The cemetery was quiet in that eerie way that only Sunnydale cemeteries could manage—wind whispering through crooked headstones, the occasional creak of rusted iron gates, the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the dark. Patrol nights were usually Spike’s favorite. Quiet. Simple. Just dust a few vamps and walk it off.

Tonight, though?

Spike wasn’t thinking about vampires.

He was thinking about Angel’s hands on you.

The memory had been replaying in his head for hours.

Training had started simple enough. Buffy had suggested Angel help you sharpen your fighting skills—said he had centuries of experience and patience. Spike had offered to train you himself, but you’d called him out immediately. Said he was pulling his punches. Holding back.

You weren’t wrong.

So Angel stepped in.

At first Spike had watched from the sidelines, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers, pretending he wasn’t paying attention. But then Angel lost his temper.

You’d missed a block.

Angel had grabbed your arm roughly, jerking you upright.

“Focus!” he snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “If you hesitate out there you die!”

You’d tried to brush it off. Tried to play it tough. But Spike had seen the way your shoulders tensed… the way your jaw tightened when Angel raised his voice.

And the way his grip had lingered too tight.

Spike hadn’t said anything then.

But he hadn’t forgotten it either.

—

Now, hours later, Spike walked beside Angel through Restfield Cemetery, boots crunching softly over gravel. The moon cast long shadows across the ground, pale light catching the sharp edges of Spike’s cheekbones as he stopped walking.

“Oi.”

Angel slowed, glancing back. “What?”

Spike tilted his head slightly, blue eyes glinting cold in the dark.

“The next time you lose your cool with her,” he said calmly, voice low and measured, “I suggest you find a different approach.”

Angel raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh yeah?” he said dryly. “Why’s that?”

Spike stepped a little closer.

The air between them changed instantly.

Spike wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t posturing.

His gaze was steady. Dangerous.

“Because,” Spike said quietly, “if you don’t… it’s gonna put me and you in a position where things’ll definitely go south.”

Silence stretched between them.

Angel studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

Spike didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t puff his chest out like he was trying to start a fight.

He didn’t need to.

The threat was already there—sitting heavy in the way his shoulders squared, in the tight set of his jaw, in the flicker of amber that threatened behind his blue eyes.

Angel scoffed lightly, though there was a sharp edge to it.

“You threatening me now?”

Spike shrugged one shoulder lazily, but his gaze never wavered.

“Didn’t say that.”

A beat.

“But we both know how it’d end, don’t we?”

The wind stirred through the graveyard, rustling dead leaves across the stone paths.

Angel exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly irritated—but thoughtful too.

Because the thing about Spike?

When it came to you… he wasn’t bluffing.

Not even a little.

Spike tilted his head toward the far end of the cemetery where distant growls echoed from behind a mausoleum.

“C’mon then,” he muttered, turning away like the conversation was already finished. “Heard a couple fledglings skulking about earlier.”

Angel lingered for half a second before following.

But as Spike walked ahead, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his jaw tightened slightly.

Because Angel might’ve been the one training you.

But if anyone ever laid hands on you like that again—

Angel included—

Spike wouldn’t bother with warnings next time.