Disclaimers: Angel and Spike are the property of Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial profit is anticipated.
Warnings and notes: This was written in response to the 400 years in the future challenge on the AngelSlash list. Kinda depressing. The thought of immortality gives me the creeps. Also this is my first AngelSlash story, although I've written in other fandoms. For some reason this challenge struck at the right time. But conciseness is not my idom, and keeping it to 400 words just wasn't going to happen.
Old enemies meet in the future.
a Thin Line Between Lust and Hate
Copyright (c) 2000
After gazing wistfully at the hologram of a young slender blonde woman, the vampire pulled on his black SunExclude ™ cape, walked into the outside elevator nearest his 397th floor apartment, and whooshed down to the street in utter silence, as he idly glanced at the airborne traffic crowding the sky for the morning commute through his SunExclude ™ dark glasses. He had been able to go outside in sunlight for 200 years now, as technology caught up even to vampires' needs, and the thrill of seeing the sun rise and being able to walk around in daylight had faded, as he began to take his freedom for granted. While some vampires held to the old-fashioned ways, coming out and hunting only at night, many others, like Angel, had emerged into the light of day, walking the streets openly and forgoing the hunt.
Angel strolled into the corner Starbucks ™, wondering how the company made money with a coffee house on practically every corner of the city, but Los Angeles' ever-growing population explained that readily enough. And Starbucks ™ had been the first company to anticipate the trend of serving blood to non-predatory vampires by daylight. Vampires tended to like coffee anyway, and as their presence in coffee houses become more obvious, Starbucks ™ set to work on finding legitimate sources of human blood, distilling it and preparing it in a variety of forms. Angel liked his hot, laced with a dash of jalapeño; it woke him up on mornings when he'd been up much of the night before. The spicy brew was quite sufficient to get him to his job as a prosecutor with the Los Angeles City Attorney's Supernatural Crimes office, now using his 22nd century vintage law degree in the continuing war against Wolfram and Hart.
He saved his coffee habit for nighttime, as he silently toasted old friends, centuries-gone. He would sit sipping a cup of coffee, remembering when through sheer force of will and desire for clothes, Cordelia had turned Angel Investigations into a profitable business, and when the vampires and demons had begun to harness technology to their advantage. He had hired Willow then, as his computer expert, and they had become fast friends, perhaps even soulmates, although he never touched her beyond a hug. He remembered Cordelia and Wesley's nighttime wedding, performed under the stars with himself and Willow standing up beside the bride and groom.
He was achingly lonely, more lonely than he had been in the years when the gypsy's curse had first restored his soul, for now he had known true love and friendship enough to miss it. As he brooded over his coffee that night, his keen sense of smell picked up the scent of an old enemy. Spike slouched into the coffee house, still wearing leather, still venturing out only at night. Who would have thought that Spike would be the leader of the old-fashioned crowd, disdaining current technology and the convenience it brought his kind? Angel knew why. Spike would never forego the pleasure and sadism of the hunt.
"Still broodin' y' old wanker?" asked the peroxided vampire.
Angel had lost a case that day, and Wolfram and Hart's wealthy demon client had gotten off without a penalty for his crimes. And Lindsey, now a vampire himself, had been the defending attorney. Angel was in a bad mood. And he was achingly lonely.
"Is there something you want, Will?" he asked quietly, menacingly.
"What makes you think I want something?" responded Spike.
Angel sighed. They had had this identical piece of dialog many times over the past four centuries. Buffy had eliminated every vampire who meant anything to Spike, and none of his younger followers had much appeal for him. Somehow he and Angel, still loathing each other, could sense their mutual loneliness. And each, despising himself for turning to his enemy, would sate that loneliness on the other's body, in a contest of strength, lust, invasion, endurance, pain, and blood—hands, cocks, tongues, and teeth pressing for advantage, and each side pretending unwilling surrender to the victor. And then in mutual self-disgust, they would part, vowing loudly what a mistake it had been and it would never happen again. But then the loneliness would strike, and hating each other and themselves, they would come together again, quenching their loneliness in the blood and heat and venom of their joining.
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