Title:  It Was a Dark and Stormy Fight, Part 3

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  NC-17 by Part 4

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:   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 Spike's point of view.

Part I of this story can be found here.  Other links can be found at the bottom of the page.

Special thanks to DorothyL for the beta and for the long discussions about Spike's character and how he'd fit into this terrible threesome.

Poor Spike.  At the end of the last installment, he was too wounded and weak to feel properly horny, much less to be annoying and manipulative.  Let's hope he feels better when he wakes up . .

         "You belong someplace," said Dru solemnly.

         Bloody right.   Spike needed to belong.

"Someplace else," she said.

Bloody hell.  But Dru always right about things like that.  He didn't belong with his black goddess, not any more. "Where?" he asked desperately. 

         But Dru was gone.  He hurried after her, eyes fixed on long, dark hair.  He was racing through a series of frigid, gloomy caves, and he recognized some of his old stomping grounds in Sunnydale.  He put on a burst of speed and almost caught up with the girl, but when he reached out to her, his hand passed through her shoulder.  She ran out into the daylight, casting an angry glance behind her as she disappeared into a white haze.

         "Dawn," he whispered sadly, and the sadness was all for himself.  The Little Bit was safe, but gone from him.  He couldn’t touch her.  He stared at his hand.  He couldn’t touch anything.

         He let the bitterness that surrounded him clutch at his heart, and then screamed involuntarily as his ghostly hands disappeared, replaced by bloody stumps.

         "Oh, it's you," said another dark-haired girl.  Fred was playing with beakers and Bunsen burners on a laboratory table.  "I'm kind of busy, but you can stay and watch.  As a matter of fact, this is about you."

         "Really?"  He glanced down and saw with some relief that his arms were restored.  An experimental pass at the table resulted in renewed disappointment as his spectral hand passed through the wood.  Bugger.  Well, if he couldn’t feel, at least he could see.  He focused on the fizzing beakers.  And he could speak and hear.  Fred listened to him, unlike some people.  "How so?"

         "I'm trying to get a better understanding of your nature, to figure out where you really belong," she said, in her earnest way. 

         He should have been annoyed, but it was hard to get brassed off over being treated like a lab animal when it was Fred doing it.  The girl honestly seemed to care about him.  Probably did.  She cared about everyone, poor little sap.

         He leaned forward and examined the beakers with greater interest.  "Looks like my nature is about to explode."

         "Oh that one's not you," she said, staring at the largest beaker.  It did seem ready to overflow at any second.  "That's Angel and Buffy.  But they will blow up if I don't do something right away."  She picked up another beaker of furiously boiling liquid. "I'll add this."

         "Looks like fuel to the fire to me," said Spike.

         "You'll be surprised." 

         The contents of the larger beaker settled down immediately, still roiling and puffing smoke, but contained now.  Fred smiled in triumph.

         "Very cute," Spike said, "And it makes pretty colors.  But what does that have to do with me?"

         "This isn't about me!" Angel was saying.  "It's about him."

         Buffy was trying to keep her voice down, but a sharp edge crept into her tone. "You just said you want him in shape to go after the rest of those trolls tomorrow."

         "We'll need extra muscle.  And you know what he's like.  Do you think the little weasel would want to miss a fight?" 

         "I think he needs to rest.  If you wake him to feed, he may not get back to sleep again, and then he'll be in pain."  Her arms tightened around Spike.

         "He'll rest better if he has some blood in him."

         Bloody hell.  They're going at it again.  Is this what I miss whenever I'm out of the room?  Small loss, then.

         He was still lying in bed, covered with blankets, his body curled around Buffy's.  He was solid and deliciously warm, but something very nasty was throbbing its way down his left side.  Buffy'd been right about one thing.  He was in pain.

         He had to admit that the pain was better than being incorporeal.  Barely.

         "Good job, mates," he muttered. "You woke me up arguing about whether to wake me up."  He rolled over on his back and looked up at Angel, who was standing by the bed, glowering.  "So, why don't you take your coat off, muffin, and run into the kitchen to whip me up a little something?  Otter or vole would be nice."

         "I've got this ready," said Angel, easing himself down on the bed next to Spike and picking up a mug.  He held it uncertainly for a moment, realizing the difficulty of tipping a cup of liquid down the throat of someone who was lying flat on his back.

         Angel set the cup back down on the bedside table, and he and Buffy both tried to pull Spike into a sitting position, working at cross-purposes as they tried to be gentle and succeeded only in bumping his wounds every half-second or so.

         "Remember how I said you lot had lost your touch for torturing me?" growled Spike, as he was settled at last against Angel's broad shoulder.  "Bugger that.  You've just refined your methods."

         "Sorry," said Buffy, abandoning her attempt make him more comfortable, which she apparently thought could be achieved by adjusting a bandage and ripping open an almost-closed wound.  She scrambled along the bed on all fours to snatch up the mug and bring it to Spike's lips.

         Angel must have warmed it.  It was just the right temperature, it was fresh, it was the nectar of the gods, it was—

         Spike spit it back into the mug.  "Human!" he said, staring up at Buffy in horror.

         "From a blood bank!" said Angel, behind him.  "No one died for this, Spike."

         "Angel thought human would help you recover faster," said Buffy.  She looked worried and a bit grossed out, either by the contents of the mug or by Spike's spewing it back at her, or perhaps both.

         "Can't—" said Spike reflexively, anger at Angel surging in him.  Buffy couldn't fully realize how many horrific and pleasurable memories that taste called up, but Angel had to know all too well.

         "It was going to be thrown out anyway," said Angel hurriedly.  "Past its date, or they had too much of that type, or something.  Drink.  You need this."

         At least part of that speech was a lie, Spike was sure of it, but if Angel was lying about the uselessness of the blood to others, he was telling the truth that it had been donated.   The smell of it was enticing, and his terrible wounds cried out for it.

         He'd never been strong about things like this.  The moral line was more than blurry enough for him, and he drank thirstily when Buffy held the mug to his lips again, reaching up a shaky hand to help her steady it.  Then he fell back, against Angel's shoulder, in spite of the fact that he was still furious at the other vampire.

         "That's enough for now."  Angel's voice was tight, restrained.  "Let him get some more sleep.  Can you hold him again?"

         Buffy's arms now, pulling him down beside her.  She still hadn't quite gotten the trick of not prodding his wounds, but the rush of blood in his system made it easier to tolerate.  Besides, he was sinking back into the exquisite warmth of her.  He felt some of his strength returning already.

         "I'll—"  Angel sounded uncertain about what he'd do.   Spike turned his head and looked up.  His Broodiness was staring at the entwined, naked bodies of his lovers with a mixture of concern and—

         For the first time since he'd woken, Spike felt a real flash of humor.  He imagined the picture he and Buffy must make, huddled together against the white sheets, his head on her breast, her hands gently stroking his hair and shoulder.  He twisted his head to look up at her, and saw her green eyes were luminous with love and worry.  Just beautiful.

         And Angel wasn't suffering from poisoned dagger wounds.  No, Spike didn't need his vampire senses to tell him what Angel was suffering from.

         Easy enough to get back at the pillock, then. 

         Spike batted his eyes at Buffy and reached for as pitiable a tone as he could manage.  Given his physical condition, his halting voice was well up on the pathos meter.  "Wish both of you were holding me," he muttered, as if for her ears alone.

         "Could you hear that?"  Buffy asked Angel.  "He wants you.  Come lie down with us."

         "Uh—I sort of need a shower, I think—"

         Yeah, a really cold one.  Spike rubbed his cheek against Buffy's breast.  "Flesh to flesh," he mumbled.  "Feels heavenly."

         "A shower?  Why?  You showered before dinner, and you didn't get any blood on you in the fight.  It's not like you sweat or anything."  Buffy was impatient now.  "Come on, Angel.  Take off your clothes and help me hold him.  Why is this such a big deal?"

         Angel turned away before undressing.  Because there was no way Angel would explain what the big deal was to Buffy, or let her see it, either. 

Angel knew as well as Spike did that once she realized someone she had claimed as her own was in danger, the Slayer would be in full rescue mode.  She’d be completely focused on helping Spike until she was sure he was healing and past the worst of his pain.  Of course, as soon as that moment arrived, reaction would set in and she'd be randy as hell and ready to shag for hours.  Spike was more than willing to sleep and rest up until it was time for the fireworks.

Angel slipped into bed, trying to impress the Slayer by slipping an arm around his lovers' shoulders, even as he twisted the bottom half of his torso away from Spike, more in an effort to avoid temptation than any concern for Spike's injuries.  Spike could feel the tension in every taut muscle that pressed against him, the incredible restraint in that unbreathing form.  Spike took a deep breath, and his head reeled, the musky scent of tightly leashed lust almost overpowering the pain still throbbing through his left arm and side.

How is the great twit managing to lie still?  Of course, Angel knew Buffy was playing Florence Nightingale in the Nude for all she was worth.  As long as Spike was in real pain, Buffy would reject any pleas to relieve Angel’s own sweet agony. 

Still, Spike thought his grandsire was being an ass not to open his bloody mouth and whine about his own throbbing appendage.  At the very least, he could let one hand slip under the covers and deal with the problem. 

But that was Angel all over, always ready to suffer in silence as long as he could stand it, the better to make an even more complete ass of himself later.  Like the way he never admitted how much he wanted Spike until it was a waste of air to bother.  Then the words would come tumbling out.  Not exactly eloquently, but clear enough.  And by that time in the proceedings, Angel would be so carried away, he gave it all up.  The great poofter would admit he cared, almost every time.

         Spike, on the other hand, never denied he enjoyed the sex.  But he had never said The Words.  Not about Angel.  Not to Angel.  Of course, if Captain Broody Pants had had half a brain, he'd have figured it out, but Spike took his small pleasures where he found them.  And denying Angel the satisfaction of hearing the words from Spike's lips was one of those pleasures. 

For a moment, he wondered why. Because no matter how much he cared for Angel, the hate for Angelus was still alive? 

         It's probably just because I'm a right bastard, he thought, stretching carefully to avoid bumping his injured bits—and to ensure he bumped up against Angel's swollen one.

         Angel moaned.  Spike smirked.

         "Are you okay?" asked Buffy worriedly, assuming it had been Spike who had groaned.

         "Yeah, love," he muttered in a failing voice.  "Just—don't leave me.  Either of you."

         "It's okay, Spike.  We won't leave you."  Buffy's voice took on a note of command as she added, "Will we, Angel?"  It wasn't a question.

         "N-no, of course not," said Angel.

         "Because we love you," she murmured against Spike's hair.  "Don't we?"

         "Yeah," said Angel.  "We, uh, do." Spike swore he heard his grandsire grind his teeth a moment after the admission slipped out.

         "And I love you, Buffy," muttered Spike.  He hesitated, just for a moment.  The man behind him was holding him carefully, stroking his uninjured shoulder with a gentleness that said clearly how much Angel had changed from the sadistic brute who had greeted William the Bloody's entry into the world of demons.  The brute was there, but somehow the man who shared the body with it had become the master.  This Angel was controlled, caring, and trying despite his internal torment to do his best for Spike and Buffy and the rest of the world.  Even though he’d lost almost everyone else he ever cared for, he'd somehow found the courage to admit he loved Spike.  Angel must yearn for even an ambiguous phrase from Spike that hinted his feelings were reciprocated.

         Too bad I'm still such a bastard.  Without a word, Spike dropped into a healing, dreamless sleep.

  And the conclusion is here.
 

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

Angel's point of view:  What Not to Wear (short and silly version)

Wear that and I'm Calling the Whole Thing off (longer but still silly)

Please send feedback to: missmurchison@mchsi.com