By Minim Calibre
Notes: Flashfic entry for Ruby Wisp. Angel/Spike (past slash implied), PG.
He’d expected more of a reaction.
After all, throwing it in the poof’s face that he wasn’t the only vamp man enough to get the Slayer wet and beggin’ for it should get something more than a shrug.
“Takes more than that to bother me now, Spike. Where’ve you been the last few years?” Angel stared at him, unblinking, until Spike was forced to look away. “So you slept with my ex. Big deal. My son sent me to the bottom of the ocean, slept with the woman I’d fallen for, and damn near brought about the end of the world. You’ve gotta have perspective.”
Angel tossed him the bottle. Daylight had forced them to take shelter in an abandoned building mid-battle. The former home of the Magic Box, as a matter of fact. Last time Spike had got himself good and pissed within these walls, he’d wound up on top of the table instead of under it. Not bloody likely that history’d repeat itself. Wasn’t a table left in the place, for starters.
Besides, with Angel, he was more likely to find himself bent over the nonexistent piece of furniture than anything else.
“So what brings a nice boy like you to an apocalypse like this?” Spike muttered, throwing the bottle back in Angel’s direction.
“Nostalgia, duty, and oh yeah—I was asked.” The tone of his voice said he was done talking about the subject.
Well, someone obviously wasn’t happy about this turn of events. Angel, always the big billowing hero, swooping into town to save the day, and winding up useless as tits on a board. Dull as ditchdirt and about half as chatty, too. Which wouldn’t be a problem if Spike wasn’t trapped in a room with him, nothing better to do than drink and talk, and not a lot of dutch courage left in the flask.
“Sun goes down in about seven hours, Angel. What do you propose we do to pass the time?”
“Rest, come up with a better strategy than hit until we’re forced to retreat, and try not to kill each other in the meantime. It worked for the L.A. apocalypse, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“Well, there were some deaths, and we did have a slight mole problem, but we got over it.” It might have been his imagination, but Angel seemed to slump a little. “More or less.”
“Been hard, then?”
“Except for a couple of weeks where it was all incredibly easy, hard’s one way of putting it.”
Angel stood up and wandered over to the boarded-up window, staring at it as if he could somehow see through the plywood and out to the empty street. Oh, this was wonderful; bad enough they were stuck here, now he found himself feeling sorry for Angel of all people.
“Hasn’t been easy here, either,” he said. “For example, I spent a few months crazy in a basement before downgrading to Xander’s closet for a bit. I’ve been beaten, bound, bled, brainwashed, and a bunch of other things, some of which don’t even start with B.”
“I was turned into Angelus, had my soul stolen, was forced to relive parts of my life I’d rather forget happened, my son tried to kill me a few more times, and those were just the high points. Xander’s closet?”
“Yeah, had my own cot and everything. Also had Harris watching every move I made and yammering on about my housekeeping. At least the First wanted me there. Ever listened to Xander sleep?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“I’ve heard more mellifluous sounds come out the wrong end of a Fyarl demon. Snores something awful, that one. Almost enough to drive me back to the school basement.”
Angel let out something that might have been a laugh, coming over to sit next to Spike and pass the flask back to him. Then it was quiet again, neither of them bothering to speak as they drained the rest of the whisky in turns.
“Last time we were trapped together, it was in that mineshaft, wasn’t it?” Spike finally asked when the whisky was gone and the silence had turned uncomfortable again. “I always meant to ask if you enjoyed that bit.”
“The part where I birched you raw? It’s up there. It’s one of the few things I did as Angelus that I don’t feel a need to make up for.”
“I was thinking more about what you did after the birching, with me bending and begging.”
“I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t enjoy it at the time. Then again, at the time, I enjoyed Darla’s company.” That slight laugh again. “Remember what I told you about perspective.”
“Did you ever tell Buffy? About us, or about any of your other little perversions? I know you told her about Dru.” He already knew the answer. No way Buffy would have kept a prime bit of information like that to herself, and no way Angel would have spilled it in the first place. Sympathy or no, he was just asking to watch Angel squirm.
Angel looked about as moved as your average boulder. “It’s not going to work, you know?”
“What’s not?”
“You trying to piss me off, make me angry. I’m not going to leave town, just because you don’t want me here. Buffy tells me I’m not helping? I’ll go, but I’m here for the battle. This isn’t about vengeance, or vendettas, it’s about doing what’s right. I think you know that.”
The sound of a match striking against the rubble and the hiss of a cigarette catching slid into the space between them. Yeah, he knew that. Knew they needed Angel on their side in order to win. Didn’t mean he liked it, but he knew it.
Spike looked over to where Angel was sitting, hands draped loosely over his knees, his eyes closed.
Time to clear the air. “Just one more thing—I’d rather be stuck with you than Xander.”