Angelus dragged him further down the path muttering, “‘Go to America’, he says.  ‘The hunting’ll be grand there, with the crush and press of cities.’  You disgust me, William.  A funeral?  Ye wanted to go to a human funeral?”

“He’s a bloody genius,” Spike spat back rebelliously, although he wasn’t struggling nearly as much as he usually did.  He could still hear the mourner’s eulogy through Angelus’ prattle, so that was all right.  Except it was starting to grow fainter, the further they went, so Spike bucked out of the iron grip on his collar, stopping them both.  “An’ what’s wrong with wanting to go to a funeral?”

“Unless we’re the ones putting them in the ground, William, I’ve no interest in being in cemeteries.”

“Why not?  Can have all kinds of fun in cemeteries.”  Still half listening to the eulogy—they were quoting some of Whitman’s famous passages and the strains filled Spike’s empty soul—Spike found a large enough headstone.  He’d figured he’d have to do this and who was he to say no, anyway?

“William!  What’re you doing!”

“Taking of my trous,” was the smirking response.  “Can’t bugger me through them, can you?”

Angelus stared as Spike draped himself over the headstone, bare ass bright in the darkly clouded sky.  Then he opened his own trousers and set to.

With the first rough thrust, Spike grinned.  Angelus could be so indulgent, sometimes.

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