Prelude to violence
DISCLAIMER: Spike and Angel belong to Joss Whedon. Jonothon belongs to Marvel.
WARNINGS: Will contain non-consensual situations, drug use, excessive swearing and mentions of torture. And a threesome.
“I’m so *fucking* bored, Angel,” Spike snarled, cutting the already worn pack of cards again and dealing another interminable hand of poker. The bleached blond glared over his hand at the older, more stoic looking man sitting across the table from him. The physical differences between the two were obvious from first glance, whipcord peroxide blond with a small scar bisecting his eyebrow, and the more heavyset brunette with a lazy smirk.
“If you remember, we’re here for life, so you should get used to it,” Angel said, picking up his cards and studying them. The Ace of Spades glared balefully at him from the left, and he sighed slightly. “We are not getting out on parole, Will. Not me, and especially not you.”
“Don’t sodding call me that, orright, mate?” the switchblade-sharp man demanded, sliding the cards around in his fingers restlessly. “So, what should we do after we finish this hand?”
“I did have some news from that guard, Doyle...” Pick your words carefully, Angel reminded himself as the predatory blue eyes across the table from him brightened with anticipation. Spike bored was one of the more dangerous forces that could lurk in the maximum security prison. The guards knew it, subconsciously. And kept a closer watch on the times between one craze and the next, trying to predict the next time the street born sadist would slit someone’s throat. Just for fun.
“Oh yeah? And what did that berk have to say?” Spike inquired, tossing out two cards and dealing himself two more in replacement.
“They’re having a new intake.”
Spike hissed in a breath, thin lips lifting in a merciless grin. Long canines glinted in his smile, and Angel met it with one of his own. “You’re not taking the piss?”
“Swear to God, that’s what he said.”
“Well, well...nice to know that little Mick is good for something.”
“Forgetting are you, that I’m Irish born meself?” Angel asked dryly, deliberately dropping back into the speech patterns of his childhood. Spike giggled, a hair raising sound of demented insanity.
“Of course not, you motherfucking potato eater. I can tolerate you, is all. Doyle gives me the shits...though he has his uses, I’ll give you that.”
“And indeed, thank you for the vote of confidence, Spike,” the broader man said, putting his cards face-up on the table. “Royal flush in hearts.”
“You cheating scab, whoreson of an Irish sheepfucker!” Spike swore, tossing down his worthless hand, and crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair, pouting like a sullen child. Angel just grinned slightly, and ran the tip of his tongue over his upperlip as he looked at Spike.
“Maybe, but your arse is mine tonight, boyo.”
“Maybe in the new intake,” Spike mused, scratching the underside of his chin lightly with the chipping nails that still carried signs of black lacquer, “we can find a boy.”
“Maybe.” A grin just as deadly as Spike’s stretched the corners of Angel’s mouth upwards as he started to slide the discarded cards into the packholder. “Maybe there’ll be someone suitable. For both of us.”
“I just want a chance to put someone else on the bottom for a fucking change,” Spike growled, then flipped two fingers at one of the guards going past on patrol. “Coming in here, they’ll probably be cherries anyway.”
“So we put the word out that we’re looking, and that we don’t want anyone else moving in before we make our choice,” Angel mused, knowing that most of the inhabitants of the prison would back off.
Angel and Spike. Neither of which were the names they had been given at birth. Both awarded due to their criminal activities, and mostly due to the way they punished misdeeds...or had a little fun. It was the same, really. For the both of them. They took pleasure in other people’s pains. Spike specialised in stakes, railroad spikes, nails, icepicks, deadly slim Italian stilettos...weapons like that. Angel carved beautiful wings into the backs of his victims, and also had the nice habit of reaching into their chests and breaking ribs apart before pulling out their lungs to form a pair of bloody ‘wings’. A deadly duo, bound to each other by a certain sort of convenience, composed of blood and sex. Not quite insane to get off on an insanity plea, just crazy enough to put anyone walking by them off edge and uneasy. They’d met on the streets of London, Angel (then known as Liam), and William, already starting to be given the name of Spike. They’d hit it off almost instantly.
Society suffered for it.
And now they’d been caught, caged and put away with a non-redeemable stamp on their foreheads. They’d gone into the prison system easily enough, and made their own little niche of power. Angel using Spike’s icy berserker eyes to scare away the weak, his own power to intimidate the strong and using judicious amounts of bribery to smooth the way with guards. It worked well. Except when Spike got bored.
“This’ll be a spot of the alright,” Spike purred, and Angel smiled slowly. “Let’s go for a brunette, ok?”