Fandom: Angel (tv)
Summary/Teaser: "Well, if that's how you picture it, love. I've always been more partial to the up and go sort of festivities: all fangs, fists and riots. This one time...oh, sorry."
Warnings: explicit het sex
Spoilers: early S5 Angel
Notes: Written for sinister_beauty for btvs_santa 2003. The request: Spike/Fred in S5 Angel as canon as possible. Please make it as cannon and believable as possible with angst and light-heartedness, "An NC-17 rating prefferably. One crappy, down in the dumps Christmas on Fred's part. Hard liquor of some sort (but please, avoid drunkenness!. Mistletoe. Late night working. Spike saying at some point, [the line that is the summary/teaser]"
Word Count: 1875
Standard Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and co. own the characters, I'm just playing with them. I do, however, own this story, so don't steal it. Archive it anywhere; just ask first.
Feedback is always appreciated. Make me blush with praise or rip apart the story with criticism, or both.
"No Christmas partying for you?"
Fred shook her head, eyes still focused on screens and printouts. "Gotta work."
"Even on Christmas? C'mon."
Fred sighed and paused for a moment. "No one invited me out."
"For shame. Lemme take you somewhere, have ourselves some fun."
Fred's eyes lit up as she turned and faced Spike. "Really? There's this great little bistro I know. Red-checked tablecloths, roaring fireplace, live string quartet."
"Well, if that's how you picture it, love. I've always been more partial to the up and go sort of festivities: all fangs, fists and riots. This one time...oh, sorry."
Fred looked worried.
"No, really," his voice evidencing his desire to make amends, "we'll go to that bistro you like. What's it called?"
Fred sure knew how to pick 'em. The air was throbbing with meat and wine. He suspected he looked a bit out of place with his leather duster, though Fred fit it in nicely in her sky blue dress suit, but she had reserved a table for two under "Winifred Burkle, Wolfram and Hart," so he knew no one would give them any trouble.
Fred ordered a steak and a glass of merlot. Spike raised an eyebrow, but she didn't notice.
"I'll have a bottle of bourbon."
"A bottle, sir?"
"And will there be anything else, sir?"
Spike hadn't had real food since.... if you didn't count the Weetabix he sometimes mixed in with his blood, he couldn't even remember when. But he knew it looked strange to be at such a restaurant and only order alcohol, so he tossed off a pasta order. "Sweet potato ravioli, with romesco."
"Do you come here often?" Spike asked, after they had ordered.
"Oh no. I think this is the first time I've had anything that wasn't take-out or microwaveable since we started at Wolfram and Hart. First there was so much new and exciting stuff I could hardly pull myself away from the office, and then you showed up and I was trying to recorporealize you, and now with all this universe-coming-apart-at-the-seams business, well no one's really getting out much. Gunn took me here once, on our anniversary. It was rather out of our price range, back then, but it was a really nice night." Her voice had turned wistful and though her eyes were on the fireplace he expected she was really seeing something quite different. He'd meant to cheer her up, not drown her in the past, so tried to come up with a new topic of conversation. Work? No, he'd just dragged her away from that. Unable to come up with anything else to talk about, he sat in silence until the waiter arrived with their food.
Fred's steak was positively dripping blood and Spike found himself glad he had ordered food, because it gave him something to distract himself with. One would have thought Fred was the vampire as she attacked the slab of meat. Spike stabbed a ravioli with his fork, swirling it in the sauce, debating about whether to actually eat or not. He supposed he should. Wolfram and Hart would be picking up the tab, but he might as well actually eat the food – seemed dumb to waste it and piss off the staff around the holidays. And romesco sauce always had a good zing to it, off-setting the mellow potato center of the ravioli, the almonds of the sauce adding texture to the otherwise smooth food. He popped one into his mouth.
"Spike, do you miss Buffy?"
Figures. Now that he finally had his mouth full she'd stop shoveling it in and try to make conversation again. And what a question. Maybe it was better he had his mouth full. Gave him some time to come up with an answer.
"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. It's just, I mean, I know you're still trapped in L.A. and all, but I would have thought you'd be making someone track them down in Europe. Let 'em know you're alive at least – or, well, corporeal anyway; I mean, you haven't exactly been alive in a long time."
Spike swallowed. "Don't think I haven't thought about it, pet. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up, still. I remember the burning and I remember her and I wonder where I am, and then I remember the rest of it. I thought about making one of your know-it-alls find her, but what would I say to her? 'Hullo, Buff, saved the world and got brought back to the undead for my troubles. My existence as a Champion seems to be upsetting the natural order of things, so if Europe ceases to exist, well, that might be my fault. But yeah, I'm back. Wanna fly back to the States for a quick shag?' "
Fred looked sorry she had brought the subject up.
"I'm sorry, luv. I didn't mean to dump that all on you. It's just... I've rehearsed every possible thing I could say to her, and none of it works. Even if I weren't tearing apart the fabric of the universe or stuck in this city. I loved her like I've never loved anyone before, and sometimes I think she loved me back, but that's all in the past now. I saw when Angel came back for that last fight. She was happy to see him, o'course, but then she sent him away. Time to move on and all. She's making a new life off in Europe. What could I bring her but memories of the past? Painful memories."
Fred looked about ready to cry.
Spike shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not making this better by trying to explain it, am I?"
Fred blinked a few times. "No, its okay. I want to understand. I mean, she was like the love of your life, and you're just letting her go."
"Do you want me to hurry up and look for her? I was under the impression you were rather fond of me." Spike's look was flirtatious, and Fred got even more flustered. Spike just kept talking. "Though I suppose Research Boy's got you all wrapped up." Fred's mouth began to form a "W-?" but Spike just kept going. "Knox, right?" Fred relaxed, visibly. "He have a brother? Spittin' image of a bloke I– never mind."
Fred was laughing now. "Knox is cute and all, but I don't know. He's just this sweet goof who's always there, like a kid brother or something."
"Well, he seems rather keen on you."
Fred blushed. "Yeah, he does, doesn't he?" She shook her head. "What about you? Anyone helping take your mind off Buffy?”
Spike's voice was soft. "I rather fancy you, actually."
Fred began shoveling the remains of her steak into her mouth. Spike felt like he should say something but couldn't think of anything that wouldn't make the situation more awkward, so he just sat in silence, nibbling on his ravioli and sucking on his bourbon, watching Fred eat. When she had finished she gulped the rest of her wine and looked up at him, taking a deep breath. "I like you too, actually."
Spike smiled. "Shall I escort you back to your abode then, m'lady?" Fred grinned. She waved down a waiter and charged the meal to the company card. They walked out, arm-in-arm, and Spike stifled a giggle at their exaggeratedly chivalric behavior. As they neared the exit, Spike noticed mistletoe. He paused in the doorway, cupped Fred’s face in his hand, and tilted it upward so she saw the mistletoe. Then he leaned down and kissed her, softly. He continued, more firmly, as she kissed back, and they wrapped themselves in each other.
Eventually, one of the maitre d's tapped Spike on the shoulder. "Sir. You're blocking the entrance. And making rather a spectacle of yourself. Would you like me to call you a cab?"
Spike drew away for air he didn't need and muttered, "Yes, please," as Fred blushed. Then it was back to kissing, even being so kind as to move out from under the mistletoe, allowing customers to use the doorway, until the next interruption. "That's your cab, sir." Spike grunted. Fred fumbled with her purse and handed the man a large bill.
Spike nearly pushed Fred into the cab, crawling along the seat as Fred folded herself against the opposite door, holding her purse in front of her as if it were a shield. "No, wait until we get back to my place."
"And where would that be?" the driver asked.
Fred rattled off her address, and the car set off.
"Okay, pet, I won't try to take any of your clothes off, but do I at least get another kiss?"
Fred moved her purse to the floor in answer.
When they arrived at her apartment, Fred passed the driver an appropriate number of bills before hurrying out of the cab, pursued by Spike. She hurried up the stairs, unlocked the door, and then tossed her purse onto the coffee table. She turned back to shut and latch the door, but Spike was shifting uncomfortably on the stoop. "Oh, I'm sorry, come in, come in." Happily, he lunged through the doorway. She shut and latched it.
He looked around, wanting to drink in his surroundings, memorize every detail of this place she called home – if she hadn't taken to calling the lab home yet, that is. But Fred looked so hopeful she was almost fragile and he knew a guided tour would have to wait. He cocked his head. "Bedroom, luv?"
She grabbed him by the hand and led him. As they walked through the door into the bedroom, she took off her blazer, and he shrugged off his duster. He cupped her face in his hands and began kissing her softly again. He unbuttoned her blouse and stroked her torso, feeling the tension in her body. His hands moved down her back and she helped him remove her skirt. Her hands were underneath his shirt, and he broke off a kiss briefly enough to pull it over his head. Her hands were all over his torso, marveling at the sculpture and the lack of heat. He maneuvered himself out of his pants and then lifted her up, depositing her on the bed, his body following after hers. He kissed the hollow of her neck, her collarbones, moved down, undid her bra. She cried out as he attacked one her nipples, licking and sucking, trailing blunt teeth and making it ever so hard. He did the same to the other one and she groaned. He continued down her chest, kissing so gently. She felt like she was being worshiped. No one had ever done this to her before. When he reached her waist he returned to her mouth. She pressed her body against his, her tongue deep in his mouth. Their movements were almost acrobatic as they removed the last of their garments without breaking the contact between their mouths. Their bodies were rocking in unison and then Spike was inside her and she gasped. His head lay on her chest and her breathing was heavy and she was crying. He knew better than to say anything, just lay there as the tears wet the pillows.