TITLE: Through A Glass, Darkly
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face." I Corinthians 13
AUTHOR: Bridie
FEEDBACK: Bridiefemme@yahoo.com
PAIRING: Spike/Angel/Angelus
RATING: NC-17 or maybe just R for a wank and language, M/M Slash
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Other people own them…I’m not making any money…just having a little fun.
SUMMARY: Spike and a looking glass.

**A basketful of hugs to Mouse for kicking my ass and making me write again.**


He's never felt so alone in all of his existence. Isolated. The crypt's gone. Really gone. Just a charred crater in the middle of the cemetery. He's not sure if it was Initiative soldiers or Harmony in a snit. One hell of a snit. Cares as much about either's reasons, which is not at all. The fact is, his stuff's gone, and revenge isn't in the cards right now.

Still too weak. Haven't been able to feed properly. Wound up crawling back here. The scene of his last great humiliation. The mansion. Angelus' home. And he believes there is some sort of effed up logic/reason/justice for him being here now. Alone.

No money to pay utilities, so it's dark in here, even in the middle of the day. He's hungry. No money for that either. He's made up his mind to agree to the Watcher's cracked plan and offer his services for money...blood...cigarettes. Whatever he can get out of them.

Contact. Even with humans is almost welcome now. Because this house is consuming him with memories. Taunted/tainted. Wrapped up in them. Steeped in it. Hating it because it isn't where he is now.

It's not healthy. Even for him. Walking through the hated rooms. Hated hallway. Shadows curling out at him, pulling at him, glimmer in the hall mirror caught out of the corner of his eye as he moves past.

Catches himself breathing. Stops. Turns.

Looks first at the wall in front of the mirror....nothing there to catch a reflection. Nothing moving in the dead house except him, and he's dead too.

House of the dead.

Stray thought that all the portraits and mirrors ought to be covered so the ghosts can't get out.
Involuntary chill.

Laughs, a little at himself. Moves to stand in front of the mirror.

And sees.

The face.

The eyes are closed. But it's Him. And not Him now, it's Him *then*.

Angelus.

Still as death. Eyes still closed. Could be a picture, but he knows this is the mirror. In the
hall. In this damned house.

He lifts his hand, reaching out, his own movement invisible, almost touching the chilled surface.

The eyes open.

"Angelusssss." The name hisses past his lips and he snatches his fingers back as though burned. Brown eyes focus on him and lock him in place before the glass.

No question in his mind who this is. No soft soul in those eyes. Those eyes. Staring back at him painfully.

*Seeing* him.

And that does hurt. When was the last time someone looked at him with that kind of recognition?

He blinks, lowers his gaze and steps back.

Then the voice.

"Look at me, boy."

Fuck. No. This isn't happening. He's lost almost everything he's ever had in this world and feels his sanity being stripped from him. His mind flayed with each inflection. Because it's real. He doesn't doubt that.

So he looks.

Sees the laughter in the face before it reaches the mouth. Cruel mouth. Opening.

"Miss me, William?"

No. No. No. Yes.

This is the moment. Walk away and it's just a hunger-induced hallucination. Respond, and it's...something else.

Is there really a choice?

"Yer a ghost."

A flicker of something in those eyes. Lips harden to a thin line. Eyes still fastened on him.

"Ya can't be a ghost....yer still the boogey man locked away in Angel's head."

And then there is noise.

Everywhere at once he feels an audible rage swirling around him. A white rush of sound, just as quickly gone as it had begun. He's backed himself against that far wall, panting with the effort to hold himself there. To not bolt and run and never look back.

But he won't.

Because he can't.

Anger lingers on the air. He could lick his lips right now and taste it. He knows....he
remembers....he's had to swallow enough of *that* anger in his lifetime.

But he's waiting.

The next move, the next line....those aren't his.

Minutes, hours, hell maybe even years crawl past him in the hall before the shadow in the mirror speaks again.

"He didn't tell you, William."

He's smart; he should be able to figure this out. But the emptiness in his belly is making his brain fog up again. Wait. Was that a question?

"I'm banished forever, lad. Dead. A ghost." No hint of emotion in that voice. And he could use a hint about now. That, and a drink.

"The soul..." He can't quite finish the thought. Knows the other will finish it for him.

"The soul is permanent. And you're already thinking about that aren't you?" More than a hint. Tone dripping with mockery.

"You're wondering how long before he comes back for the Slayer. Or maybe, just maybe you’re wondering if since he has nothing to lose that maybe now would a good time to pay you back for that little Gem of Amara incident.” He may be tired, he may be hungry, but he’s aware enough to catch the growl at the end of that little speech. Aware enough to straighten up a bit, break the thing’s gaze to glance around for a weapon. Anything.

“Didn’t know I was there, did you? So close to the surface I could taste your rage. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, Will, but I was rooting for you the whole time. I kept believing one more blow would knock the doors wide open for me. I was gonna kill Marcus, then fuck you raw. It would have been great. A proper reunion. Not like last time.”

Last time. Last time. He remembered last time.

Remembering, he slumped to the floor. Fumbling in his pockets. Cigarettes. Lighter. Small creature comfort of the light and drag.

The Angelus thing looked down on him, almost patiently. Which was worth a laugh in itself.

A bitter laugh bitten off at the sound of someone knocking at the front door.

“Spike. Spike! You in there?”

Not really sure, you know?

“Listen, Spike. Giles wants you to be at his place tonight. Be there, or…just be there!”

Brilliant. Watcher’s sending the boy ‘round to fetch him. Can’t really get much worse, can it? And then he looks up.

Brown eyes flicker to gold.

Worse, apparently, is a relative and flexible thing.

“Almost sucked dry, aren’t you? Not feeding. Stepping and fetching for humans. No sign of Dru. What have you got left, boy?” Nothing. But he won’t admit it. Not yet.

“I got more than you right now, Angelus.”

Truly eerie to hear a reflection chuckle at you.

“That’s not saying much.”

No, but it was worth saying.

Energy expended on the last drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out. He’s making every effort to keep his eyes open. But it’s hard. And if the thing in the mirror could have gotten to him, he’d be ten kinds of dead already. His hunger is a dull roar in his brain as his eyelids drift down.

Angelus is pushing him in the wheelchair through the mansion. They stop at the edge of the patio. Dead vines climb like veins along the walls. No moon tonight.

Angelus kneeling in front of him.

“You’ll get better here. Nothing from the outside can get in. Just you and me.”

Large hands resting on his knees. And he can *feel* them. Feel thumbs pressing in. Being dragged up his thighs.

Oh god, he’s not, he’s not. Christ, he is!

One hand steady on his thigh, the other snug against his crotch. Cupping, holding.

“Glad to see me?”

Eyelids snap open, gasping breath drawn in and expelled. Half-hard, and that’s his own hand pressing down.

And those are his Sire’s eyes gazing down on him.

How the fuck did he get inside his head like that?

“Because I never left.”

This is beyond not fair. Supposed to wake fresh and energetic from a little kip. Wakey, wakey, Spike’s brain. But sod it all, he’s tired, and aching from sitting on the floor, muzzy in mind and body from not having eaten in…what is it now…days? Oh yeah, and hard.

Angelus leering down at him isn’t helping.

“Pull it out, boy.”

He should fight this. He really should. Save his strength for…something.

But he doesn’t. Slim fingers fumble at the button fly. When did he become so clumsy? Doesn’t care as he raises his hips to pull the jeans down around his knees.

With a sigh of relief/resignation, he lifts his cock.

His poltergeist Sire wants a show? He’ll give him one.

One hand pulling his thigh outward, the other moving slowly up his own length. Just a drop of moisture at the tip, he doesn’t have much to spare these days.

Doesn’t matter. It feels good. Hasn’t bothered to do this in a long time, and the feel of flesh on flesh, even if it is his own…maybe because it’s his own, feels blissful. And those eyes are on him. So hungry.

Palm pushing inwards, fingers wrapping tightly and he’s pulling up and in. Thumb brushing against his stomach, pushing his shirt up with the action. Friction. It’s all good.

“No.”

Ah…command of the Sire. This is familiar. And irritating.

“What?” He doesn’t care if this shade-Angelus hears the annoyance in his tone. “That’s my hand on your cock, Will. My hand.”

Oh…getting the game now.

His hand moves down his thigh, cupping his sack, toying, rolling his balls around. The other moves a bit more quickly. Pulling down the foreskin, pulling up and pinching…just there.

Mouth slack and open, he’s breathing now, and somehow he doesn’t think he could continue without forcing his lungs to move with him.

“Faster.”

Almost a request. But not quite. And his hand begins to obey as his body rebels.

Doesn’t matter.

He’s almost shaking with the effort. Panting and never looking away from that face. The hand on his balls strikes out to catch his weight on the floor.

Leaning on himself, and still pumping into his own tightened fist. And it hurts.

His body is ravenous, and everything he has is being poured into the motion of hand over cock. Red and drooling just a bit more now. Just enough to slicken his hold. And he groans at that.

Moisture. And he’d kill for anything right now. Whiskey would be good. Blood would be better. Yes, that was a sob tearing through his chest.

Throat tight with need and want and loss. All the hate and rage and fear of the past weeks, hell months is pouring down his arm as he savagely jerks off.

He’s trembling now. The brown eyes locked fiercely with his. Drinking in his effort.

“Harder. Almost there, Will. Come for me.”

That fucking voice. Wrapping around his brain like his hand is wound around his cock. Pulling at him.

He can feel that. Feel his sack drawing up. Feel his thighs twitching. And oh fuck it hurts, and it doesn’t matter, because it’s the sweetest kind of pain that he hasn’t felt in so long.

There isn’t a bit left of him that isn’t going to shatter apart this time.

Eyes shut against the invasion he fists himself with the last bit of fury in him and comes silently. Pulsing over his own hand. Nothing left as he completes his slide to the floor.

The face in the mirror smiles.

He’s in the wheelchair again. Angelus is sitting on the edge of the brick wall, watching him.

“You can walk now, you know.”

And he can. He gets up. Tests his strength. And walks.

“I told you that you’d get better here. It’s this house. And me, of course.”

Of course.

“We’ll stay here.”

Yeah…that sounds good.

He was cold. One eye cracked open. Might be ‘cause his trousers were down around his ankles. He moved to pull them up and groaned at the pain the effort cost him.

Stood. Feeling a little light-headed. So far past hunger, that it’s a part of him he accepts now.
Tucks himself in and sits back against the wall. Just staring up and back at the face. This time he doesn’t even flinch when the banging on the door starts up.

“Spike! Get your sorry ass out here! You were supposed to be at Giles’ hours ago!”

The face smirks back at him.

He can hear the door opening. It’s an odd noise, like the footsteps, because they seem to be happening somewhere else. Not really here in their house.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Spike? Spike! Look at me! Didn’t you hear me?”

No. What he can hear is the blood rushing through her veins. It’s a very sweet sound, yet somehow it doesn’t touch off his blood lust. Just makes him look a little wistfully at the face.

“Spike, this is giving me the wiggins. You’re just sitting there staring at that mirror. Not like you can see anything. And you should. You’re a mess. Spike?”

Those eyes darken, and the hallway feels colder. A lot colder.

“Shit! What is going on here? Alright, Spike. Last chance. I’m leaving.”

Good.

And this time he can clearly hear the door close. Can hear it lock. Can feel the hallway getting warmer.

“S’nice.”

“Thought you’d be more comfortable. I knew you were going to like it here.”

He was just going to stare a while. Maybe shut his eyes for half a mo’. Then more staring. Good to have a plan.

They were both back on the patio again.

Or in the hallway.

He wasn’t sure.

But the knocking was getting louder.

“Ignore it.”

“Ignore what?” He almost managed a laugh.

“Good lad.”

The front door splintering was a bit more difficult to disregard.

The heavy footsteps were downright distracting.

It was the hand on his face that finally did him in.

“Spike. Spike…I need you to look at me.”

Git, what did he think I was looking at? Oh. Wrong one.

‘Cause I’m looking at the right one. And on the patio he’s licking my ear and whispering the most vile and wonderful things into it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Not a bloody thing. All is right in the world. In my world.

With a wrench he is pulled bodily up and away from the wall. Away from the face.

“Angel?” Was that his voice dry and croaking?

“Stop, stop, only me.” The other crooned in his head. Desperately he turned to find those eyes. His captor turning with him.

Shit. He knew. He saw. How could he see? This is mine. Ours. Our house. A safe place.

That white noise of rage was back. This time it was worse. It was both of them. And fuck, it was cold again.

And Angel wasn’t holding him up, so he fell, slumping against his friend, the wall. Watching in horror from what seemed like a long way away.

And Angel was moving forward. Body rigid with wrath.

Angel’s arm was raised.

Angel’s hand was breaking the mirror into a million fucking beautiful, horrible pieces.

God no. God no. Please…just…no.
There isn’t enough left for tears, so he’s just curled on the floor, his body hitching in a painful imitation of sobs.

The last thing is gone. And there’s nothing left.

But there’s a touch. Soft after the fury that struck the final blow.

It’s an insult, really. But he’ll take it.

That huge body is crouched down low to him. Christ! Is he really so weak that the bastard can just wrap him up like this?

Yes, it’s possible. Because his body just sags like a rag doll’s in those arms.

And what little life he has left is apparently going to be spent in amazement that the souled creature is just going to hold him tenderly like this.

What? Until he expires? Worse than Passions. Worse than he deserved.

Fading fast, but there’s small comfort to be taken in the thought that his dust is going to be a bitch to get out of all those dark clothes.

Can feel his lips twisting in a parody of a smile. The triumphant dusty revenge of Spike.

Hand to his mouth. What?

Something warm against his cracked lips. And he’s being sucked into this big space of….of fuck it all, the best feeling he’s ever had. And if this is dying the second time around, it kicks ass over tit of the first time.

But he’s the one sucking. Drawing in huge mouthfuls of blood and drinking it on down until he swears even his toes are warmed by the stuff. Magic stuff, that.

And whether it’s a sign of returning strength or final madness, he almost laughs against the offered wrist as mad Lady Macbeth wrings her hands in his brain… who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.

But it is funny as hell. To him. And with a sigh he lifts his head.

“With me again, Will?”

Stupid, great idiot. Pillock. Poofter. Wanker. Sire?

“Yeah.”

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