He opened the door of the cracked apartment building he lived in, happy in the knowledge that Buffy and Co had no idea of this fragment of his life. He shook his head as he imagined the Slayer thinking herself important as she visited him at his “home”, The crypt. Stupid, that one. He strutted down the corridor, smiling as he knew exactly why he was in such a humour. He slowed as he envisioned his Puppy, wanting, waiting, pining, all through the day for him.
For some reason, Buffy thought Spike lived quite a solitary life. Not quite. Unknown to the daft bitch, Spike kept a pretty little secret locked up in this apartment building. Not unwillingly locked of course. His Puppy was what he un-lived for.
He walked through the door of his apartment, slipping his duster off as he did so. He closed the door behind him, slinging his coat over the table in the narrow hallway. The lighting was dim, muted, and it made the old, heavy curtains soft and the timber floors shine.
“Master?” He heard an uncertain, deep voice call to him.
“Yes, Pet, It’s just me. Get me a drink, would you?”
“Yes, Master.”
Spike made his way into the large living room, and slumped into one of the easy chairs set there. Dim light was coming from the scattered table lamps around the room. He surveyed the room as he listened to the clinking of glass, and pouring liquid as his Puppy made his drink in the kitchen.
He scratched at his pale jaw, as he grew steadily impatient.
“Pet! Hurry up.”
Years before, Anya had tried to reclaim her demon life, causing what the twits called “VampWillow” to cross over into this dimension. Anya had told him all this in a drunken stupor, and the idea of a Dom Willow in leather had intrigued Spike beyond beguilement. He had used contacts from all over to try and reach this, amusing dimension, ending with some weirdo law firm in L.A. who he had paid quite considerably to cast a spell to call forth Leather Fetish Willow.
He heard firm footsteps coming to the door to the living room.
The spell had failed, as they so often do, but Spike ended up with something so much better.
His Pet, his Puppy, as he was used to being called, crept round the door, drink in hand.
Dressed only in a pair of loose fitting grey drawstring sweats, his broad chest bare, his possession was a portrayal of masculine beauty. Spike exhaled.
“Come here Pet.”
Angel moved forward, his dark eyes quickly scanning Spikes face for any annoyance or anger, and, seeing none, delivered the drink and dropped down to sit on the floor by the side of the chair.
As Spike drank, he languidly toyed with the soft hair of his un-gelled Puppy. He liked the softness, his Pet wasn’t allowed to use hair gel. Angel shifted beneath him and Spike breathed in, smelling, as he expected to, the scent of Puppy’s arousal. He grinned while inhaling the evidence of his effect on this version of Angel.
“You missed me like that?”
Angel whined in response and Spike dropped the now empty glass onto the coffee table on the other side of his chair.
“Master, would you like another drink?” His Puppy gazed up at him, adoration in his chocolate brown eyes. He waited for his Masters reply, or orders, or affection, or whatever he chose to bestow on him.
Spike closed his eyes as he drank in the attention.
This worlds Angel, or Angelus for that matter, had never seen Spike as an importance in their lives. No
matter what he did, or who he killed, his Sire would never return the love that Spike so covetously exuded. This worlds Angel was deaf to Spikes wordless pleas for affection, in any incarnation.
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