If Only You Could See The Real Me

A/N This was written for the banner/fic challenge at writerconuk a live journal community. Inspires by the gorgeous manip by vamptastica - check out the posting on my lj to see it. http://mabel_marsters@livejournal.com



If Only You Could See the Real Me

He walked in to his office, all sharp suit and conservative tie, having thanked his secretary for the coffee that she got him every morning, and he sipped the hot liquid cautiously as he sat at the desk. His prison. Glancing around the room, he had to admit that as prisons go, it was pretty plush. The dark oak panelling was complimented by cream walls and a biscuit coloured carpet. Several pieces of art adorned the walls. The one that he hated the most was the portrait of his father. He glared at it, knowing that the smug look on his father’s face was one from years ago, but it still felt like the bastard was smirking at trapping him so completely after his death, almost four years before.


He rubbed a hand over his face. He wished that he had the nerve to take the sodding picture off the wall but somehow, it seemed wrong to do it. He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.


“Get a grip, Spike. No point in sulking. Bed’s made; nothing can be done.”


He tried to shake off the feeling of numbness that always gripped him when he sat in what had been his father’s office for over forty years. This wasn’t what he wanted to do; this wasn’t him.


“’Course it’s bleeding you,” he muttered grimly. “Too fucking wet to stand up to him even when he’s dead.”


He scowled as he recalled one of the only times that he’d stood up to him. At sixteen, he’d come home with his hair bleached white. The old man had flipped. Beat him so badly that he’d been hospitalised, victim of a violent mugging so the doctors were told. Spike had kept his mouth shut. The broken jaw had helped to silence him. He ran a hand over his hair, snowy white as it was now.


“Yeah, real brave, Spike, bleaching it again for his funeral,” he thought with a grimace.


Mind you, the looks on the mourners’ faces had made the ten year wait to bleach it again, worthwhile. It still drew odd looks in the boardroom, but after being controlled by his father for so long, the other board members knew better than to criticise the head of the company.


The intercom on the desk squawked into life.


“Your eight thirty is here, Mr. James.”


Spike sighed again and wearily put a finger on the relevant button and responded.


“Thanks, Patricia. Send him in.”


He drained his coffee, threw the cup in the trash, straightened his already perfectly straight tie and glanced at the portrait of his father.


“Okay, you old git. You’ve got me here for another nine hours. Hope you’re bleeding satisfied?”


There was a tap at the door.


“Come in,” called Spike, and resignedly braced himself for another day of drudgery.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Spike strode down the hallway to the elevator, pulled his tie from his neck and stuffed it in to a pocket with relief. Friday night.


“Thank fuck!”


Two whole days of not being here. Two whole days of not being his father’s son. Two whole days of being who he really was.


He got to his car and once inside, he tested the Viper as he hurtled along the roads to the airport, not caring about speed limits. Enjoying pushing his reflexes to the limit after the stifling confines of the office, he arrived with plenty of time to catch the flight. A couple of ‘Jacks’ got the weekend under way as he waited to board.


A pretty girl just along the bar, smiled coyly at him, taking in the designer suit. Spike could practically see her thinking that he looked a good catch. He smiled, not at her, but at how totally wrong she was. She didn’t realise this of course and returned his smile with a full wattage one of her own. His flight was called and he drained the last of his drink, shrugging apologetically at the girl.


“Got to go. Was nice almost meeting you,” he said sweetly, trying not to laugh at he look of disappointment on the girl’s face.


He relaxed in to his seat, first class of course, got to have some perks for prostituting himself out to the company. He slept for the duration of the two hour flight, knowing that it would probably be the only sleep that he got until the flight back on Sunday evening.


Having only his briefcase, Spike didn't need to wait for bags to be unloaded. He walked off the plane and made his way to the car rental desk.


“Hello, Mr. James. Here are your keys.”


The standing order of a car each weekend meant that Spike was known to all the staff on the desk by sight.


“Cheers, mate.” He took the keys and went to the car.


Twenty minutes later and Spike was at his destination, a small but expensively furnished apartment. He stripped off his suit, hanging it carefully in the closet before taking a long shower. Once dry, he rubbed a little oil into his skin, enjoying the feel of it. He loved the way that it highlighted the large intricately worked tattoo that covered his side. The design began on his left thigh and worked its way up his side to his armpit. The scrolling tribal marking was interwoven with several red roses, one reaching the small of his back. A single strand of barbed wire was entwined around their stems. It had hurt like hell when he had had it done, and it had taken hours. But it was worth it. Especially now, covered by the business suit. Just knowing that it was there helped Spike to know that he was still there, too. That he wasn’t turning into a clone of his father. He slicked his hair back with gel and walked, naked, to the bedroom to wait. He was a little early. He spent the time selecting several items from the chest at the bottom of the king-sized bed.


From a safe hidden in the floor beneath the bed, Spike took out a small bag of white powder. Wouldn’t do with falling asleep now would it? He expertly chopped out a line before returning the bag to the safe and locking it. Grinning at the cliché, he used a fifty dollar bill to snort the line of coke up his nose. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as the drug hit him. Spike put the bill in a drawer and checked his nose in a mirror, making sure that no trace of the powder could be seen.


“Forget the office, dad. This is what I was born for. This is the real me.”


The intercom on the door buzzed.


“Let me up, Spike.”


Spike sauntered to the monitor next to the intercom, he checked the screen, never could be too careful. His hand strayed to the scar on his left eyebrow. No, it didn’t pay to get careless. Liking what he saw, he pressed the door release. He went to the kitchen and took out a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, along with a bowl of strawberries. They were the only items that it held. His cleaning lady came in on Fridays to make the place ship-shape for the weekend and to top up the supplies in the fridge. He smiled as he wondered what she thought of the state the apartment was inevitably in by the time that he left on Sunday evening.


He was sprawled on the bed, lying on his right hand side of course to show his tattoo off to the best effect, by the time the door opened. The champagne glasses and strawberries were on a side table near the bed. His head was propped up on his hand, elbow bent. He smiled sweetly as his visitor walked towards him.


“Hello, pet. Had a good week have you?”


“Busy,” replied his visitor gruffly.


“You’ll be needing some stress relief then?” said Spike.


“I do, and you’re the best at achieving it that I know.”


Clothes fell to the floor and the visitor walked, naked, to the table and picked up a glass, taking a long sip before eating a strawberry. Another strawberry was selected and offered to Spike, who grinned and wrapped his lips around it in a very provocative way.


“Spike, you are such a tart!”


Spike reached up and pulled the figure onto the bed. He chewed and swallowed the berry and then planted his strawberry flavoured lips on his lover’s.


“But only for you, Angel, only for you.”

The tall dark haired man lay down, pulling Spike on top of him. Both groaned with pleasure as they ground their groins together.


“A week’s too long,” muttered Angel in Spike’s ear, before kissing his neck, smiling as the blond squirmed. He never could resist that.


Spike’s eyes glittered, both from anger and the coke. “Not for much longer, pet. The old bastard’s hold on me will soon be over.” He tensed and pulled away from Angel’s caress. As always, the mention of his father doused his libido.


“Hey, shh,” soothed Angel, stroking his hand down Spike’s back as he sat across his thighs. “Forget him; he’s cost us too much already. I’ve missed you and intend to make the most of you while I’ve got you.”


Angel’s hand came around to the front of Spike’s body, the fingers lightly tracing his genitals. Spike’s softened cock sprang back to life. He shook off his bad mood and paid some serous attention to Angel’s mouth.


Just as Angel had Spike teetering on the edge of climax, he turned away and reached down for something that Spike had taken out of the ‘toy’ box. Spike grinned as he saw Angel pick up the hand-cuffs. His cock twitched and for a moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to help himself.


“Ah, ah, no you don’t,” cautioned Angel, taking a firm grip at the base of Spike’s erection.


Spike moaned softly. Soon his wrists were hand-cuffed to the head of the bed. Angel then took out some soft rope and tied his ankles to the posts at the bottom of the bed, after raising Spike’s ass with a couple of well placed pillows. He then stood back and admired his handiwork for a moment before tracing the line of the barbed wire tattoo with his tongue.


“Christ,” whispered Spike. Not being able to move was almost killing him, especially after taking the coke, but he liked that feeling. “You’re so gonna pay when it’s my turn.”


Angel grinned and turned his attention to Spike’s erection, chuckling as Spike cursed and bucked his hips upwards.


Angel took his time. He’d waited all week to be able to be with his lover and had planned exactly what he was going to do. Just when he thought that Spike was about ready to explode he prepared his pucker, lubing it well and stretching it before sinking in to him in one slow movement.


Spike thought he was going to pass out through sensory overload. Angel’s cock hit his prostate in exactly the right way and Angel fisted his prick in time with every thrust. At the moment they both climaxed, Angel dropped forwards and smothered Spike’s cry as he took possession of his mouth as well as his ass. He withdrew slowly and lay panting beside the still tethered Spike.


“Let me free now, love. I need to hold you,” pleaded Spike.


Kicking himself mentally for not immediately untying Spike because he liked being restrained but hated being left tied up once their lovemaking was over, Angel quickly rectified it and curled up next to him on the bed, spooning Spike’s smaller frame to his stomach. Spike sighed and leaned back against him. Angel dropped a kiss on the nape of Spike’s neck and stroked his face gently, his fingers straying to the scar on Spike’s eyebrow.


Spike tensed slightly, but then Angel felt him take a deep breath and force himself to relax again. Both were thinking of the night that it happened but neither man spoke. It was a permanent reminder of the moment their carefree existence had changed, if not forever, then certainly for the past four years.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


They’d been living together then. Had been for six years. They’d met in a club and both rapidly realised that they’d met ‘the one’. Spike had dropped out of college and the pair had moved to a different state. Spike’s father had been incensed. When Spike had first told him that he was gay, the day that he’d turned up at home with his hair bleached white. He had tried to explain his orientation to his father, but he had just lost control completely. He’d always been a ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ disciplinarian, but this had gone way beyond it.


For four years, it wasn’t mentioned again. Spike never came out to his friends but trolled the gay scene in towns a few hours away from home. He’d been having trouble getting rid of a guy whose attentions he didn’t want, when Angel had stepped in. One look at the tall, well built man who said he was Spike’s partner was enough to see the pest off. Spike bought Angel a drink as a thank-you and the rest, as they say, is history. A year after they had met, they made the decision to live together, so at twenty Spike defied his father and left college to be with Angel. The only contact he had from his father was a message left on the answering service of Spike’s cell phone ordering him to come home and leave the unnatural relationship behind him. Spike’s response was to throw the cell in the trash and buy a new one.


Unbeknownst to Spike, his father developed cancer and became obsessed with finding his son. A private investigator finally tracked Spike down to the apartment that he shared with Angel. His father had decided to go to see his son in person to try to make things right and to get him to work for the company that he had built up from nothing over the last forty years. The investigator had informed him of Spike’s lover, Liam O’Connor, and found information about him that would at least have him deported back to his native Ireland, or at worst jailed.


The night that he chose to pay his visit just happened to be the night where Angel and Spike were having fun with various bondage games. Angel had secured Spike to the bed, wrists and ankles fastened to each corner, leaving him spread-eagled on it. He’d gagged him, and then bound his genitals, ensuring that Spike stayed erect, before leaving him so that he could get some beer. They couldn’t afford champagne back then.


When he got to the door, he realised that he’d forgotten his key and so rather than go back up the stairs, he simply left the door ajar, because he was only going to be gone for five minutes or so.


Spike’s father had arrived just as Angel walked out of sight round a corner. He was going to press the intercom, but when he noticed the door was slightly open, he decided just to go in. He called out to his son as he entered the lounge but got no reply. He walked to look in the kitchen and then went towards the bedroom. The door was open, and as he got nearer, he saw Spike bound and gagged on the bed.


“Oh, my God, William!” His father rushed to the bed. “Who did this? Have you been robbed?”


He pulled the gag from Spike’s mouth, and that’s when Spike made his mistake. He laughed. His father recoiled from him, his eyes for the first time taking in his bound genitals.


“What…?” he spluttered, not knowing where to look. His eyes were drawn to the tattoo covering half of his son’s white torso. “You…?”


“What’s up, Dad?” sneered Spike. “Like what you see?”


“You allowed someone to do this to you?” said his father, distaste evident in his voice.


“No, Dad,” laughed Spike. “I fucking begged for him to do this to me. Right after he stuck his cock in my tight little arse!”


Spike was drunk and not a little stoned. The resentment that he’d carried since the time that his father had beaten him for being gay, overflowed. He suddenly realised that the man in front of him wasn’t to be feared, but rather pitied.


In hindsight, goading someone known for violent tendencies, when you’re tied up to a bed probably wasn’t the wisest course of action.


“Do you know what I had in my mouth before that gag?” taunted Spike, noticing that his father still held it. Not waiting for a reply, he continued. “Angel’s beautiful big cock!”


His father stood transfixed. His face was scarlet. Spike licked his lips. That was the final straw. His father exploded. He threw the gag down and punched Spike in his mouth, splitting those sinful lips. His next punch was to Spike’s face; blood spurted from his brow as his father’s ring cut him.


Spike spat out a mouthful of blood. “What’s the problem, Dad? Hot for me are you?”


Yes, not a good idea.


Spike’s father punched Spike in his bound engorged balls. Spike’s scream cut off eerily as he felt the air rush out of him. He struggled in his restraints, desperate to curl up to protect himself. He was gasping for breath and steeling himself for another blow when Angel burst in to the room and dragged Spike’s father away, the older man’s blow missing its intended target.


Angel drew his arm back, his intent clear. His eyes were clouded with fury.


“Don’t,” gasped Spike.


“What?” Angel kept hold of the man but glanced at Spike instead of hitting him. “Why?”


“Just…get him…out of…here,” said Spike, still struggling for breath, tears streaming down his face.


“But…?”


“It’s my…Dad.”


Angel stared incredulously between the two men. He pushed Spike’s father towards the door of the bedroom, finally letting go of him.


“Your dad?” Angel shook his head. He took a step towards the older man, who seemed frozen to the spot. He pointed angrily at him. “He told me about you, he told me a lot about you. And do you know what? I didn’t believe him. I thought that he was just making most of it up.”


The older man didn’t move. Angel turned back to Spike. “I’m sorry.”


Both Spike and his father thought that Angel was apologising for not believing Spike. But he wasn’t. He was apologising in advance, for the punch that he threw at Spike’s father. He hit him in the stomach and was delighted to see him double over “I suggest that you leave now, Mr. James,” said Angel, towering over him.


You’ll regret this,” wheezed Spike’s father. “Both of you.”


“Get out!” yelled Angel. “Before I really fucking hit you.”


He watched as the older man straightened up and turned to leave, walking with as much dignity as he could muster.


“Angel.” The voice was quiet and pain-filled.


“Shit! Spike!” Angel fumbled for the keys to the cuffs.


“Take that off,” whispered Spike. “Please. I can’t…”


“Oh, Christ.” Angel felt sick, as he thought how much Spike must be hurting.


As gently as he could, Angel removed the strap on Spike’s genitals, hesitating as Spike whimpered with pain. He untied the rope on Spike’s legs and Spike had drawn them up by the time that Angel had freed his wrists.


Spike rolled on to his side and groaned.


“I’ll call an ambulance,” said Angel, getting off the bed to go to the telephone.


“No!”


“But, Spike, you’re hurt, he could have caused –”

“I said, no,” said Spike as firmly as he could. “That old git has hospitalized me once. He’s not doing it again.”


“But –”


“Just get me some ice, yeah?” Spike looked up at Angel, his face stained with blood and tears, but he managed a ghost of a smile. “Ice would be good.”


“Oh, Christ, I love you.” Angel dropped a kiss on Spike’s forehead and went to get the ice.


Angel spooned behind him as Spike held the cloth wrapped ice to his balls. They thought that that would be the last they heard of him. They were wrong.


A week passed and Spike was just about able to walk about without pain. His eyebrow would have benefited from stitching but was healing too. Angel came in from work carrying the day’s mail. Spike peered curiously at one large, official looking envelope. With a sense of foreboding, he ripped it open. He gave a small gasp as he read the letter within.


“What is it?”


Spike snorted a touch hysterically. “He’s dead. The old fucker is dead.”


Then Spike surprised himself by bursting in to tears. Angel was at his side in an instant, wrapping him in his embrace and holding him until the sobs passed.


Spike sniffed a couple of times and then sat up straighter and wiped his eyes with his hands. “Don’t know where that came from. He hated me.”


Angel stroked his hand across Spike’s face, catching a tear that he’d missed. “He might have hated you, but he was still your dad. You still loved him.”


Spike pushed him away. “I did not! How can you say that? My balls still hurt from what he did.”


“Hey, I’m sorry.”


Spike shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t think that I loved him, not anymore, but I still…oh, I dunno…wanted his approval, I guess. I wanted him not to think that I was a freak.”


“You’re not a freak,” soothed Angel.


“I know that you daft sod, but I wanted him to know it, too.”


“So did the letter say anything else?”


“I’ve to meet with the family’s lawyer in two days time, after the funeral.” He glanced at Angel. “I have to go alone. It’s quite clear on that. May as well do as they say, ‘til the funeral’s over at least.”


“Whatever you want. You know I’ll back you one hundred percent.”


“Thanks, pet.”


The next day when Angel came home from work, he found Spike sitting in the bathroom his hair covered in purple gunk.


“What the hell are you doing?” asked Angel.


Spike chuckled softly. “Just thought that I’d piss the old man off at the funeral.”


“What? But…”


Spike looked up at Angel. “It’s okay, I haven’t gone crazy. It’s just when I came out to him, I’d bleached my hair too. For a long time, I tried to convince myself that the hair had been the problem and not me.” He shrugged. “Okay, now that does sound crazy. It’s just I’m going to be there and have to wear a suit, and be all ‘dutiful son’, and with my hair bleached I’ll still feel like me. That he hasn’t beaten me, you know? I’m not ashamed of what I am or of you, and I won’t let him make it look like I am.”


Angel hugged him briefly before letting go with a grimace as he ended up with the bleaching solution all over his shirt. He washed it from Spike’s hair and stood back to admire the view. The snowy white hair emphasised the vivid blue of Spike’s eyes.


“You should have done that years ago,” Angel whispered as he kissed Spike’s neck.


They made love for the first time since the incident with Spike’s father, Angel being as gentle as he could possibly be.


“’M not made of glass, pet. I’m okay,” mumbled Spike as he urged Angel to up the rhythm.


Afterwards, Angel held Spike tightly in his arms, knowing that the next day, Spike would have to leave him behind.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Chapter Two

The funeral over, Spike stood trembling with rage in the lawyer's office.


“He can’t do this; he just sodding can’t,” he snarled.


“I’m afraid he can, William, and as the documents you’re now holding show you, he has,” replied the lawyer calmly.


“And you approve of this do you?” snapped Spike, waving the papers at him.


“I didn’t say that I condoned what your father has done. I merely stated that he has done it. Now, if you’ll please sit down, then we can go over all that needs to be done.”


With a sigh, Spike flopped down in the chair opposite the lawyer and put the papers on the desk between them. Since his father had burst in on him, Spike couldn’t bear the thought of being shackled again, and now, here he was about to be tied up again. Though this time the ropes were made of words.


“So, there is no way that I can get out of this without his threat becoming reality?” he asked quietly.


“I’m afraid not. Unless you follow the conditions laid down, the originals of the papers get delivered to the relevant authorities.”


“Looks like the old bastard has got me by the balls then,” said Spike, smirking a little as the lawyer winced at his choice of words. He was made from the same mould as his father.


“Erm…well, yes.”


“Give me the bleeding pen then. Where do I sign?”


And with that moment, Spike signed away his life for the next four years. Although dead, his father owned him until his thirtieth birthday.


“So that’s it? I can go now?” Spike’s eyes glittered with tears that he was determined not to shed.


Noticing the emotion in the man before him, it was the lawyer’s turn to smirk. “Yes, William, you’re free to go. Until Monday morning anyway.”


Spike leapt from his seat, fists clenched as he fought the urge to knock the smirk off his face. “I’ll be there,” he said grimly and strode out of the office.


That night the lovers lay silently in each other’s arms, taking in the implications of what Spike had just recounted. Although Angel had lived in America for most of his life, he was Irish by birth and on a visit to his grandparents when he was in his teens, he was set upon by a local gang of lads, not for being gay, but simply because he had lost his Irish accent! The end result was that a boy, who Angel had punched, banged his head on the kerb as he went down and died in hospital a few days later. Angel was back in America by then and no blame had ever been apportioned. But the investigator looking into both Spike’s whereabouts and then Angel’s background, tracked down the others involved and handed Spike’s father sufficient evidence to threaten Angel with. He used it cleverly. Not as a direct threat to Angel himself, but rather set it up that if Spike didn’t do as he wanted up to his thirtieth birthday, then the papers would be sent out and Angel would find himself in a whole heap of trouble. The idea of using the safety of his lover as leverage on his son was a wise one. There was no way that Spike would risk any harm coming to Angel.


By the morning, the decisions were made. Spike would hand over his half of the club that they owned to Angel. His father had demanded that he sell his half but luckily had put no restrictions on to whom. Spike would sell his half for a dollar to make it legally comply with the conditions. Spike would take his place in his father’s company – his company now – and make sure that profits increased year on year. Any loss would mean the release of the documents regarding Angel. Spike had to live in the family home, and Angel was never to stay or even set foot in the place. Angel decided to live above the club, not being able to bear to stay at their apartment alone. They would use it only when they could be together.


Spike’s weekends were his own. But from eight a.m. until five p.m., Monday through Friday, Spike’s father owned him. Controlling him in death in a way that he’d been unable to in life. On the plus side, Spike was now seriously rich. But he’d rather be penniless and with Angel all the time than what he was facing now.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Spike stirred on the bed and nudged Angel.


“Come on! Not staying here all night. I want to go out.”


Angel groaned. “I’m exhausted. Can’t we just stay in tonight? Go out tomorrow? Got to sleep sometime you know.”


Spike grinned at him. “I’ve got a little something that will wake you right up.”


Angel sat up in the bed. “You’ve been hitting the Columbian again haven’t you? You know that I hate it when you do drugs.”


Spike pouted. “It’s only when I’m here. Just don’t want to miss a minute of being with you is all. I’m stuck in that fucking office and the bleeding mausoleum of a house all week.”


“Yeah, I know. But I work too and I’d like a night off. I’ve just left the freaking place.”


“Aw, c’mon,” said Spike, tilting his head on one side. “I’ll make it worth your while later.”


He smirked as Angel got off the bed and walked towards the bathroom. “Okay, but on one condition, no more white powder tonight. Stick to beer or hell, champagne if you like.” Angel chuckled. “As long as you pay for it!”


He ran into the bathroom as a pillow from the bed flew towards him.


An hour later and they walked in the club that Angel owned. It was principally a gay bar, but the music and dancers that it had were so good that a lot of straights came in too. The dancers were paid to dance and nothing more. No touching and no nudity. Several different rooms meant the club offered a wide variety of music.


Angel grinned as he looked at Spike. His father might own him in the week but, boy, did he belong to Angel at the weekends. The business suit was still hanging in the closet back at the apartment. Spike was now clad in his favourite skin tight black jeans with a white shirt with fabric so thin as to be almost completely transparent, so that his tattoo could clearly be seen. The blond hair was stuck up in peaks with gel, his eyes highlighted with black eyeliner and his nails now painted the same blood red as the roses on his tattoo.


Angel watched as just about every eye in the place followed their progress to the bar. The gay men lusted after Spike, the straight women dreamed of converting him, and the straight men hated him for it.


Spike pulled out a couple of fifty dollar bills and ordered the best champagne in the place, expansively telling bar man to keep the change. It still just felt like he was blowing his old man’s money and not his own.


They found a table and sat drinking their champagne but not for long.


“Come on, Peaches, I want to dance.” Spike grabbed Angel’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Not that Angel resisted.


After several dances, Spike nodded towards one of the small raised platforms where the dancers performed. “Do you mind if I take a turn, pet?”


Angel sighed but nodded. “Okay.”


He was rewarded with a grin and a kiss before Spike pulled off his shirt, throwing it for Angel to catch and then leapt agilely on to a vacant stage. A small cheer went up when the crowd saw Spike on stage. He bowed theatrically and then just lost himself in the music, weaving himself around the pole.


Angel settled himself down to watch. He was reminded of when he’d first seen him in that seedy club. Spike had been one of the paid dancers there, but the hands off policy hadn’t been so well enforced and Spike was getting harassed every time that he had a break. Mind you, if it had been they might never have met.


Spike was such an exhibitionist that Angel wondered how the hell he coped with the suited up lifestyle that had been forced on him. His cock twitched as he thought of what Spike was doing for him. He glanced at him on stage, and realised that if he didn’t get Spike off there soon, he’d end up taking him anyway, regardless of it being in front of the whole club.


Angel stood up and walked over to Spike. “Time to go home now,” he said firmly.


Spike grinned, knowing exactly what Angel had in mind. He jumped off the stage, almost landing on Angel. “Come on then! What are we waiting for?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Sunday night came all too soon. Spike reluctantly removed his nail varnish and dressed in his business suit. As always, he refused to let Angel go with him to the airport, knowing that if he were there, that he’d end up crying and clinging to him like a right bleeding poof.


He closed his eyes before the plane had even begun to taxi across the airport. Another week of hell. He smiled. Just one more week. His thirtieth birthday was the following Sunday.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The week passed as slowly as if it were a month. On Friday, Spike had spent hours with the lawyer making sure that every thing was in order. He arranged to meet with him on the evening of his birthday to sign all the relevant papers. Until those papers were signed, he was still bound by the conditions of his father’s will.


For the first time since Spike acquiesced to the terms imposed, he and Angel spent the weekend at the apartment. Not going out, just being together. They had take-out food delivered but on Sunday, Angel cooked a three course meal for Spike. Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, lazily making love just before Spike had to leave.


“I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow then?” said Spike with a grin.


“You will,” replied Angel.


“I can’t believe that it’s finally over,” whispered Spike as he hugged Angel goodbye.


“See you tomorrow,” said Angel, his voice catching.


Spike didn’t sleep on the flight back. He never thought of it as going home. He was too wired about the meeting he had at the house as soon as he arrived. In the end he was surprised at how simple it had been. It took less than thirty minutes to regain control of his life.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Monday morning saw Spike dressing for the office. He looked in the mirror and winked at his reflection. He straightened his tie, leaned forwards and kissed his reflection.


“You look fucking gorgeous.”


For the first time, he walked to the car with a spring in his step. The viper was driven at speeds that he normally reserved for the trip to the airport on Fridays. He parked in his reserved spot in the garage, got in the elevator and when it reached his floor – the top one of course – he stepped out and walked briskly to his office.


Patricia was waiting for him; she’d picked the coffee up ready to hand it to him as she heard the elevator doors ‘ping’.


“Good morning, Mr. J…”


She dropped the coffee as her jaw fell open when she saw him.


“Morning, Patricia. Lovely day isn’t it?”


He winked at her. Her eyes bulged.


“Oh, don’t worry about the coffee. I prefer hot chocolate anyway. So can you get me one of those instead please?” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, and don’t forget the mini marshmallows – got to have mini marshmallows.”


He closed his office door, laughing as she was still standing transfixed. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever get his hot chocolate. He strode to his desk, sat down in the chair behind it and put his feet up on it. He glanced at the portrait of his father.


“And don’t you bleeding look at me like that. I am wearing a sodding tie. Wouldn’t do not to wear a tie in the office.”


A few minutes later, the intercom buzzed.


“Er…Mr. James. I…er…have your chocolate.”


Spike laughed. The good old girl had got it together faster than he’d thought that she would. “Well, bring it in then, love. Oh, and call me Spike, okay? Mr. James sounds too much like my sodding dad.”


A tap on the door was followed by Patricia walking slowly inside. She walked to the desk, looking anywhere but at Spike. She put the cup on the very edge of the desk.


“It’s okay, love. I won’t bite. I haven’t in the past four years now, have I?” He couldn’t help but grin.


“No, Mr. er Spike. You haven’t.” She finally met his eye. “But you must admit you look rather different.”


“That I do, that I do. The thing is, Patricia, what you’re seeing now is the real me. What you saw before was what he wanted.” Spike glared at the portrait.


He startled Patricia by suddenly bringing his feet from the table and rushing towards the painting. He stood on his toes to reach up and lift it from the wall. He turned back to Patricia.


“Can you get someone to take this away, please? To an incinerator preferably.”


He rested the picture against his desk.


“Certainly, Spike. And good riddance, too.”


“What?” Spike couldn’t believe what he had just heard.


Patricia stood a little straighter. “I said good riddance. It is a horrible painting.”


“Um…I always thought that it captured him well.”


“It does! That’s what’s so horrible about it. Every time I see it, it reminds me of him. Of him trying to paw at me every chance that he got. At least with you, I didn’t have to worry about that!”


It was Spike’s turn to stand open-mouthed.


“I’m sorry if I have spoken out of turn, Spike. But your father was a nasty piece of work. I shall give you my resignation if you object to what I have said.”


Spike started to laugh. “What? No…no I don’t want your resignation. To think, all these years I’ve had an ally so near to me and never knew.”


“I think that you’ll be surprised at how many you have. The place has been much happier these past four years.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out the door. “Don’t forget your eight thirty in the boardroom,” she called over her shoulder, and Spike could swear that he heard her laugh softly.


He stood there for a moment more before shaking his head and sitting down to go over the notes he’d made for the meeting.


It was lunchtime and Spike’s churning stomach had nothing to do with hunger. Well, not the need for food. He glanced at his watch. Where was he? Spike jumped as the door opened.


“Bleeding hell, knock why don’t you?”


“Sorry, Spike,” said Angel, walking to him and hugging him tightly.


Ever since the scene with his father, Spike hated not being forewarned of someone’s arrival in a room. It was why Angel always used the intercom to ask for entry when Spike was at the apartment, rather than use his key. The bondage games had only recently been started again.


“Was Patricia out there?” asked Spike after kissing Angel hungrily.


“Yes, she seemed real nice. Said something about her taking her lunch today at the canteen rather than at her desk.”


Spike laughed. “She’s great. Was a bit surprised when she saw me this morning, but seems that she’d hated my dad for years, so we’ve sort of bonded.”


“Surprised, eh? Can’t think why?” said Angel dryly.


“What do you mean?” replied Spike, looking down at his attire and flicking his tie up with his fingers. “I’m wearing a tie.”


Angel burst out laughing. “True,” he gasped. “Very true. And a very nice, bright pink tie that it is, too. I’m thinking that it’s perhaps not the tie that surprised her.”


Spike gave a twirl. “What do you mean?” He tilted his head on one side and raised his scarred eyebrow at Angel.


“Where do I start?” mused Angel, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I’m thinking the boots might have looked a bit odd.”


Spike glanced down at the scuffed and battered boots on his feet. “I love these boots.”


“Black leather trousers, so tight that I can see exactly how pleased you are to see me,” continued Angel.


Spike simply grinned.


“The eyeliner, the spiky hair and the black nail varnish, probably didn’t help. But I’m thinking that the see through mesh shirt and your tattoo were probably the clinchers!”


“But the tie…” Spike waggled it once more.


Angel grabbed it. “The tie is adorable.”


Spike wished that he’d left his father’s portrait on the wall long enough for it to have witnessed Angel releasing his cock from his leather pants and swallowing him whole. He grinned as he returned the favour for Angel.


“Yeah, Daddy dearest. It would have been good for you to see the real me once more.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Life soon settled in to a new routine. Not one that Spike, Angel or even Spike’s father could have envisaged. Angel moved in to the family home after leaving the club in the capable hands of its new manager. The income it provided made him feel a little less like a kept man. He was currently in the process of remodelling and decorating the whole house. He figured that it would probably take a year to get the place how they wanted it.


When Spike’s father had laid down his conditions four years ago, both Spike and Angel thought that Spike would just work at the company for that period of time and then leave or even sell it. What surprised them both was just how good Spike had been at the job. The company was doing better than it had ever been. Spike had hated being trapped by the suit and hated living alone at the house during the week. He had made no effort to make friends at work, or socialise apart from at the weekends when he was with Angel. The money that Spike was making was kind of obscene and also a little hard to turn his back on once he’d had it.


Spike’s original intention was to sell it as soon as he could; this would net him enough money never to have to work again. But when it came down to it, he found that he just couldn’t sell it to his father’s bitter rival, or anyone else for that matter. He found that with Patricia and most of the board firmly on his side that work didn’t seem so bad. After that first day, he hadn’t dressed so outrageously but generally wore jeans and a t-shirt. Feeling more like himself, the time spent at the office no longer felt like drudgery.


Angel had redesigned his office so that all traces of its former occupant had gone. Sitting behind his new glass and chrome desk one day, Spike glanced up at the wall where the portrait of his father had hung, and acknowledged that the old bastard had had the last word.


“The real me might me gay, and a bit of a poncey dresser at times, but the real me is also my father’s son. I just couldn’t walk away from the company and he knew that I wouldn’t be able to.”


He raised his cup of hot chocolate to the bare wall in a silent toast to his long dead father.


The End