Lost And Found
by Mari

"Well, it's not like you're going to be sharing it with anyone any time soon."

Oh, he is confident, this one. Spike can smell it rolling off of him in waves, so strong that it coats his tongue thick enough to hide the drinks he had had at the strip joint earlier. Confidence, rage, hurt buried so deep that it's no more than a whiff Spike catches on the air when he turns his head just right. He doubts the pup's name is Doyle any more than his is Patrick, but what the hell. Names are fluid things. He of all people should know that.

Doyle's grin as Spike turns and arches his eyebrow is smooth and easy, his shrug of ėJust kidding' the epitome of good old boy innocence. He turns back towards the kitchen and Spike is given a glimpse of fragile neck as Doyle twists his head, a view that still brings saliva to his mouth, with or without soul. Given the appealing nature of the rest of the body that the neck claims as its home, Spike's salivary glands aren't the only things beginning to stretch and smile. He follows on little cat paws, closely enough that if he had breath Doyle would be able to feel it and still so silent that Doyle jumps when he speaks.

"Not a lot of faith in me, it would seem."

Doyle covers his quick, startled lurch so easily that it would be imperceptible to anyone who wasn't a vampire. The grin is back in place, if a bit shakier, and Spike feels the beginnings of a mischievous one of his own beginning to spread.

"Not about what I think," Doyle says, ticking one of his fingers towards the ceiling. "It's about what they think." The Powers That Be. Right. And if there's not something about that deal that's more than a shade off then he's Mary's little lamb, fleece just as white as the driven snow. But it's good, powerfully, infinitely good, to be wanted, even if it's only by a drifter with a screw loose, so Spike will play along. For now. "But this is supposed to be your clean slate, isn't it? From what I've heard, you tend to get a bit tangled up when you get involved with other people too seriously, lose sight of the mission." There's a smirk in Doyle's voice and in his eyes when he says the word ėmission', as if he's reading words from a textbook that he doesn't quite believe. The smirk brings a rich, butter-warm drawl into his voice. Spike likes it.

There's a rip across the knee of Doyle's jeans, exposing whitened flesh in far too small a quantity for Spike's tastes, a smaller one at his hip. Spike slips two of his fingers into the one at the hip, feels human-warm skin, and tugs. Doyle ambles along willingly, the sudden light in his eyes saying that the misgiving that an ordinary person might be having about a creature that normally makes a living by drinking people aren't going to be a problem here. Spike wonders about this, but only for a second, because Doyle solves the problem for both of them by making the first move.

He parts Spike's lips with his tongue slowly, almost hesitantly, as if he's expecting a rebuff at any second. None comes and Doyle grows bolder, natural confidence gleaming back through as he sweeps along the inside of Spike's mouth, exploring, playing.

Spike's been corporeal a short enough time that human contact is still a rarity to be savored, and Doyle's warmth is mind-melting. He lets him play at being in control for a moment longer before he challenges, placing his hand on the nape of Doyle's neck and kissing him back harder, longer. The feel of Spike's hand on such a vulnerable part of his anatomy makes Doyle jump and hiss, but he doesn't pull away. They're standing close enough for Spike to feel that Doyle doesn't mind the grip at all, likes it even. Spike tightens his fingers a hair and murmurs, "You're a strange one, aren't you?"

"So I've been told." Doyle's voice has deepened into sweet husky tones, the hint of accent that Spike had picked up on in the club becoming a full bourbon drawl. It's sexy as all hell and, from the flicker of a smirk that ripples across Doyle's face before he leans in again, Spike is willing to bet that he knows it. Kindred spirit, then. It's been a long while since Spike found one of those. In the brief moment before he banishes the thought away in order to better focus on the more immediate physical pleasures of an increasingly aroused human, he wonders if maybe they aren't kindred in other ways as well. More to the point, a human that squirms and makes the faintest of gasping noises when Spike grips the erection becoming more and more apparent in the front of his jeans. Lovely sound. Spike increases the pressure by a notch, just so that he can hear it again. Doyle wastes no time in returning the favor, aggressive little shit. They're long past the point no return in this game of one-upmanship, but there are no supplies on hand and one of the benefits of having a soul is caring about what happens to your partner. There's plenty of other things to do, though.

It would seem that Doyle is having the same thought, as he drops to his knees with a swiftness that makes the pool of lust which has been collecting along Spike's spine contract with an intensity that borders on the painful. Spike's cock is greeting the slightly chill air of the apartment in two quick moves and if Doyle is surprised by the lack of warmth, he doesn't let it show. Random drifter, Spike's ass, but he's not going to say a word. It's all right, he thinks, for some things to just be about the skin.

Doyle turns a grin up at Spike that is the distillation of original sin. "Looking forward to working with you," he says before he leans forward and takes Spike into his mouth.

It doesn't seem fair, to say the least, to be thinking of Buffy in this moment, but Spike finds that for a second or two he cannot stop himself. She had always made it clear that she was lowering herself with these acts, that every moment where her skin made contact with Spike's was a degradation, a punishment for not having the sense to stay dead. If Doyle believes in the idea of sin, then it rapidly becomes clear that he enjoys every minute of it, and this makes all the difference in the world. The pressure in Spike's balls tightens to nigh-unbearable levels as Doyle moves with an expert's ease, finding and lighting up nerves that Spike had been previously unaware he had. Spike throws his head back, eyes closed, and lets his fingers roam along the edge of Doyle's collarbone so that he has something solid to hold onto.

There is a weal of scar tissue set high up on Doyle's collarbone, snugged tight against the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck. The shape is smooth, familiar. It's only by the barest margin of wills that Spike prevents himself from clamping his fingers down and betraying his discovery. Just a drifter. Right.

Doyle doesn't notice that Spike's hand is lingering on that particular patch of skin for longer than is necessary or wise. His movements have become faster, more confident, and Spike is reaching plateau with or without his new discovery. He comes with a short, strangled cry. Doyle takes it down without hesitation, rising to his feet and dragging his hand across his mouth a moment later.

Spike eyeballs him for a moment long enough to make cracks appear in the confidence that Spike was beginning to suspect was boundless, wondering if he should give voice to what he had found. His life, or lack thereof, was plenty fucked up all of its own accord before he began to add a vampire junkie, groupie, whatever the hell this Doyle character thought he was playing at into the mix.

But the Powers believed in him. Maybe that meant that they believed in Spike, too.

Spike grips the back of Doyle's neck and feels that edge of tension run through him again. Oh, yeah. He'll have no trouble getting used to that.

Spike leans forward and kisses Doyle deeply enough to taste himself in the other man's lips. "C'mon," he says, pulling back and angling his head towards the bed. "Seems I have a favor to return."


Much later, Spike wakes up in the small but ultimately quite serviceable bed and is unsurprised to find himself alone, though the mattress is still imprinted with faint traces of Doyle's unique scent and heat. On the bedside table rests a note, short and to the point. There was a vision. Seems like old Angel is in trouble. Spike can either save him or not, and Doyle makes it very clear from both the tone of the note and the fact that he didn't feel it important enough to wake Spike up for that eh doesn't care one way or another what Spike does. Angel is no longer a part of this equation.

Spike pauses for a moment, reading the note again, before he swings his legs over the side of the bed to get dressed. Seems like its time for him to be the hero.


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