Teaser: On the fateful night of October 25, 2003, Spike... All he had to do was want it badly enough. And hellfire, did he want it!
Spike wadded up all the fiery rage burning in his gut, sent it shooting down his arm to his wrist, and let it go. His victims' screams silenced abruptly along with a sickening, satisfying crunch of glass that shattered in a deadly shower about the room.
Silence. For a moment. Then, in hushed tones of utter dismay:
"My God, Spike. Why?"
Spike twisted around to stare at Angel, brown eyes fixed on the carnage with something more than horror but not quite less than heartbreak.
"It was fuckin' necessary!" Spike hollered, leaping up from the bed they shared more often than not. He stomped across the short span that separated him and his kill. Broken glass crunched satisfyingly beneath his Docs. "Did you see what those bleeders did?"
Angel rubbed at the back of his neck, still eyeing his childe with misgivings that looked to grow more serious by the moment. "You didn't have to kill it. They didn't deserve--"
Spike's mouth opened in a perfect 'O' for a moment long enough for several X-rated images involving those rounded lips and his cock to flash across Angel's mind. The older vampire almost forgave him then. Almost. But not quite.
"And now it's dead," he said pitifully, gesturing to the ruin.
"Dead and damned well deserving of it. Glorying in the evil, that was. Aren't you all about fighting the good fight, then? You're going to stand by and do nothing while injustice goes down on that sort of scale?"
Angel slipped from the bed, knelt, and picked up a shard of glass. "Wide-screen," he mourned. "THX surround-sound. Gone. All gone."
Mercurial, quixotic, the light in Spike's eyes flickered and he regarded Angel with a mix of fast-fading homicidal rage, irritation, and amusement. "Oh, get up, you wanker."
Again, the wanting was strong enough; they made successful contact and one slim, pale hand slipped into Angel's collar and pulled him up until he was nose-to-nose with the creature that drove him insane in far more ways than the obvious.
Spike's lips descended on Angel's, licking, nibbling, kissing with the sweet sultriness that he had long mastered. "'S only a TV, love."
Angel managed the faintest of smiles. "Just like that was only a game?"
Yellow flickered in Spike's eyes. "Only a game? That was life and death on that screen, mate, and the wrong bloody bastards walked away holding the prize! Don't you see?" He stroked down the silk covering Angel's arms, enjoying the shudder the gesture provoked in them both.
Angel gave up. He'd never understand his Childe. Besides, the fire kindling in Spike's eyes told him he was thinking of pushing their touching to a much more... intense... level. "You're right," he murmured. "They deserved it."
"Damned right." Still-blunt teeth worried at his earlobe.
"They were robbed," Angel improvised, hoping for “yes, score!” and getting those teeth, a little sharper now, along the line of his neck.
"Had to correct the injustice," Spike murmured in the dent of Angel's collarbone. He toyed with the top button on his lover's shirt. "Forgive me."
"Of course I…"
"But don't you ever forgive them. Nor forget! We'll be back next year, just you watch and we'll see. Jeter alone could--"
Angel gave up a second time, and crushed his mouth to Spike's own. Best possible way to shut him up, in his opinion.
But even as he thought that, even as he realized he'd be the one to risk electrocution from fishing the well-flung remote out of the shattered TV, he had to admit that after all, Spike was right. A travesty had been committed, and he couldn't condemn him for doing to his part to support the side of Light.
The Yankees really should have won the 2003 World Series.
Hope it gives you all as much of a lift as it gave me.