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Grey, Cold Home

It isn’t the same. Not that he thought it would be, mind you, but…

All right, he supposes a part of him thought that instincts and old times would take over and maybe a bit of Angelus would slip into Angel… into their bed.

But it’s not like that, is it? No, Angel still broods and the sex is almost human, more human than it was with Buffy.

Guilt, most likely, right? Why the hell does that bastard feel so much of it anyway? Can’t just be the soul because Spike has one too and he’s chipper as a lark compared to Angel. Or is it that he just can’t bear losing Fred, Wesley, Gunn, the cheerleader? Have all those deaths no one could have prevented sent him scurrying back down into that black pit of torpid self-loathing he’s always seemed to find so bloody cozy?

Could be it’s not guilt or grief, though. Maybe it’s the ghost of the not-dead-at-all Buffy Summers – the fact that Spike had her in so many more ways than Angel ever did or ever will. Maybe when it’s all said and done, it’s always going to be sharing a woman that comes between them.

Bugger it all. Why does it even matter?

He hears the sound of a key in the lock. Angel’s home. He begins to shed his clothes perfunctorily and without a bit of the thrill of anticipation. Time for another just-barely-satisfying round.

Spike should have left months ago.

Why hasn’t he?

The End.
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