Fic: "Asunder", Part 2/2, Spike/Angel, NC-17

Title: Asunder, Part 2/2
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Summary: AU from The Gift. Angel has given Spike ten rules to follow, but Spike's having a lot of trouble sticking to them.
Notes: This is a sequel to my fic And More Slow which I posted to rekindlespangel but it can be read on its own.
Warnings: BDSM, Daddy Kink, age play, references to self-harm and violence

Part One



Florence, 1874

The whore is on Angelus's arm, smelling of limes and brandy. He thinks he is going to rob Angelus later, and Angelus has not yet disabused him of the notion. He is broad-shoulder and sloe-eyed, his physique and colouring just the opposite of Spike's. His manner, too, is dutifully subservient, which Spike knows is all wrong. Angelus doesn't like duty at all: he prefers wilful disobedience. He likes to be obeyed, yes, but he likes to be obeyed because he is strong and powerful and knows how to cause pain. The whore doesn't know anything about that. The whore doesn't know anything.

Angelus speaks to him in careful Italian. He picks the words precisely, and he pauses before he forms a sentence so the grammar will be perfect. His accent is terrible. Even Spike can tell that, and Spike only knows a word here and there, words he's picked up from girls whose throat he's about to rip out, or girls he's fucking, or demons from whom he wants a favour. The whore smiles and pretends he thinks Angelus is a native. If he were a better actor, that might be a good move.

Spike's tied to the bed, and there's a wound on his chest. It's not a bad wound, but it looks worse than it is to the whore who's never seen what two vampires do to one another for fun. He's still thinking about robbing Angelus though, Spike can see it in his face. The bad Italian makes the whore think Angelus is slow of mind as well as of tongue.

Before he leaves, Angelus kneels by Spike's bedside. He kisses Spike's forehead, and then his cheek, just above his lip. “Are you going to be all right, little lad? Left all alone?” His voice is as tender as his words, and there's nothing dangerous in his face.

“You could let me out,” Spike says. “You great greasy sod. My back hurts.”

Angelus hits him hard enough to knock a tooth loose. The whore hisses. Spike tastes his own blood and grins. Angelus strokes his hair, gentle again, and says, “I'm sorry, sweetheart. You have to learn.”

He bends and takes Spike's little blanket from beneath the bolster, the blanket knitted from soft wool and edged in silk, and tucks it under Spike's arm. He presses his thumb to Spike's lips and says, “We must get you one of those little dummies to suck when your hands are otherwise occupied. You miss having something in your mouth, don't you?”

Spike doesn't say anything. He feels contained by the blanket under his arm, by Angelus's gaze, by his words. He feels safe, and the feeling remains, even when Angelus stands back up and looks away. Even when he hates him he can see how skilled Angelus is, how thoroughly he makes him his.

Angelus takes the whore by the arm. If the boy notices the coldness of the grip, he doesn't comment. As he leaves the room, he looks at Spike with something very like pity, or even sympathy. Poor, stupid bastard, Spike thinks.

California, 2001

10. Suck your thumb whenever you like.

“That's not a proper rule,” Spike had said when Angel had dictated it to him. “Suck my thumb whenever I want? There's no way you can check if I do that.”

“Well, see it as a guide, then. A general idea of good behaviour.”

“I already do suck my thumb whenever I want,” Spike had replied. “You're the one who used to stop me. Take your thumb out, you used to say, it's not dignified.”

“That was before I knew I couldn't make you a grown-up, no matter how hard I tried.”

“Did you want me to be a grown-up?”

Angel's face had made an expression approximating a smile. “No. Not now, and not for a long time. I don't want you to be any more grown-up than you are.”

He'd said something patronising, then, about Spike being his little boy, and Spike had pretended not to listen. And Spike had written out the rule, neatly, under the others, adding an extra swoop to the 'y' in 'your'. Angel was always praising his penmanship. He'd even got an award for it, once, when he was in school, and been given a boring book about flowers of the English woodland.

In the car, now, driving to see Angel, Spike thought that perhaps he hadn't been completely honest when he'd told Angel he did suck his thumb whenever he wanted to. There were plenty of times when he couldn't—when he was around other people, when he was writing, when he was driving. At times like that, he'd tell himself he'd just tell himself he didn't really want to suck his thumb. Sucking his thumb was inconvenient and humiliating, and he'd remind himself that he didn't want to bury his face in something soft or to be be told he was much too little to be in charge of anything as complicated as a car.

He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up the bottle of Jack, and took a fiery sip. Angel hadn't told him not to drink. Angel hadn't even told him not to drink and drive. He was dizzy and drunk, and the wounds on his face hadn't healed and were making his eyes itch, but Angel had told him to come, and that was one order he wasn't going to disobey.

*

When the streets started to seem familiar, he pulled in.

Just close my eyes for a minute, Spike thought. Then I'll get out of the car. Just let my eyes shut...

He was then aware that time had passed, and that his limbs felt loose and trembly, and that there were arms around him, sturdy, room-temperature arms cradling him against a broad chest. He could rest his head against the smooth place where a heart had once beaten. He could inhale the familiar scent. He knew where he was, and he didn't have to open his eyes.

“Daddy,” he murmured, and if his limbs hadn't felt so treacherous he would have squirmed closer.

Next, he was on a bed, and he felt a hand swatting against his thigh. “You sleeping, boy?”

Spike mumbled. He wanted to say, No, I'm definitely not asleep, I'm completely coherent, you big pillock, but only a groan emerged.

“You've not been feeding, have you?” He heard the sound of cloth moving, and felt the bed shift beside him. “Good thing your wounds can't get infected. You're such a mess.”

There was smooth skin under his lips. Spike knew he was supposed to do something to it, but the urge was somehow distant. He licked. It tasted faintly salty.

“Christ, kid, you're too much work. Are you so far gone you can't even remember to bite?”

And then Angel slit his skin, the cold skin next to Spike's mouth, and Spike latched on to the wound, and sucked, and sucked, and sucked. The blurriness receded from his thoughts. The taste in his mouth was sharp and steadying, and clarity returned to his mind so rapidly it was almost disorienting. He felt a familiar stir of humiliation: here he was, nursing, but as he began to feel steadier and warmer his hand, which had been limp at Angel's side, found the edge of Angel's shirt and clung on.

He kept sucking, unwilling to find out what Angel would do to him next. And he liked Angel letting him do this, stroking his back, running his fingers through Spike's hair. Now, even though he couldn't pretended to himself that he was unsure of what was going on, he didn't want anything other than this, and was unwilling to move in case something changed. He sucked, and Angel stroked his back, and they were still, in a silence more potent than any words.

“All right, I'll get dizzy if you keep going,” Angel said at last, and disengaged his mouth. “I'll have to start drinking whole pigs to keep up with you.” Though he could have, he didn't push Spike away, but looked down at him, pressed against his chest. Spike looked back, but he was the one who got embarrassed first, and jerked away.

He sat on the edge of the bed, aware for the first time that they were in Angel's familiar room. He wrapped his arms around himself, ducking his head, and felt small and weak and exposed.

“I didn't realise my rules were so difficult,” Angel said. “Poor baby.”

“They were stupid.”

“No, I don't think so. I think they were just too hard for you to follow. Such a pity, too. I got you all sorts of things.”

Spike felt kind of drunk, still. He didn't really remember the last half of his journey here. He felt small and drained of energy. He looked over at Angel, hoping Angel would decide to put him in bed, but not sure how to ask. In fact, Angel seemed willing, both to understand and to ease the process, and Spike barely noticed when he pulled him into his pyjama bottoms, or handed him his blanket, which Spike had had on the back seat of his car. Angel didn't stay with him, said he had things to do and his world didn't, in fact, revolve around needy vampires, but Spike didn't mind at all. In Angel's room, he felt safe, and for once sleep came quickly.

Angel woke him the next morning with a baby's bottle full of blood. Spike was tired and sore and tempted to push it away, but Angel pressed it firmly against his lips, and Spike opened up. When he tasted it, he was shocked.

“I know, boy, it's human,” Angel said. “It'll help your face heal.”

It was warm, too. Spike took suckled softly, not arguing, watching Angel's face. He could taste plastic, faintly, and an anticoagulant, so it wasn't fresh blood, but aside from Angel it was the best thing he had tasted in years.

“I know people,” Angel said by way of explanation, and seemed a bit smug about knowing people, who, presumably, could provide him with human blood. “Only drink human when I give it to you, though.”

Spike rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he could get it anywhere else.

Angel jerked the nipple from his lips. “Well?”

“Yes, daddy. Though it's not like I could get my hands on it.”

“Someone else might offer you blood. You're not allowed to drink that,” Angel said. He slid the teat back between Spike's lips, so Spike couldn't ask who else might possibly want to offer him human blood.

He felt warm and overly full once he'd finished the bottle. He flopped back against the pillows, looking up at Angel. It was still dark out. Spike had lost track of the days, and he wondered if he'd slept through all of Saturday. He hoped they were OK in Sunnydale, but the hope felt removed from him now, at this moment, lying in bed. He rooted among the sheets and found his blanket again, tangled from where he'd slept on it. He picked it up and ran a silky edge over the corner of his mouth.

Angel watched him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looked like he was trapped between Angel the overworked saviour and bureaucrat and Angel the feared vampire. Spike squirmed slightly, looking at him, knowing which of those he wanted.

He held the blanket childishly to his face, and said, like he was frightened, “So, daddy, what are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you? Sweetheart, are you afraid the big scary vampire's going to do something nasty to you?”

Spike shrugged.

“I never do anything nasty to you. I only do what I think is the very best for you,” Angel said, tenderly brushing Spike's hair back from his face.

“Not stupid enough to believe that for a minute, mate.”

Angel lifted Spike's hand from the bedspread and hit it once, swiftly, with enough force to make Spike feel like his tendons were being twisted out of place.

Spike corrected himself. “Daddy,” he said.

“That's right. You may only address me as 'daddy' unless I tell you otherwise.”

Spike nuzzled at his blanket. “What if we're around other people?”

“Trust me. I'll tell you what to do.” Angel removed the blanket from Spike's hands and laid it gently on his bedside table. “And now I'm telling you to get out of bed, and get dressed in the clothes I've put out for you.”

The clothes were on a chair: a black t-shirt, and black sweatpants with little red rockets embroidered on cuffs and waist band, and one larger rocket on one thigh. They looked like something a ten-year-old would wear.

“Sweatpants?” Spike said. “Really?”

“They're so practical.”

“They've got little spaceships on them.”

“I know, aren't they adorable?” Angel said. “I bought them for you specially.”

Over the years, Spike had learnt that you could, in fact, argue with Angel when he was feeling vindictive and angry, but there was absolutely no point in arguing with him when he was being patronising. Spike pulled the sweatpants on over the hideous pair of white briefs Angel had thoughtfully provided.

“What now, Daddy?” Spike said, turning around so Angel could look him over. Dressed, he felt more exposed than he had been when naked. The expression 'walking wounded' came to his mind. He felt raw as a wound all over, like he'd been flayed.

“Well, I've got some work to do, so you're going to have to keep yourself busy while I do that. Think you can manage?”

“Yeah...”

“I'll help. Come with me,” Angel said, and held out his hand. Spike couldn't remember the last time he'd held Angel's hand, if ever, and it felt weird, the smooth, cool skin gripping his. Angel tugged him out of the room and down a flight of stairs. The hotel was quiet, the air still: Spike thought it must be the middle of the night, the humans safely tucked up in bed.

Angel's office had a table dense with paperwork and walls covered with weapons. He let go of Spike's hand, and Spike stood in the doorway, watching, while Angel went to the desk and pulled two shopping bags out from under it. He examined their contents for a moment, and said, “I was going to give you lots of presents, kid, but I think you're much too little to handle all that. I need to keep you busy, though, so I'll give you a few things to play with.”

He handed Spike a teddy-bear and a box from Nintendo which proudly proclaimed it contained a Gameboy advance. The teddy-bear was wearing a leather jacket and had earrings and a Mohawk. It wasn't much bigger than Spike's hand and had a slightly wicked expression. Spike held it and the box and looked over at Angel.

“Say 'thank you',” Angel said.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Spike replied dutifully. Angel had given him presents before, but never real toys that could be given to real kids. Usually his presents consisted of leather collars or things with which he could hit Spike. Spike wasn't sure what to make of it.

“Well, sit down,” Angel said, and sat himself on the only chair. Spike was still tired and sore, and he would've sunk gladly to the ground, but he looked at Angel for confirmation.

“Sit by my feet.”

Spike settled at Angel's legs and slowly opened the box. He felt Angel's hand pat his hair vaguely, and then Angel appeared to turn his mind to his paperwork. Spike sat the teddy-bear down by his own feet, and got out the Gameboy.

He hadn't expected to enjoy it, but Angel had bought him some sort of racing game, and as soon as he worked out the stupid little buttons he found himself enthralled. It seemed to use the parts of his brain that usually made him anxious and depressed and made them focus instead on the minutiae of the game. It was very relaxing. Also, he found he was good at it, and he liked being good at things.

“Aren't you being good and quiet,” Angel said once, patting his head, but mostly there was silence between them.

After finishing another level, Spike found his hand aching and put the Gameboy down. He slid his thumb into his mouth and sucked it softly, winding his fingers over his nose. His mind was free again suddenly, and too many thoughts arrived and washed over him. People were dead. He had failed. And he was naked, raw and alone, and he couldn't defend himself. He only had Angel, and he hated Angel.

He'd seen pain before. He'd seen real pain. This seemed like nothing compared to that, and he hated himself for not being able to bear it, and even knowing that, he still wanted to cry. He reached out for the bear instead, running his fingers through the little red Mohawk. He absolutely did not want a teddy-bear, but as bears went, this was a pretty good one. He fiddled with the leather jacket and tweaked the earrings. It was sort of cute, but it wasn't what he needed.

He tipped his head back to rest against Angel's knee. “Daddy,” he said, lisping around his thumb. “I want my blanket.” Angel didn't have to know how badly he did want his blanket. Angel could just think that if he was going to treat him like a toddler, Spike was bloody well acting the part.

He heard Angel sigh, and then there was a hand in his hair. “Oh dear, have I been ignoring you, little lad?”

“Yeah. You've been neglecting me.”

Angel caught him under the armpits and pulled him onto his lap. The grip under his arms pinched but Spike didn't complain.

Spike noticed that Angel was hard, cock pressing against Spike's bum. This hadn't made him hard, and he'd forgotten it could have that affect on Angel. He might have been hard now, too, a year ago. He wriggled against Angel, feeling the cock jerk, and nestled his head into Angel's shoulder.

“Did you like your presents?”

“Yes,” Spike said, and felt Angel gently removed the thumb from his mouth. “Yes,” he said again, squirming slightly to show his irritation, “I was really good at it. I won lots of levels.”

“Aren't you clever.” Angel stroked his cheek.

“Very,” Spike agreed. He nuzzled into Angel's neck, smelling still blood and clean skin. There was a scar here, faint and ragged, skin torn and marked by a vampire even older than Angel. Without thinking, Spike licked it. Angel twitched, surprised by the tongue on the scar, and then reached up and tugged the hair at the base of Spike's neck, pulling his face away.

“Upstairs, boy, and wait for me,” Angel said. Spike didn't move for a moment, and Angel tipped him off his lap, saying, “On with you.”

Spike was tempted to disobey him. He didn't want to leave Angel, and part of him wanted to rebel at Angel's commands. Even if he didn't want to explore the hotel, he should anyway just for the principal of the thing. But inside him there was another, stronger part which craved the comfort of obedience. As much as he hated it, there was a part of him that wanted to be Angel's good little boy. It was the craven part, the part that was so desperately broken, that he had longed to destroy.

In Angel's room, he put his Gameboy and his new teddy-bear on the bedside locker, and curled up on his side. It seemed to him like at this time of night he should be full of energy, but instead he felt a familiar, woozy tiredness. He pulled his special blanket out from under the bed-covers and rubbed a silky corner between his fingers. He slid his thumb into his mouth and ran the blanket over his nose and lip.

He felt very young and small. He'd been vulnerable all week, he'd been vulnerable for months, he felt like maybe he'd been raw and open and so young for all of his long and weary unlife, but right now he felt more acutely new and small than was bearable. He curled up, making his body as little as he could, as if he wasn't here on this bed. He told himself he wasn't Spike, he wasn't even William, none of this had happened, he had never let the girl die, he had never opened himself up to Angel's eyes and hands again, he wasn't weak and broken, he was simply new and he could learn to be strong and brave and whole. He couldn't live with this, with what he was now and what he had been, he just couldn't...

Angel came in and stood for a long time at the foot of the bed. Spike didn't open his eyes. He smelt Angel's familiar scent, and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, and rocked himself, and tried not to smell or hear or feel, to pretend the evening had never happened, that he wasn't really here dressed as Angel's toddler.

“Poor baby,” Angel said. “Poor little boy.”

He tugged the bottom half of Spike's clothes off, leaving him with an exposed arse and limp cock and his t-shirt tangled around his slender waist. Angel pushed him over onto his belly, and gripped Spike's ankles in his hands. He tugged them until Spike was spread out, open on the bed, buttocks apart, hands caught under his torso. He tugged until Spike felt open.

Spike lay where he had been put, letting Angel do what he wanted.

“Do you know what you need?”

Spike could barely understand the question. He needed, he needed, he needed. He was raw. He was Angel's. Angel could bring him here with whispered instructions, ugly clothes and video games. Angel could do anything to him. Angel was the only one who knew what he needed. Spike licked his lip, and answered Angel in two simple syllables, “Daddy.”

Angel ran his fingers down Spike's backbone. Angel's nails could cut skin, but Angel's touch was now only a tickle, a gentle reminder of his strength. He ran his fingers over the knots in Spike's spine, over the tense muscles and taut skin. He massaged Spike with hands that were first hard then gentle; practised hands, hands that knew the musculature of the body, could take it apart and put it back together again. Hands that had opened corpses and fucked whores dry and painted portraits of sleeping girls. Hands that now were infinitely, painfully gentle.

He touched Spike with a delicacy he usually reserved for beautiful women. He raised his t-shirt so he could kiss his shoulder-blades, and then tucked it back down. His fingers spanned over Spike's skin until Spike felt like he was melting into the bed. He licked the small of Spike's back, he tongued the soft down that grew there, he traced hands over the twin cheeks of Spike's arse, he dipped his mouth between and licked, and licked.

Spike didn't get aroused. He just lay, spread out on the bed, relaxed and not relaxed. This was soft and tender: everything his raw, lost body needed, but it was also torturous. He felt split open but he wanted to be torn apart. He wanted to be rent asunder by this vampire's jaws. His skin needed to relearn its own limits. His muscles needed to tense with pain so that they could let go.

When Angel finally hit him, Spike could have cried with relief. It was brief, it was only enough to sting, it was his Daddy reminding him that he was in charge, that he was bigger and stronger and Spike was only little. It was brief, but it was enough.

Skin met skin and the sound was sudden in the quiet room. It wasn't tender; it couldn't be tender. It was being hit. And Spike's bones forgot to fit together, his nerves sent signals in the wrong directions, and he was gone.