Lot's Wife (Angel/Spike, PG-13)
Dec. 3rd, 2006 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carlyinromeTITLE: Lot’s Wife
AUTHOR: Lamia Archer
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Angel/Spike. Um, sort of.
WORD COUNT: 1,368
SUMMARY: It sucks being alone.
SPOILERS: BtVS S7, during the chained-in-Buffy’s-basement days; AtS S5 “Damaged.”
CHALLENGE: For
speakingsilence in the maleslashminis Angel challenge.After several decades, being on one’s own becomes tolerable, even second nature. Spike had always been the most social of his family – Darla was only to a point, and then immediately, inhumanly cold, requiring a winter’s expanse of autonomy; Drusilla blew hot and cold, one minute curled in your lap like a kitten, the next unable to bear your presence; and Angelus never needed anyone but himself and the action of death – but eventually the need for company was stripped from him. He developed patience with silence, and became comfortable in his own company.
Of course, he was still a predator, and any predator becomes restless when caged.
Especially when there are extenuating circumstances. A body denied real sustenance. The sounds of young heartbeats thrumming at the walls.
Spike might have paced if he hadn’t been tethered.
At least he wasn’t alone.
No, that was a problem, too.
“Look at you,” a familiar, unwelcome voice purred. Velvet – sighs and prayers. “And you called me love’s bitch.”
Spike scowled. Angel was sitting on the basement floor watching him with those damn endless dark eyes, looking all holier-than-thou. Sitting where there had been nothing seconds before. Having no scent at all.
Bollocks. He needed this today.
“I’m not Buffy’s bitch,” Spike insisted. “That would still be you. Or, you know, the poofter whose face you’re wearing. You think I don’t know my own sire from a non-corporeal evil . . . thing? Right off your rocker, mate. You haven’t even got an ethereal scent to try and confuse me with.”
A slow smile crept across Not-Angel’s face. “Which one of us is shackled to that cot, mate?”
Spike frowned. Angel’s smile grew a little.
“Are you familiar with the story of Lot?” Angel asked, rising from his crouch to come and sit by Spike on his cot.
Spike scooted away as far as he could without looking like he was doing so purposefully. He didn’t want to sit near the bloody incorporeal bastard, but he didn’t want to look like he was shying away.
“My generation wasn’t too much into the Bible-thumping,” Spike said, wishing he had a fag. “That was more your thing. If I remember, there was something about some angels and a gangbang, though. Must be why you’re interested . . .”
Angel ignored him. “Lot moved to the city of Sodom—”
“That’s why you’re interested, then, you queer.”
“—when he followed his uncle to Egypt. The city was rife with sin, and one day, two angels fell upon his door. God had sent them to Sodom to warn the people of the horrors that were about to befall the sinful city: And there came two angels to Sodom at even; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing them rose up to meet them; and he bowed himself with his face toward the ground.”
Spike raised a brow. “If this is a come-on, I hate to tell you: you’re incorporeal.”
“But before they lay down, the men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter: And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them. And Lot went out at the door unto them, and shut the door after him, And said, I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly. So Lot offered his virgin daughters, instead.”
“Hell of a guy.”
“The men were not interested, and they tried violently to get in the house to get at the angels, so the angels blinded them—”
“Sounds like something you’d do.”
“—and the angels took Lot and his family out of the city before God destroyed it: it rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.”
“Good ole Old Testament God.”
“But when they were leaving the city,” Angel finished, smiling, “Lot’s wife looked back to the city God was razing, and she became a pillar of salt.”
“Helpful thing to have around.”
“Some people postulate that the text means this literally. Others believe that she was just made barren—like the earth is salted and no longer yields crops, so her womb was sewed. And then there’s the popular belief that she was stifled in a pillar of flame—”
Spike’s eyes rolled heavenward. “I’m loving this history lesson, teach, but you’re even more boring than the real Angel.”
Not-Angel grinned. “Who said it was a history lesson?”
Of course, he was still a predator, and any predator becomes restless when caged.
Especially when there are extenuating circumstances. A body denied real sustenance. The sounds of young heartbeats thrumming at the walls.
Spike might have paced if he hadn’t been tethered.
At least he wasn’t alone.
No, that was a problem, too.
“Look at you,” a familiar, unwelcome voice purred. Velvet – sighs and prayers. “And you called me love’s bitch.”
Spike scowled. Angel was sitting on the basement floor watching him with those damn endless dark eyes, looking all holier-than-thou. Sitting where there had been nothing seconds before. Having no scent at all.
Bollocks. He needed this today.
“I’m not Buffy’s bitch,” Spike insisted. “That would still be you. Or, you know, the poofter whose face you’re wearing. You think I don’t know my own sire from a non-corporeal evil . . . thing? Right off your rocker, mate. You haven’t even got an ethereal scent to try and confuse me with.”
A slow smile crept across Not-Angel’s face. “Which one of us is shackled to that cot, mate?”
Spike frowned. Angel’s smile grew a little.
“Are you familiar with the story of Lot?” Angel asked, rising from his crouch to come and sit by Spike on his cot.
Spike scooted away as far as he could without looking like he was doing so purposefully. He didn’t want to sit near the bloody incorporeal bastard, but he didn’t want to look like he was shying away.
“My generation wasn’t too much into the Bible-thumping,” Spike said, wishing he had a fag. “That was more your thing. If I remember, there was something about some angels and a gangbang, though. Must be why you’re interested . . .”
Angel ignored him. “Lot moved to the city of Sodom—”
“That’s why you’re interested, then, you queer.”
“—when he followed his uncle to Egypt. The city was rife with sin, and one day, two angels fell upon his door. God had sent them to Sodom to warn the people of the horrors that were about to befall the sinful city: And there came two angels to Sodom at even; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing them rose up to meet them; and he bowed himself with his face toward the ground.”
Spike raised a brow. “If this is a come-on, I hate to tell you: you’re incorporeal.”
“But before they lay down, the men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter: And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them. And Lot went out at the door unto them, and shut the door after him, And said, I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly. So Lot offered his virgin daughters, instead.”
“Hell of a guy.”
“The men were not interested, and they tried violently to get in the house to get at the angels, so the angels blinded them—”
“Sounds like something you’d do.”
“—and the angels took Lot and his family out of the city before God destroyed it: it rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.”
“Good ole Old Testament God.”
“But when they were leaving the city,” Angel finished, smiling, “Lot’s wife looked back to the city God was razing, and she became a pillar of salt.”
“Helpful thing to have around.”
“Some people postulate that the text means this literally. Others believe that she was just made barren—like the earth is salted and no longer yields crops, so her womb was sewed. And then there’s the popular belief that she was stifled in a pillar of flame—”
Spike’s eyes rolled heavenward. “I’m loving this history lesson, teach, but you’re even more boring than the real Angel.”
Not-Angel grinned. “Who said it was a history lesson?”
***
Brown makes you sleepy. Spike couldn’t actually remember having his hands cut off; he wondered if it was like that for his victims, too.
Somehow, he doubted that.
Morphine makes you sleepy, too. He was having difficulty keeping track of the locations of people, things; one minute, Fred was by the door, the nurse was checking his machines, the chair was by his bed . . . and then everything was different, just in a flutter of eyelids.
Angel was a particular bastard about it, because he didn’t make any noise. Spike would look up, and the old poof would suddenly be at the end of the bed where a moment before there had been nothing but empty space, not saying anything, not breathing, just looking at him with those damn sad soulful eyes.
Fucking ghost.
“Make some fucking noise, you prick,” Spike mumbled. “You’re creeping me out.”
Angel shuffled uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
“You’re always sorry,” Spike accused druggedly. “Like a kicked puppy. I’m not sorry.”
That wasn’t true. But he was, he suspected, not sorry for enough of the right things.
“You should—” Angel started, but then stopped, shoulders slumping. The old sire looked tired. Really tired, like Spike hadn’t seen him in a long time; mentally fatigued, like when he’d been teaching young William about how not to get killed, and young William was pressing every button to see if Angelus wouldn’t do the deed himself.
“I should,” Spike said, and then smiled. He enjoyed the sound of that phrase in his own voice. So he said it again.
Angel frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, for just having my hands cut off and reattached.” Spike squinted myopically him. “What are you hanging around here, for, ghost? Haven’t you had your fill of haunting me?”
Angel sighed. “I think you’ve had too much morphine. I’ll call—”
He started toward the door, but Spike wasn’t about to let the suspect character out of his sight.
“Oy! I figured out your, er, parable. Thing.”
Angel turned back to the bed, brow raised. “Parable?”
“Yeah. Your . . . salt thing.”
Angel sighed. “I’m getting the nurse to turn down your drugs.”
“No! This is important.”
Angel sighed again. He walked back to Spike’s bedside, pulling the chair up beside the head of the bed and taking a seat.
“Okay,” Angel said, in the voice one uses to speak to small children with too much sugar in their systems. “Enlighten me. What important salt thing did you figure out?”
Spike ignored his tone. “The thing you were telling me. With the angels, and the gangbang.”
Angel’s brow raised, but he said nothing.
“The thing is . . . faith, right? Or . . . belief, or whatever. If you haven’t got faith, then you’re fucked.”
The incredulous expression faded from Angel’s face.
“I think that’s true,” he said softly. “If we don’t believe that what we do has a purpose, then we’re lost. It doesn’t really matter what your purpose is, so long as you have one.”
He paused, frowning slightly over Spike. “Is that what you were looking for?”
“Something like that.”
Angel nodded. “Okay. Well . . . good.” He glanced at the door. “I should—”
Spike frowned. “No, just . . . stay, mate, all right?”
Angel looked surprised, but he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Spike figured that it was real Angel after that little speech, but he might have asked evil Not-Angel to stay, too. After several decades, you get used to being alone, but sometimes, you just need some familiar company.
Somehow, he doubted that.
Morphine makes you sleepy, too. He was having difficulty keeping track of the locations of people, things; one minute, Fred was by the door, the nurse was checking his machines, the chair was by his bed . . . and then everything was different, just in a flutter of eyelids.
Angel was a particular bastard about it, because he didn’t make any noise. Spike would look up, and the old poof would suddenly be at the end of the bed where a moment before there had been nothing but empty space, not saying anything, not breathing, just looking at him with those damn sad soulful eyes.
Fucking ghost.
“Make some fucking noise, you prick,” Spike mumbled. “You’re creeping me out.”
Angel shuffled uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
“You’re always sorry,” Spike accused druggedly. “Like a kicked puppy. I’m not sorry.”
That wasn’t true. But he was, he suspected, not sorry for enough of the right things.
“You should—” Angel started, but then stopped, shoulders slumping. The old sire looked tired. Really tired, like Spike hadn’t seen him in a long time; mentally fatigued, like when he’d been teaching young William about how not to get killed, and young William was pressing every button to see if Angelus wouldn’t do the deed himself.
“I should,” Spike said, and then smiled. He enjoyed the sound of that phrase in his own voice. So he said it again.
Angel frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, for just having my hands cut off and reattached.” Spike squinted myopically him. “What are you hanging around here, for, ghost? Haven’t you had your fill of haunting me?”
Angel sighed. “I think you’ve had too much morphine. I’ll call—”
He started toward the door, but Spike wasn’t about to let the suspect character out of his sight.
“Oy! I figured out your, er, parable. Thing.”
Angel turned back to the bed, brow raised. “Parable?”
“Yeah. Your . . . salt thing.”
Angel sighed. “I’m getting the nurse to turn down your drugs.”
“No! This is important.”
Angel sighed again. He walked back to Spike’s bedside, pulling the chair up beside the head of the bed and taking a seat.
“Okay,” Angel said, in the voice one uses to speak to small children with too much sugar in their systems. “Enlighten me. What important salt thing did you figure out?”
Spike ignored his tone. “The thing you were telling me. With the angels, and the gangbang.”
Angel’s brow raised, but he said nothing.
“The thing is . . . faith, right? Or . . . belief, or whatever. If you haven’t got faith, then you’re fucked.”
The incredulous expression faded from Angel’s face.
“I think that’s true,” he said softly. “If we don’t believe that what we do has a purpose, then we’re lost. It doesn’t really matter what your purpose is, so long as you have one.”
He paused, frowning slightly over Spike. “Is that what you were looking for?”
“Something like that.”
Angel nodded. “Okay. Well . . . good.” He glanced at the door. “I should—”
Spike frowned. “No, just . . . stay, mate, all right?”
Angel looked surprised, but he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Spike figured that it was real Angel after that little speech, but he might have asked evil Not-Angel to stay, too. After several decades, you get used to being alone, but sometimes, you just need some familiar company.
