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I’m not clicking on the article because I know they won’t have the real answer which is just be poly. But then I’ve been a long time Spangle shipper.
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So, hypothetically … I write a fic of Buffy, Spike, and Angel as a snarky polycule family where they’re all badass and super in love. Does anyone read it?
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He doesn’t know where he is at first, not that it really matters.
Doesn’t it?
The room he’s in is aged, and with a deep inhale, he can smell the scent of a dozen different magic’s melded in the bones of the building. There’s a comfort to it, in a way, Spike has always enjoyed older buildings to newer ones that have yet to take on life, take on an identity, and he burrows underneath the blankets with a tired sigh.
The scent is familiar, and he can’t help but rub his cheek against the soft bedding with a deep purr, something he hasn’t done willingly in a long while. For how long he’s not sure, but eventually, Spike rises to the forefront with information that makes him still.
It smells like Angel.
“No, no no no it can’t.” The blonde curls up as small as he can manage, hugging his legs with a slight whine. “No angel’s here, there can be no Angel, unworthy of wings, of life, of care.”
“You’re not unworthy.” He hadn’t felt the bed dip, but the large hand that rested on the top of his head was achingly familiar.
“You didn’t kill us, me, us.”
“No.”
“Bad, very bad.”
“No, just able to see what you can’t right now.” Spike hisses, Angel beginning to move his hand through Spike’s curls that had grown over the last few weeks, keeping his motion steady. The other begins to mutter as he lets Angel touch him, and as the older expected, he finally relaxes against him.
“It burns…” It’s a weak whisper, but he knows Angel can hear it all the same.
“I know.” Spike sighs, finally opening his eyes and looking up at Angel with a slight frown. “What?”
“…I don’t like your hair.” Angel rolls his eyes, keeping Spike’s lack of blonde to himself for now.
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.” The smaller man gives him a glare as Angel pulls away, watching Spike slowly sit up with a wince as he scans the room. “How’s the head?”
“Beatin’ like you’ve punched me.” He grumbled, slowly drawing his legs close to his chest again. “Did you punch me?”
“No, though you did bang your head when crawling through a window.”
“I crawled through a window?”
“Mhm, into my old apartment. Good thing I found you when I did, you could have gotten burnt or worse.”
“Oh.” Spike looks down at his covered feet, already feeling what little sanity he had slipping from his fingers like sand through an hourglass. “I’m in L.A?”
“Yes.” Angel wants to ask how Spike made it back from halfway around the world, but settles for slipping off the bed to gathering clothes he’d bought for Spike. “Think you can shower?”
“Shower…” The word almost seemed confusing, blue eyes flickering around before centering back on Angel. “Where?”
“Other side of the room, green door.” Spike looks around the room before zeroing in on said door, muttering something about ducks before slowly shuffling off the bed and onto his feet, wavering in place as his head spun.
Man, he was thirsty.
Angel watches the Brit pad across the room and vanish into the bathroom before shaking his head, gathering up dirty sheets and tossing them down the chute to be washed. Fresh blood is pulled from the fridge and set to be warmed, and after putting fresh sheets on the bed, he heads downstairs to gather some files to look over. Of course, his crew has questions, but Wesley is his silent hand as he shoos everyone away and back to their work.
“Thanks, and sorry for making you guys have extra work on your plate.” Angel rubbed the back of his neck as Wesley handed him the stack of files he was searching for.
“I think it’s rather understandable.” The former Watcher said little as Angel pulled out a small jar, and some cigars a client had given him a while back.
“It took me a while to get my head back on straight, I don’t know how Spike will take it… but he’ll come back to himself.” Angel paused, staring at the small jar with a frown. “Could you call Giles? I have an idea why he…but I need to know.”
“Consider it done, I’ll drop by later.” Angel reached over and squeezed Wesley’s shoulder before he was gone back up the stairs, leaving everyone to look at each other in curiosity.
The water has stopped by the time Angel returns, and a quick scan of the room reveals the other was clearly still inside, the vampire setting down his spoils before going to knock on the door. “Spike?”
“Come back later, he’s not here.” The voice is soft, softer than he’s heard in so long, and Angel sheds his coat before rolling up his sleeves.
“With whom do I have an audience?”
“The man whose name you’ve said before, with a pretty smile and eyes darker than night.” Slowly, Angel opens the door, taking in the warm steam for a blessed moment that envelops him before he quickly enters the room, closing the door behind him. Spike is curled against one side of the bathtub, blue eyes flickering up from their fixation on the bubbles that covered the surface of the warm water.
“I see you found the bubble bath.”
“It reminds me of that field we passed in Dublin. Do you remember how the moon shone as we danced until dawn?” Those eyes watch as Angel crouches down by the side of the tub, one hand scooping up soapy water and running it through his hair.
“I know you wrote a poem about it, hid it in my trunk under the lid where you thought I’d never know.” Blue eyes flicker closed as the water continues to be poured through his hair, chasing away the dirt and grime from months of traveling in a half-dazed state.
“Did you like it?” William opens his eyes, stealing whatever stale air that sat in Angel’s lungs as he stared. “I don’t fear the whip.”
“There is no whip,” He coos, taking a moment to remember another time. “An’ I did like it.”
“I remember that voice, such a strong one.” Those impossible eyes take on a shine at the old Irish tone he hadn’t heard in ages.
“Sit forward, I need to finish cleanin’ ye.” William does as he’s told, and neither speak as Angel makes sure he’s cleaned up before pulling the stopper and standing to hand the other a towel. “I’ll be outside.”
“Ta.” Angel quickly slips out, running a hand over his face with a sigh. It helps to know that, at the very least, Spike isn’t roaming the streets any longer in his current state, something he remembers had nearly ended in his death more than once. The smaller man eventually exits the bathroom, surprised to see a mug filled with blood awaiting him on the beside table.
“If ya need any more, just ask.” Spike nodded before grabbing the mug, greedily drinking the contents as he sat on the bed. It had felt like an eternity since he’d last fed, flickers of rats and other animals being drained crossing his minds eye before he’s back to the present. The now drained cup is set back on the table, and Spike lays on the fresh sheets with a sigh, head thankfully no longer spinning. “Feeling any better?”
“Suppose so. Also, when did you get the accent back?” He watches as Angel winces, a bit amused as he clears his throat.
“You liked it a minute ago.”
“…oh.” He can feel Angel sit behind him, and only the rifling of papers breaking the silence as the city moves on outside. “Angel?”
“Yes?” The rustling stops as Spike is given the others full attention.
“Will I ever be sane again?”
“Yes.” It’s a simple answer, and Spike pauses for whatever Angel is going to continue with. “The screams will stop, and the memories ease, never truly gone, but not in control.”
“Well I’m not goin’ to be a broody little ponce.” The snort from his grandsire is surprising, and a turn of his head shows Angel is more than amused. “M not.”
“Spike, the world will fall to ashes the moment you stop speaking your mind. Or causing chaos. Or irritating the ever living hell out of me and everyone within a twenty mile radius. If you turn "broody,” I’d have to do something drastic.“
"Oh, I’m so scared.” Nestling into his pillow, Spike settled so he’s facing the investigator. “Who’re you lookin’ at?”
“A client is convinced that their neighbors are drug dealers, I think it’s just some demons who aren’t really hiding themselves.” He hummed, beginning to drone on about the mundane facts they’d gathered before Spike had arrived to town. He’s asleep by the time Angel finishes the first page, shuffling closer to the older vampire until Angel begins to run one hand through washed curly hair in a slow but gentle pattern.
Neither of them are sure how long this would last, but for now, it was enough.
