thatotherperv | new spangel: I Burn--the obsession and love of a pyromaniac

I’m about to pee my pants I’m so excited to be sharing this fic.

This bunny came to me like a lightning bolt one day while I was driving on back roads in Massachussetts (or...as “back roads” as you get in a state that fucking crowded), listening to the Toadies “I Burn.” Sexiest song about pyromania ever, and the whole plot just fell in my lap. I wasn’t sure for a long time that I could pull this off…it seems like a fic that’s unlikely to end happily, or with the boys together. Took me a while to work out how. I think I don’t need to explain that no matter how you slice it, they aren’t going to be the poster children for functional partnership. But they do alright. Love doesn’t conquer all, but sometimes it helps.

the fic title and all four “part” titles came from the lyrics to that song.

Probably needless to say, but I’m not a pyromaniac, or a psychiatrist…or a firefighter, or a small-town girl. Hopefully I covered everything with research, but there might be inaccuracies. If you want to know more about pyromania, there are concise run-downs of the disease here and (less concise) here. Please be aware that I have to fudge several aspects of pyromania by necessity. Trying to keep it as close to truth as possible, though.

Title: I Burn
Author: Mel (

thatotherperv)
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Summary: human AU. Spike is a pyromaniac, stalking a fire investigator named Angel. An improbable love story (to say the least).
Warnings: Angst, obviously, from the setup. D/s but not of the usual variety. It’s more…emotional D/s than lifestyle or kink (though there is *some* kink, there’s nothing extreme). Hard to explain, but you’ll see.
infinite thanks to

kitty_poker1 for being my second pair of eyes, giving me advise on plot, characterization, and the occasional spelling error. *squishes her*

Note: I accept concrit. but if you have something to discuss with me in need of improvement or clarification, you should bring that concern to me in this post or in email at thatotherperv@livejournal.com. it just makes my life easier to have it in one place.

“You breathe…I burn.”
—Toadies

A/N: This fic is set in Houston, TX, where I grew up. I tell you this because I found no smooth way to slip the information into the first chapter without sounding retarded. I don’t like sounding retarded. For those of you who have no frame of reference for what Houston is like (especially those overseas), it’s probably not the way you imagine Texas to be in general…although they do shut our major freeways down to run cattle and chuck wagons down them before the annual rodeo (yes, really). Essentially, Houston is a big, crowded clusterfuck. Wikipedia article here for the basics.

Part One: A Prayer in Every Spark

Chapter 1

The smell of the gasoline was sweetly noxious in his nostrils as he painted it on the floor from the gas can, in a strangely boyish parody of peeing in the snow. Doodling with it, love-words, sopping the carpet and sofa and furniture through, until he was lightheaded with glee and strong fumes.

It was a love-poem to the two obsessions of his life.

It was with giddy delight that Spike flipped a lit match into the middle of the room, watching as golden flame licked out on spidery arms on the paths he had given her.

He could have watched her until she brought the house down, but he couldn’t allow her to consume him that way, not in body. She already consumed his mind. His soul.

His body waited for his other obsession. His other love. He held it sacred, and apart, for him.

So with regret that he couldn’t stay to watch her grow and flourish in the nest he had built for her, Spike slipped out the front door, flipping the lock along the way. With the pilfered key, he etched a pattern into the paint of the front door, then wiped it off, and dropped it on the mat.

To welcome his other love home.

~*~*~*~

Angel Callaghan just wanted to enjoy a beer and catch his football game in the relative peace of the shitty little sports bar on a Tuesday afternoon. He was playing hooky. Well, not really playing hooky. He’d just taken a slight detour between his last crime scene and the office. A detour that might last the rest of the afternoon. No big deal.

That’s not what his boss might say, but he could kiss his ass.

Days like today, Angel regretted the promotion to fire investigator. He was young for the position, so he should be proud—and he had been, at first. But riding a desk was a hell of a lot less exciting than responding to calls with his unit. He liked being on scene, using his brain to pick apart evidence for the origin and cause of a structure fire, but he missed his old life, even if he was more comfortable now. Missed the camaraderie of the firehouse, and getting his hands dirty.

Of course, the camaraderie hadn’t been so good after he’d come out of the closet, six months before he was offered promotion. It was why he had taken the offer in the first place. The guys weren’t so comfortable any more. Weird looks and weird vibes, and suddenly everyone started wearing towels after their showers. He suspected his orientation was why the offer had been made, actually, but fuck them. Fuck their insecurities and fear of litigation for wrongful termination. He was good at what he did, and he could say with certainty that was why he’d risen quickly to the top position in the investigative unit, however he’d gotten his foot in the door.

And he liked being able to give people answers when their whole lives had disintegrated around them.

But man, days like today, he wished he were just keeping his head down and following orders.

Angel took a sip of his beer and his eyes slid again from the big-screen to the guy sitting down the bar from him. He’d seen the man here a couple times before—it was hard to miss him. He was pale and pretty in a way that should have looked feminine…but there was nothing girly about him. He chain-smoked in a jittery, restless way, and he wore old, broken-in leather—black and polished, not suede or earth-toned. He had a bike—a nice one. His hair was a shocking, unnatural white, and he had a scar running into his eyebrow that drew your attention when he cocked it and called for another bourbon in that accent.

Angel was almost positive he was gay.

Ok, so he’d been watching him a while. But the guy was always sitting alone at the bar during the dead part of the afternoon, just like Angel, so it wasn’t like he was some creepy stalker.

Angel’s mind shifted to a crude picture scratched into wood, then slid away.

Anyway, the guy was obviously trying to look tough, but something about him said otherwise. Angel wasn’t sure what it was…just a feeling, and when Angel jacked off at night, it wasn’t hard to imagine holding the guy down and making him like it.

Angel coughed and tried to suppress the interest his body showed in the image.

He probably should have made a pass at the guy a while back, before they’d reached this awkwardly familiar ignoring-each-other phase, but Angel wasn’t always good with people. He definitely wasn’t good at the pickup…. Finding a quick fuck never used to be a problem, but then he got tired…tired of being lonely before he’d even made the final thrust, and tired of being mistaken for someone who only wanted that—who was only good for that. It was why he’d come out. He wanted a relationship…so of course, then he’d spent the last couple years completely celibate, and only made a few pitiful, failed attempts at dating.

Because that made sense.

He hadn’t tried to pick up Blondie because it seemed like just another exercise in misery, but he couldn’t get the guy off his mind. For months. He was definitely intimidated.

Well, screw that. Five years in a suit hadn’t made him a total chicken shit after ten years of running into burning buildings.

Angel got up and slid down two barstools to the one right beside the man, hoping he looked casual and confident. The guy looked at him out of the corner of his eye—a pale blue one, framed by thick eyelashes—but stealthily, the way you did when you suspected someone was trying to talk to you, but didn’t want to look like an asshole if you were wrong.

“Jesus, our boys are getting whooped. They call that defense?”

The man turned towards him and fixed him in that clear, sharp gaze. He looked confused. “Sorry?”

Angel fought the urge to blush. He was no good at this part. Everything after, he was fine, but this…was still scary as hell. “The uh—” He nodded towards the screen.

Blondie turned towards it and started, like he hadn’t even noticed it was there. “Oh. Right. Well to tell you the truth, mate, I don’t really follow American football. Don’t understand a bloody thing that’s going on.” The man flashed him a smile, and Angel’s heart pounded. That smile, that voice. Please be gay.

“Jesus, don’t say that in Texas. You’ll get lynched.” The man grinned at him again, and Angel found himself relaxing and returning the easy smile. “Maybe I could um…teach you. About football.”

The man’s expression shifted into something knowing and sultry. “That would be lovely, pet.” He offered his hand to shake. “I’m Will.”

“Angel.” Will squeezed his hand and grinned suggestively.

“Angel?”

“Firehouse nickname.”

“Mmm. Firefighter, eh? Are you the one who pulls me out of the flaming building and demands a token of my gratitude then? Bloody good dream, that.”

Angel felt himself warm under the man’s gaze. Gay as a rainbow, thank you, Jesus. He opened his mouth to respond, when something on the television caught his attention.

“And we cut now from your regular programming for breaking news. There’s a large house fire on the west side….” The visual cut away from the anchor to a chopper shot of a mansion that was burning. Goddammit, not another one. Angel was torn between anger and relief. “Sources say this is yet another hit by the serial arsonist that the HFD has begun to refer to as—”

“Shit!” Snapping out of it, Angel flipped open his phone and powered it up to discover his ‘calls missed’ list full of attempts by dispatch to reach him…followed by the chief’s number. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d turned it off so he could hide after this morning’s hideously headache-inducing meeting. The mayor’s office had been turning up the heat on him to find this guy, but how the hell was he supposed to do that with no new leads? Not that it appeared to be a problem now. This guy hadn’t struck in so long, he had thought….

“Oh, I’ve heard of this bloke! He only burns the big houses, you know, like—”

Angel scrambled for his things and threw some money on the bar for his tab, cursing the shitty timing. “Hey, sorry Will. It was nice meeting you, but I’ve really gotta run. But really. I hope I’ll see you in here again sometime.”

Will looked up at him inquiringly. Angel really didn’t have time to explain. But he felt those eyes stay on him as he dashed out the door, and he really hoped the guy didn’t think he’d just been given the brush-off.

Angel would really like to get laid again sometime this century.

~*~*~*~

Angel stood in the charred bowels of a once-beautiful home and ground his teeth.

Once again, Spike had left him with nothing new.

Smart bastard. Firebugs weren’t supposed to be this tricky. They were supposed to be ruled by the impulse to burn at the sake of all else, but this guy left nothing for him. Nothing he could use to catch the bastard anyway. He used gasoline as an accelerant. Good luck tracing his purchase of that (though they had tried). He never left an impression with neighbors, if he was seen at all in the neighborhoods where money paid for enormous lots and plenty of privacy. No forced entry…he always had a house key. And as far as Angel could tell, he never hung around the scene like a good firebug should. Never stood in the crowd to catch the show—Angel had people interviewing the bystanders, and there were never any repeat visitors, never anyone particularly suspicious.

And he only burned the mansions.

It was one of the reasons they had been hesitant to use the label “pyro” at first (though the media had latched onto it, of course they had). It seemed too strategic, too organized, to be driven by obsessive impulse. It didn’t fit the psych profile. Firebugs didn’t play with fire for a political statement. For them, the means were the end.

Spike wasn’t ever the one calling the fires in, and that didn’t fit any theory they had. Angel would have expected that he would, be it a pyromania or a political arson.

It didn’t fit. Spike didn’t fit. And frankly, that was what made Spike a pain in his ass.

All evidence aside, Angel was sure that Spike was acting compulsively. He could feel it in his gut. There was a joy to the act that didn’t add up to political agenda. A manic pleasure. Christ knew his superiors disagreed with him. The mayor, for one, was anxious to put the matter to bed now that the national media had dug their claws into it. They thought Angel was wasting time with the pyromania angle. But people were complex; you couldn’t always shove them into nice, neat categories. This guy had the bug. He had the love of fire, and he’d be burning things regardless. He’d just acquired an extra layer of motivation somewhere along the way.

Didn’t make him less of a mental case. Just a smart mental case. One that knew what he wanted and what he was about.

A real go-getter.

Angel stared at the charred carpet pulled up enough to reveal the pour pattern on the foam below, gleefully haphazard as always. There was one major piece of evidence they’d managed to keep out of the press. The media knew about the gasoline, the railroad spike carved into the paint on the door, the key always left on the front stoop…the fact that Angel’s team had no fucking clue (they were having a field day with that one). They even knew that Spike appeared to be fixated not just on the wealthy, but also on Angel himself.

But they didn’t know about this. Yet.

Angel felt that familiar twist in his gut as he looked at the pattern left on the living room floor, clean of soot and char because the fibers there had been coated with a flame-resistant residue that shielded it from the quick burn of the flames. A message left directly to him, just like the picture on the door, the key on the mat, and Angel suspected sickly, the fires themselves.

It wasn’t arrogance that led him to believe that it was all for him. Spike had spelled it out for him loud and clear.

The letters on the burned carpet spelled LIAM.

continued

*flail* so excited.

I have the first 6 chapters (all of part one) written already. we all know I like hoarding my chapters to dole out in case the muse goes flighty, so that the fic doesn't get interrupted for yall for long. I'm shooting for once a week, though it'll probably vary a little, knowing me. if I get part two written quickly, then it'll be more frequent. we'll just have to see.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

laisserais

I’m about to pee my pants I’m so excited to be sharing this fic. WHEE!!! hahaha! i'm doing the pee pee dance right now!

ok and now i'm going off to read it. :)

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new spangel: I Burn--the obsession and love of a pyromaniac

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