Angel / Pet / Chapter Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A pair of strong hands on his shoulders was Spike's first indication that it was morning. Angel's tongue in his mouth was the second.

Spike rolled over, his not yet awake brain randomly chirping questions at him like "What time is it?" "When did Da get in?" and "Did I actually tell Harm we could have lunch together or was that part of some nightmare?" when one of Angel's hands moved lower and began doing wonderfully predictable things in the below the belt region.

Spike gave an experimental grumble. Was this fighting? Fucking? Little bit of both? Angel tended to get crabby when flat-out asked "What's my motivation?" but Spike'd known the old bugger long enough to know how to get the answers he needed anyway.

Not, for the record, that he obsessed about answering Angel's needs. Just less annoying to do that sometimes, was all.

More tongue came in response. Wet and moving and sliding along Spike's own in the kind of way that didn't exactly discourage a response, but didn't seem all too worried about getting one either. Da had his own agenda, it would seem. Which was more than all right. Worse ways to wake up than Angel deciding he wanted to make some sort of use for your mouth.

A knee got into the mixture. Angel's, naturally. Nudging Spike's legs apart so he could run that hand of his along the tender skin between and beneath and - all right, *not* that Spike cared or anything, but a man had desires and the desire for someone who knew what they were doing with their fingers when they trailed down Spike's inner thigh and pressed and pinched - ah, *bloody*, yeah, that - right *there* on that vulnerable, aching...

Yeah, yeah. Worse things in life. Definitely worse things in life.

Still more with the hands. Up, down, sideways, backwards. All over him. Caressing, touching, rubbing, even scratching at just the right spots. The mouth stayed constant. Right on his, greedy and persistent. Teeth banging together as they grappled for control. And it was a fight, there. Spike didn't always feel the need to turn 'round and expose his belly. Well not often. Or at least not always. Save for now, which was an exception because Angel was doing that thing he did with the tugging and the teasing and - all right, fine, maybe a little movement. Just a bit. Not enough to make him cocky or anything but - well, long as they were on the subject there could *be* things that were cocky and -

Yeah, there, perfect. That big hand right on his dick and stroking and pulling and... Son of a - just *pick* a rhythm and *stick* with it. Don't get into the artsy-fartsy patterns and change-ups and... and... right, there was a thought there. Had been, anyway. He was pretty sure of it except - yeah. That. With the - no, no. Back on faster. *Back* on faster. Just like a minute ago. Yeah. Right. That. *That*. That, with the kissing, and the biting, and a little bit more of the - the - the -

"Bloody Hell," Spike gasped, lurching up into Angel's arms with a shudder.

"Morning," Angel said, and with that he left the bed.

Spike sat there, blinking. Then he rubbed his eyes. "Da? Are you - "

There was the sound of the shower turning on. "Can't hear you."

Spike gave a second's thought to joining him, then slumped back down on the bed. If he'd had more energy he would've gotten his cigarettes. But that would have involved arguing with Angel. Also standing. Actually, it was the standing bit that was giving him the most trouble. He decided to make a nest of it in the pillows.

Angel emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, toweling himself off as though he didn't care if Spike looked at him while he was starkers, which was pretty much an apt description of events.

"Mornin'," Spike offered.

Angel gave one of his typical one-syllable grunts before vanishing into the second bedroom that was his walk-in closet.

"Or not, as you fancy," Spike replied. He stared up at the ceiling, pondering his usual inventory when it came to dealing with Angel's stoicism. Pointed comments? Nah. Annoying chatter? Possibly. Holding the entire conversation on his own while making sure to make his voice extra fruity for the parts when he was imitating Angel's bit? Maybe after coffee. And blood. And breakfast. Christ he was hungry. He looked over at Angel again. "Are we eating anything?"

There was a mumbled reply. Fashion-conscious echo location pegged Angel somewhere in the back, with the ties.

"Don't do it," Spike warned him. "Your neck's thick enough. No need to call attention to it."

More mumbling.

"What?"

"I said my neck is *fine*."

"No need to shout, I'm right here."

Angel appeared in the doorway. He looked about ready to get into it before shaking his head and going back inside. "No. Not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"*This*."

Spike propped his hands behind his head. He grinned. Sometimes it was too damned easy. "What? The hula?"

"*This*."

"Yeah, got that the first time," Spike said. He absentmindedly scratched his chest. "Wanna throw a proper noun in there somewhere? Hell, you got the pretty language expert, why don't you get *him* to - hang about, where is Wesley?"

Out of the closet again, this time shrugging into a pale grey shirt that Spike would never in a thousand years admit flattered the old man. "Upstairs."

Spike put two and two together. Or at least one and one. "So, good night then?"

Those deft fingers were now on the buttons of his shirtsleeves. "Yeah. Yeah. I think so. Talked. Did stuff."

"You know the difference between having these conversations with you and having them with - " Spike cast about, then gestured when he saw something " - that shoe is absolute zero. Haven't you ever heard of giving details?"

Angel frowned. "Why are my shoes out here in the bedroom?"

"You've all the focus of a mink, you know that, right?" Spike asked.

"I'm just saying a little order and cleanliness isn't too much to ask for."

"A *mink*."

"What *is* it with you and the rodents?" Angel asked.

"Minks aren't - " Spike hesitated. "Wait, maybe they are. Never mind. Look, the *point* is - "

"And why a mink?" Angel asked. "Why not, I dunno, a vole or something?"

"*Wesley*," Spike said, enunciating the syllables. "Tall bloke. Thin. Enormous crush on you and quite a few other nice enormous bits we could talk about if it wouldn't send your tiny brain scurrying down even more side paths in the maze that we call your skull."

"See, again with the rodent imagery."

"What *happened*?"

"Nothing," Angel said. Then instantly amended it. "Well, something. But I don't wanna get into it right now."

"Why not?" Spike asked.

"Because that would be talking," Angel said. "We're not doing that."

"We're not talking?"

"No."

Spike looked at him. "And the noise coming out of our mouths isn't changing this particular view of yours in the slightest, is it?"

"We're not talking," Angel repeated.

Spike rubbed his forehead. "You know, the annoying thing is that I can never tell if you really are this stubborn of if you do this just to take the piss out of me."

"Wes is fine," Angel said. "Wes and I are fine. We had a good night, I made him happy, I did really well with it, we had a little fun. Now it's morning, and you and I did - you know - and now we're not talking."

Spike lazily tried to translate that. "You and me having sex means no talking."

"*Yes*," Angel said. He made a gesture of irritation before heading towards the kitchen. "God, why does it take you so long to understand stuff?"

Spike sighed. He weighed the pros and cons of staying in bed versus perusing the conversation. The lure of freshly heated blood won him over. He pulled on a pair of jeans and padded after him. "You know, if sex with you means we never have to talk then you and I need to think about constantly keeping our clothes off."

"I've thought about it," Angel admitted. He put two cups into the microwave then picked up the phone to the office café and put in the order for Wes's meal.

Spike waited for him to finish. "'cause if it means shutting you up, I'll gladly sacrifice a shirt or twelve."

"Good," Angel said. "Let's do that."

The microwave beeped. Spike got their drinks out, taking a healthy swallow of his own. "Of course there's right now to consider."

"Not talking," Angel said again.

"I know I'm going to regret this," Spike said. "Actually, I already do. But just to get the curiosity out of the way: *why*?"

"Because we had a thing," Angel said.

"Right," Spike said. He contemplated his mug. "Yep. Definitely regretting it. *What* thing?"

"Just now," Angel said. "You, me, me, Wes. It was a thing."

"Not that you'd remember," Spike said, "but did you happen to hit your head or something?"

"I didn't - " Angel bit off his words with an exasperated sigh. "Look. Wes and I had a good night. I came down here and gave you a good morning - "

"Your ego knows absolutely no bounds, do you know that?"

" - and I *figured*," Angel said, speaking over him, "that we could just stop it there. Just leave it alone and don't screw it up with any of the usual funny stuff."

"Funny stuff," Spike said.

"Right," Angel said.

"Like red noses and balloon animals or - "

"Like *talking*," Angel said.

"Which we do all the time, you and me," Spike drawled. "'cause Lord knows you're a scintillating conversationalist. Angel, have you gone *completely* 'round the bend?"

"We screw it up with the talking," Angel said. "We start out okay, the naked stuff is fine, and then we're both not awake yet and the blood's not going to our heads - not that it ever does in your case - and then we start saying stuff and it becomes a *thing* and - "

"And?"

"And I don't want poetry," Angel finished.

"In danger of being attacked by a sonnet, were you?" Spike asked.

"I don't want mushy stuff," Angel said. "*You* don't want mushy stuff. Neither of us wants any of that so I figured let's just skip over that part. Sex, orgasm, maybe a little enjoying the afterglow and then bang. Move on. No funny business."

"You - I - " Spike shook his head. "Christ, leave it to you to give me so much to work with. I can't even figure out which retort I want to use first."

"I'm just saying - "

"Okay first your ego - " Spike began, then stopped himself. "No, already did that one. But it's still true."

"Spike - "

"No, no, hang about, I gotta make this good," Spike said. He leaned against the counter, ticking ideas off on his fingers. "Ego, hair, dress sense, size of your dick, the fact that you vastly overrate your sexual prowess, the way you - yeah, that's it -" He turned back to Angel again. "The way you just bloody *assume* that I'm that eager that - that I'm just *sitting* here dying to - That you think that I would just - You know, you bought me the bloody motorbike, mate!"

"Did that - " Angel shook his head, frowning at him. "I'm curious, was *any* of that in English when it started out in your head?"

"All very well for you to be bemoaning the flowers and chocolates when *you're* the one treating me like his little boy toy," Spike said. He stabbed a finger at Angel's chest. "Take *that*, Mr. I Don't - whatever - Not romance wanting guy."

Angel rolled his eyes. "All I said was - "

"You know, *you're* the one with the girly ideas about relationships," Spike continued. "About family and pets and boys and 'Oh don't go anywhere, Spike' and 'I want another man around, Spike' - "

"Friendly advice?" Angel said. "One of these years you are *really* going to have to let that go."

"And then you accuse *me* of mucking it all up with poetry," Spike said. "The utter - no, you know what? I'll give you poetry. Where's pen and paper? I've got a poem for you. 101 things that rhyme with 'sodding bastard'."

Angel pulled open a drawer, took out a notepad and pen, and handed them over. "Here. Because right now I would *love* to hear you name at least one."

Spike sat down at the island. "Oh believe me you will."

"Just one."

"Plodding ras - " Spike scribbled it out. "Rotting - yeah. Rotting plastered."

"And that makes sense to you."

"Of course it does."

"I wanna point out here that I started all this by saying we shouldn't talk," Angel said. "And I'm wondering now how 'rotting plastered' doesn't prove my point."

"Your point," Spike said, jabbing the pen at him, "is that your head is up your arse. That's your point."

"My *point*," Angel sighed, shaking his head. "No, forget it. I'm out. Whatever. You win."

"No, see - "

"I said I'm out."

"No, 'cause - "

"Spike," Angel said, very slowly and clearly. "You. Win."

Spike sat up, taking that in. "You can't do that."

"Just did."

"But you *can't*."

"I just - " Angel became distracted as he looked out towards the televisions. "Do you know how much time we would save if I recorded all of our conversations and hit instant replay every few seconds?"

"You can't give up like that," Spike said, throwing his pen down. "It's not right. 's not natural."

"I can, I did," Angel said. "So can we move on to whatever's next? I think you were going to do the hair jokes again."

"Was gonna point out you shouldn't wear pants like that with your waist size," Spike replied. "But it can wait. Angel - "

"I just wanted it to be nice," Angel said. "One morning where it wasn't all complicated. Just you, me, fun - nice. Was that really too much to ask?"

"Oh sure," Spike said. "You say you want that but then soon as we're done you're off boiling yourself clean in the shower."

"I figured you got what you wanted out of it," Angel said.

"A *second* of hanging around is too much to ask?" Spike said. "Maybe a 'hello'? A 'how's your morning'?"

"I said hi!"

"Yeah, then went off so quick I saw one of those cartoon clouds in the shape of your body," Spike said. "A comparison which, by the way, shows I've spent far too much time with one Xander Harris but let's not linger on that right now."

"Always figured *any* time was too much time with Xander," Angel said.

"He's not that bad when you get to - " Spike started, then immediately aborted that one. "Never mind. All I'm saying is you could've made an effort."

"I thought you didn't *want* an effort!"

"Of *course* I don't want an effort, you sodding pillock!" Spike snapped. He frowned, looking down at his notepad. "Hey, wait - rotting hill - "

"Spike..."

"We don't *do* effort, Angel," Spike said. "It's not right. It's not us. You go all goo-eyed over me and *I* want to boil myself in a few gallons of the finest blessed water my hands can swipe. I go all goo-eyed over you and you - "

"Want to throw up."

"Ta, ever so," Spike replied.

"Wasn't that what I was saying?" Angel asked. "Do the fun stuff, avoid the icky stuff."

"No, you were saying do the naked bits and *avoid* the fun stuff," Spike told him. "Not talk? Not *talk*? How the bloody Hell else are you and I going to flirt then?"

"Other than all the times we do it in the office, you mean?"

"Right."

"And here at home."

"Yeah."

"And with the fighting, and the sparring, and the actual *having* of the sex which is what the flirting is *for* and - "

"I *get* it already," Spike said.

Angel stretched his shoulders out, leaning against the counter. "I just didn't want to mess it up."

"Now who's getting caught up on girly things?"

"Okay, fine, I'm a girl," Angel snapped.

"Speaking of things I'd love to have on instant replay - "

"You know, 'scuse the Hell out of me for trying to do this right," Angel said. "Everybody gets on my ass about Wesley - "

Spike frowned. "Who besides me gets on you about Wesley?"

Angel ignored him. "And I figured fine. Fix it with him, make sure he's happy, but - I dunno. Maybe there was something up with you. Something I did or didn't do or said or didn't say and I wanted to make sure it was okay. That you and I don't have weirdness between us."

"Spot on job there," Spike observed.

"Shaddup."

Spike looked him over. "You honestly thought there was a problem between us?"

"Said I *didn't know* if there was -"

"You've known me over a century!" Spike said. "You can't walk into a room without me telling you everything you're doing that's vaguely annoying me. How did your flea-ridden mind manage to think I'd be keeping something from you?"

"I just figured - "

"Angel," Spike said, getting off his chair. "You're a lot of things, and between you and me some of them are even likeable. But the brains of this family you are not, you got it? We don't do flowers, we don't do girly, and we don't do anything besides what we *are* doing, which is annoying the piss out of each other and then shagging like rabbits. Throw in a few rounds of anything that manages to leave a mark and we're good to go, promise."

Angel was quiet, his face back on his usual pensive.

"Angel?" Spike asked. When there was no reply, he tried, "Da?'

"I just..."

"What?"

"Well, for somebody who agrees that we're supposed to avoid girly that was pretty much the feyest little speech I could ever - "

"Oh *fuck you*, mate."

"I'm just *saying* - "

"Up yours, seriously. I mean it."

Angel grinned. "So we're good?"

"One of us is, the other's still in a grey area," Spike replied. "But if you mean *us* then yeah, we're all right."

"Swear we'll never have serious talks about the relationship again?" Angel asked.

Spike held his hand out. "Deal."

They shook on it. Then Angel cocked his head towards the upstairs door. "Wanna see Wes?"

Spike pursed his lips. "Yeah, sure. How's he doing anyway?"

"Asleep when I left him," Angel said, taking the stairs two at a time. "And real happy before he passed out."

"You handled that okay then?"

"Yup. Jewelry seemed to do the trick."

"Usually does," Spike agreed. "What'd you get him anyway?"

"Nipple ring."

"All right, when you want to know what's wrong with our relationship, it's waiting until *now* to tell me that."

Angel shouldered the door to the pool open. "What can I say? I live to torture you."