion for a while, followed by a greater torture as Spike slowly clicked through various shows, giving Angel just enough time to become curious about the content of one before moving on to the next.  A soap faded into Martha Stewart cooking something with a woman who was recounting her near-death experience, while Angel was still wondering who had slept with whom and why it was making everyone else so angry.  Angel realized he was grinding his teeth. "I thought you liked Passions."

Spike cast him a look that pitied his cluelessness.  "That wasn't Passions."  Martha disappeared as Maury Povich watched a woman learn her husband was a male prostitute.  "That was All My Children.  Haven't been able to stomach that show since they had this incredibly annoying blond bitch on about 10 years ago."

The woman was crying, her shoulders heaving.  She kept pushing away her husband, who was trying desperately to explain the unexplainable.  Angel realized his fangs were lengthening and he wanted to kill Maury for broadcasting this obscenity of grief. 

"Might as well twist them into giraffe shapes and give pony rides at the reception."

"Huh?" Angel's astonishment at Spike's comment faded when he realized he'd blinked and Spike was criticizing the balloon theme on Whose Wedding is it Anyway? 

"Looks like a bloody kid's birthday party."

Angel shook his head, fought back to human face and said, "They had a Renaissance theme the other day that was kind of pretty."

Too late.  Spike had moved past weddings, a rerun of Dharma and Greg, and the Story of Sanitation on the History channel, and landed on Sexy Stars of Reality TV.

"Can’t you just pick one show to watch?"

Spike shrugged and clicked.  "I'm waiting for Angelina Jolie Swims with the Sharks."

"For what?"

Click. Teletubbies.  "It's an environmental thing.  Very educational."  Click. 

Someone was selling authentic fake Tiffany lamps for affordable monthly payments.  Angel's incisors itched.  "Then tune to that channel and wait for it." 

"It doesn't start for another 10 minutes, and I can't stomach 100 Greatest Kid Stars in the meantime.  By the way, did we ever find out what kind of demon Gary Coleman is?"  Click.  Tom and Jerry were having a misadventure involving a mousetrap and an angry bulldog.

"So shut the damn TV off!" 

Spike looked astonished at this notion, then amused at Angel's annoyance.  The bulldog announced he would "moider that cat."

"A bit on edge, are we, Captain Grouchypants?"  Click.  "Damn, a woman with that skin tone should not wear mauve.  Makes her look like we've just drained her."

Angel leapt up and snatched away the remote, shutting off What not to Wear and whatever show was to follow it in the next nanosecond.

"No TV!" he bellowed.

Spike raised his hands in a gesture that said he was capitulating to unreasonable demands because he was a reasonable man committed to peace, love, and the safety of fluffy puppies everywhere.  He hauled himself off the couch and went into the kitchenette.

That's not right.  Spike should have jumped at the chance at a good, loud, pointless argument, especially one that had a chance of ending in violence.   Only one thing could account for this meek behavior.  Only one force in the universe could compel a bored Spike to not act like the ultimate asshole, and it wasn't the desire for a beer.

Buffy.  Buffy must have asked Spike to behave himself. 

When?  Was that the unspoken communication Angel had spied earlier?  Play nice with Angel while I'm gone, Spike.  For me.  Or had it been some other information that they had conveyed with a quiver of the lips and a quirk of an eyebrow?

Angel knew Spike was jealous that Angel had had Buffy first, but he wondered if Spike realized how much it hurt Angel that Spike had been there longer, watched her mature, die, and struggle back to life.   That Spike understood things about her that Angel was still learning, things that Angel might never learn.

Like how to communicate a volume of information in a single glance. 

Spike slouched his way back into the room and onto the couch, his beer half empty already.  He set the bottle on the coffee table and settled himself comfortably, supine, his eyes unfocused as if his mind were wandering far from this nondescript apartment in a nondescript city.

Don't assume anything profound is going on under that peroxided skull.  He's probably fantasizing about Angelina Jolie.

Angel settled down in his chair to watch Spike and brood.  He started with the obvious subject—the debacle of the previous night.  He was getting up a good head of steam, tearing himself up over the loss of that poor girl, when Spike started to snore and Angel's mind sulked off in another, more self-centered, direction.

He glared at Spike, who snorted and tossed a bare arm up over his head.  Angel's gaze followed the taut muscles of that arm down to the bare chest with its battle scars, and then to the flat abdomen just above the ragged waistband of his faded jeans.  Spike's other hand was resting on one thigh and—

And how the hell had Angel ever wound up in a ménage à trois with a Slayer and William the Bloody?

Angel had already spent a lot of prime brooding time on that subject.  But, what the hell, it was hours until sundown, and he had to angst over something.

Or maybe I could give up brooding altogether.  That was a novel thought.  But it wasn't as if moping were an ingrained part of his nature; it was just a habit.  Liam had never been contemplative.   A worse candidate for a contemplative order could hardly have been imagined.  Liam just did things.  Usually things no member of a contemplative order would contemplate for a second.

Angelus hadn't been the contemplative sort precisely, although he had spent a lot of time planning what incredibly foul thing he could do next and savoring the horrible one he'd just completed. 

Angel didn't want to think about being Angelus. 

Having rejected these other promising subjects, he went back to his relationship with Spike and Buffy. 

It had all evolved somehow after he and Spike had managed to survive that fight with the dragon.  Some Slayers had shown up, Illyria had run off, and they'd managed to kill most of the monsters Wolfram and Hart had sent after them.  Then there'd been the nightmarish battle to get Gunn to a hospital, and the even more nightmarish realization the next morning than someone had kidnapped Gunn.

After that, it had been all about being on the run with Spike.  And fucking Spike.  There hadn't been much planning or thought to that.  In fact, it had been bizarrely like old times, but without Darla or Drusilla or eating people.  Angel hadn't let himself make the comparison though, not to wonder what had happened to Drusilla, and especially not to think about Darla, because that led to thoughts of Connor.  Eating people, of course, had lost its charm due to the guilt factor.  But running with Spike, fighting beside Spike, fucking Spike, sleeping with Spike next to him, had made the fractured moments when thought had intruded barely tolerable.

If anything that involved Spike could be considered tolerable.  Right now, the Spikeness was reaching levels intolerable even to someone who had spent timeless time in hell dimensions.

Because Spike had given up snoring and moved on to talking in his sleep. Talking to someone he called "pet," whom he was exhorting incomprehensibly but forcefully to do something.  Angel's mind moved to the last time he'd heard Spike use a passionate tone like that.  The recollection was only a few hours old and it made him shift in his chair and slide his hand towards his own crotch.

Angel began to consider the benefits of another shower, possibly a cold one.  He should probably get himself out of Spike's vicinity, and get Spike out of his mind.

As Angel stood up, Spike started screaming.  Angel was by his side in a flash, arms on the other man's shoulders, shaking him.  Spike was thrashing in Angel's grasp, yelling Fred's name, and Dawn's.  And Buffy's.

Angel slapped him.  Spike stared at Angel for a second, then put his hand to his cheek.  The fear and horror faded from his expression, to be replaced by embarrassment.

"It's okay," said Angel soothingly.

He should have known better.  Spike didn't accept soothing well.  He sat up, his gaze taking in Angel's position. "Look at you, Angel Cakes, down on one knee like a suitor—are you going to pull out a ring and propose?"  He smirked and pouted.  "I'm telling you right now, love, no balloon theme at the reception.  And if you wear mauve, I'm calling the whole thing off."

Angel wondered how someone could go from terrified to snarky so quickly.  His gaze was oddly focused on Spike's lower lip as his eyes misted over in a red haze—

Two minutes later, he was wondering how a charitable effort to wake Spike from a nightmare had turned into a frenzied make-out session.

An uncomfortable constriction in the vicinity of his crotch raised another question. Why the hell was he wearing leather pants? The answer to that one was easy. He'd been trying to appear suave and sophisticated to Buffy, in contrast to Spike's scruffiness. Instead, he'd found himself dry humping Spike, while wearing one of the most uncomfortable garments known to mankind, while Buffy had taken off on an errand and was probably not thinking of either of them.

And if she were here, Buffy would make fun of his guilt. Which wasn't fair. It wasn't homophobia, Angel told himself virtuously. It was Spikeophobia. If it had been another male body beneath him . . .

But it wasn't. It was Spike's lean form, Spike's bare chest, Spike's too-discerning azure eyes in his too-pretty face, Spike's shapely mouth, which was about to open and say something that would simultaneously enrage and arouse Angel—-

But even Spike couldn't snark with Angel's tongue halfway down his throat. He could lean into the kiss, though, and he could certainly squirm beneath Angel, creating a different kind of friction between them. Now that they were in close contact with harsh denim, those leather pants seemed like an even worse idea.

Angel realized his hand had crept down and his fingers were undoing the zipper on Spike's jeans, even as their lips and tongues frantically pursued their desperate kiss. Spike bucked up against Angel, helping the other man yank on the jeans, wriggling his butt until the fabric finally made its way down to his knees, his freed and very rigid cock rubbing against Angel's still-covered one.

Angel was desperate now to finish disrobing Spike so he could get out of his own ever-more-constricting clothes, and he attempted a maneuver too athletic for the narrow confines for the couch, tugging downwards again at the jeans while trying to maintain their lip-lock. They both tumbled to the floor, grasping at each other and the sofa cushions, landing in a confused tangle on the carpeted floor.

"Bugger!" yelled Spike.

One of Angel's arms found the other man's waist and pulled him close again before he realized that Spike was now facing away from him. The embrace made Spike's comment distressingly apt by bringing his perfectly rounded ass in contact with Angel's crotch. Angel's unwilling reaction made it clear that dealing with the leather pants was a chore that could be postponed no longer. Even carpet burn would be preferable to his current situation.

Abandoning his attentions to Spike's jeans, Angel reached for his own zipper, sighing and gasping as his hand plunged within and he touched himself. His relief was short-lived, however, as his vampire senses alerted him to a presence that he normally would have perceived approaching long before it was actually in the room with him.

Buffy, looking cool, sophisticated, and not the least embarrassed, was standing just inside the doorway to the hall, her arms folded across her chest, keys dangling from manicured fingers. From the top of her carefully coiffed hair, to her understated jewelry and simple white blouse, to the sleek line of her long black skirt and her elegant dress shoes, she was a beautiful, perfectly groomed vision.

Angel, in contrast, was lying on the floor, one arm holding a three-quarters-naked Spike tightly against him, his other hand plunged deep inside those damnable leather pants and clutching his own engorged cock, while, most mortifying of all, his lips were caressing the nape of Spike's neck. He struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, but Spike shifted his weight, trapping Angel's arm beneath him, even as those pants suddenly became tighter than humanly or demonically possible, confining Angel's fingers in their incriminating positions. At least he was able to lift his head, stopping the shameful rain of kisses he'd been bestowing on the other man. But when he tried to explain, all he could stutter was, "I, uh, Spike, that is, we . . . we were . . . ."

Perfectly arched eyebrows quirked over amused green eyes. "Having a wardrobe malfunction?" Buffy suggested helpfully.

The jangle of the keys being dropped on a table mixed with Spike's salacious laughter.  He, of course, was not the least embarrassed.

Angel tried again to yank his arm out from under Spike.  Spike again rolled back, trapping him. 

Buffy came forward, her face alive with amusement.  She dropped gracefully to her knees, examining her intertwined lovers very attentively.  As she moved, the scent of her expensive perfume wafted over them.

Angel ignored it.  Buffy's own scent, rendered imperceptible to a human under the various toiletries she used, but perfectly readable by a vampire, was far more enticing.  For the hundredth time, he was shocked by this sensory evidence that the sight of Spike and him together excited her.

"You two seem to have gotten yourselves into a bit of a tangle."  Laughter quivered in her voice.  "Do you need any help working the kinks out?"

Angel finally managed to free the hand that was in his pants.  He used to it shove Spike face-down into the carpet and retrieve his other arm. Angel sat up and tried to look dignified.

Buffy looked down. 

Angel followed her gaze and tried to drape his shirt tail over his cock, which was not contributing to an aura of dignity.  He fought for a rational explanation.  "I was trying—that is, it was a nightmare." 

"A nightmare?"  Buffy shot a glance at Spike, who had rolled over on his back and was making absolutely no effort to pull up his pants or hide his erection.

Angel had been about to explain about Spike's cry and his reaction and how things had somehow gotten out of hand, while other things had gotten inappropriately in hand, but that look stopped him.

They were doing it again!  Gazes were locked.  Spike's eyes were narrowing, and Buffy's were doing the same.  Two sets of lips twisted in fascinating but incomprehensible curves—not smiles, not frowns, meaning something, but what?  Damn it, they were not-talking to each other with him right there in the room in front of them.  It was rude—it was—

It was too late.  The communication, whatever it was, was over, and he was being caught up in impossibly strong, slender arms as Buffy murmured into his ear.  "Poor Angel!  Why didn't you say you'd had a bad dream?"

"Yeah," came Spike's voice in his other ear.  "You should know the Slayer would want to make it all better for her poor woobie.  All you had to do was say, 'The bogey man was chasing me, and I need some cuddles and love."

Angel wanted to protest that he wasn't the one who had had the nightmare.  And then he didn't.  Because what was happening right now wasn't something any sane man would protest against.  For one thing, he'd have to get Buffy's tongue out of his mouth, and she tasted very, very good.   He squirmed underneath her.  She felt good too.  Soft and round in a way that belied the strength of her arms.

"I think," Spike was saying in a silky voice, "he's finding those pants a bit uncomfortable and inconvenient."

"Well, we'll have to do something about that," purred Buffy.  "You're in charge of the leather, Spike.  I'll take care of this silly shirt, just in case it's adding to the problem."

Silly?  Angel would have spoken out about that if her tongue hadn't started wrestling his again.  The only reason he'd gone for the lavender Canali was that she was always teasing him about wearing black.  That, and the fact that the guy in the store had assured Angel his girlfriend would like it.

Of course, the sales guy had also patted Angel on the butt.

Angel stopped worrying about the Canali shirt, since it was now a thing of the past, as was Buffy's chic Italian number, and—he sighed in relief—those damnable leather pants.  At some point in the ensuing melée, he caught a glimpse of them huddled next to the couch in a compromising position with Spike's jeans.  But by then, his cock was in a compromising position involving Spike's mouth and he decided the pants hadn't proven such good friends to him that he needed to worry himself about their fate.

Buffy's lips were doing silly, teasing things to Angel's nipples, and Spike's tongue was engaged in obscene discourse elsewhere.  Angel broke from his stunned passivity to run his hands along Buffy's torso, slipping fingers under fabric to find her nipples, sliding another hand down to cup her ass.  She was such a tiny, powerful package—as much a physical impossibility as any vampire, but with a warm, beating heart whose rhythm aroused him as much as the silky skin under her breasts. 

Angel was about to come when Buffy looked up and sang out, "I count four balls, so I make first base.  Spike, you're up.  Well, you're both up—"  Spike immediately released Angel, and Buffy slipped away from his grasp.  Before Angel could object, Buffy's hot mouth was on his cock and Spike's cooler one against his lips. 

Spike's tongue played with Angel's, teasing and then insistent.  This went on for several minutes, then blunt teeth moved to his neck.

Further south, Buffy's hands were as busy as her mouth, playing gently with his balls, stroking his perineum, teasing his ass as her tongue and lips did evil things to his cock.

He was spiraling towards orgasm again and started to moan.  He pushed Spike's teeth away from a slow and detailed exploration of his throat that was threatening to drive him mad.  Spike's lips moved to his ear, and a gentle breath quivered over Angel's cheek.  "Glad I taught the Slayer so well, are you, grandpa?"

Angel shoved Spike away, gasping and trying to capture anger, but he was too overwhelmed by equally primitive emotions.  Spike was laughing. "Just trying to make sure you don't get too happy, Angel Cakes."

Angel had to acknowledge there was something very familiar in Buffy's technique, although through natural talent or other tutelage she had acquired some intriguing and idiosyncratic approaches to the procedure. 

Suddenly, she released him.  Angel gave what he hoped was a shout of protest but sounded more to his own ears like a pleading whimper.

But Buffy was riding him now, most of her elegant clothes scattered over the floor around them, only a silk camisole remaining.  Her nipples were sharply outlined against the soft fabric, which was becoming stained with sweat as she rose and then settled him deep inside her, setting up an irregular rhythm that threatened to overcome his control at any moment. She shook back tangled locks of hair, and her eyes were deeper and wilder than he'd ever seen them, even in the midst of battle.  

She growled out one orgasm and continued to ride him, taking her lower lip between her teeth as she raced towards another. Her quim was velvety and warm, but the pressure of her amazing internal muscles could hardly be called comforting, and her impassioned expression had nothing to do with innocence.  She was panting as she threw all her energy into their lovemaking.

You are magnificent, he told her without speaking.

Now! she responded with a cry that contained no words.

Several minutes later, he was holding her still shaking body against his chest, stroking her hair, and thinking, she really isn't a little girl any more.

Before his brain could reassert itself enough to produce more sophisticated thought, the room was filled with raucous laughter.

Buffy gave a snort of annoyance and raised her head from Angel's chest.  Together, they glared at Spike. 

He was sprawled on the floor a few feet away, shoulders propped up against the couch, a bottle of beer in one hand and his erection in the other.  "That's all you two have?"  He took a long drag on the bottle and worked his cock.  "Look at you lot, limp as a couple of beached dolphins, after not putting on enough of a show for a good wank.  Where's the remote?  I'm going to have to watch Smutamax so I can finish getting myself off."

Buffy slipped off Angel's chest to crouch on the floor next to him.  Angel sat up, gathering his legs under him, his fingers clenching reflexively into fists. 

Before he could move, he felt Buffy's hand on his arm and turned, ready to shake her off in order to deal with the most recent edition of Spike-aggravation. 

But when he met her gaze, Angel froze and his jaw dropped open in amazement.  Because she was staring back at him, and suddenly he got it.  He understood.

How could he ever have been puzzled by this?  Buffy's thoughts couldn't have been clearer if he'd been listening to her outline them to Maury or Montel.  Incredibly detailed battle plans, breathtaking in their scope and detail, radiated from her green eyes.  Effortlessly, Angel absorbed every nuance of their obscene perfection.

Spike looked from one face to the other, obviously bewildered.  He might not understand just what awaited him, but his sense of self-preservation was driving him to his feet, and his mouth was open to protest whatever it was that awaited him at the hands of his lovers.

Too late.  Buffy and Angel leapt on him, sleek muscles moving in unison, perfectly united in lustful intent.

Shorter version of this fic:  What Not to Wear

Buffy's point of view:  Shame Bad, Sex Good

Spike's point of view:  It was a Dark and Stormy Fight
 

Please send feedback to: missmurchison@mchsi.com