Originally written for the fag-ends prompt: Standing Room Only.
I've been meaning to post this story here for over a year, and now that it's been nominated for something, I finally got around to it. Part of me really wants to edit the stream-of-consciousness run-ons, but I've left it as-is since this is the version nominated.
She'd been there, waiting with bags packed when they'd returned one final time. "Andrew called me," was all she said, and not another word, she wouldn't even spare either of them a glance, yet here Angel was with one more passenger boarding the jet back to L.A.
"I will be having words with you later," she told him, staring pointedly, and he shrank away and moved past her to the middle of the jet, leaving the other two cloistered at the front where she was finally talking, saying so many things, but none of them to him.
Cookie dough, he reminded himself as the blond pair ran the gamut from angry hissing to tearful recriminations and back again, followed by two broken noses (both Spike's). Words floated back, phrases such as thought I'd lost you forever and not going to wait until later to tell you this time and I meant it.
The surreptitious glances, filled with such longing, had him ready to toss himself off the plane and into the goddamned Atlantic; he closed his eyes with a deep sigh, tuning everything out but her scent and the lull of her voice until he barely even noticed when she crept past him later in the flight.
Angel noticed when he crept past though, and one guess was all you needed for what they were doing; the shushed giggles and quiet moans confirming his suspicions. Cookie dough, he thought again. Doesn't matter, your place in her life is no different from earlier tonight, doesn't matter which fucking asshole she's fucking because in the end she'll be cookies and that's when it'll matter and he won't, Spike won't be the one eating cookie dough then-
Spike and eating juxtaposed in that sentence was too much for Angel and he had to shut down or risk conveniently forgetting he had a soul.
The almost Zen-like chant of cookie dough might have got him through it, but suddenly the co-pilot was there, his carefully neutral face explaining that there was a problem, that all the extra activity in the tail-end of the plane was causing it to shudder and veer off course, danger danger, and what should be done, sir?
He would take care of it, of course he would, he was the boss, the big cheese and the buck stopped with him. Spike was his idiot offspring, more or less, his responsibility and she-
No thinking on that, otherwise he'd find himself tossing them out over the Atlantic, soul mates and destiny be damned. The bucking of the plane and the uh-uh-uhs from the back were painfully obvious now, more so the closer he got to the source. They didn't answer his knock and Angel steeled himself to find them in a state of semi-dishabille, but when he wrenched the door open they were in full dishabille of course, though how Spike had accomplished that feat in such a tiny space was beyond him.
She didn't even notice, the noises coming from her pretty little 'o'-shaped mouth were ones he had certainly never heard, and the visual of how Spike was earning them had his cock harder than it had been since, well, that time he'd lost his soul.
If that asshole had been a real man Angel wouldn't have had the complete view, the full Monty; instead the creamy pale body he could see over her bronzed shoulder would have blocked her glistening bouncing gleaming rosy tits from his tortured sight; Spike's pale ass and muscled back would have been the only thing visible in the mirror instead of her and her wet, spread-open pussy, phantom lover doing things he could only ever imagine.
Angel was grunting, panting, mission forgotten, nothing left but thoughts of the pair of them under him, his cock buried in one and fangs in the other, take your pick which was which, and he could see in Spike's yellowed eyes that the fucker knew it.
"Look, mate," the boy was saying, and now she had found his eyes in the mirror, the blush creeping up her chest and over her cheeks, but Spike had her so far gone she didn't stop, didn't push him away, only stared at him with a glazed expression he couldn't fathom, didn't want to.
"Me and my girl are having a moment here, so either kindly shut the door or get your sodding kit off and join us," Spike said, and his tongue was doing that thing, the thing that had, after much drinking, once led Angel to find out just what the younger vampire could do with it.
"Though I warn you," and here the fucker smiled, a wicked smile that no creature with so beautiful a face – and certainly no creature with a soul – should possess, "it's standing room only in here."
There was a moment – a long moment – where Angel considered that second option, and if he'd sensed anything – that galloping heartbeat racing even higher, her musk growing heavier – it would have been a done deal, but she'd buried her face in Spike's shoulder, never mind that he could still see all of her in the mirror, her eyes squeezed tight in mortification.
He hesitated a second longer but Spike had lowered them to the ground, ever the gentleman under the demon, belligerence gone, shielding his lady love from sight with gentle kisses and gentler words, promising everything that Angel could never offer her, who the hell was he fucking kidding, only himself that's who, because she had made her choice that much was clear. She'd chosen the vampire that had no right to exist, no right to be so damn soulful even when he'd been nothing more than a demon, and here he was trying to hang on to his fucking soul with both hands clasped tight.
"You were fucking the plane up with your damn fucking," he snapped as he turned away, his voice thick with an emotion that wasn't bitterness but mostly something else.