Author: Lyrstzha

Pairing: Spike/Angel

Author's notes: Two vampires. Moving on. Yep, right now.

Setting: Ats S5, immediately after "The Girl in Question"

Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss & co.

Rating: PG


Angel slumped a little lower into his stylish leather couch. He blinked a bit, and tried to work out which hand was still holding the last bottle of whiskey. Oh, wait. He was pretty sure that hand was actually Spike's. Maybe. He swam his gaze over to Spike, who sprawled on the couch next to him bonelessly. "Bottle," he demanded. The Spike-hand pushed it across the cushion surprisingly obediently. Angel burned his throat with a swallow of whiskey and tried to remember where he left his train of thought. "I don't even like cookies all that much," was the best he could do.

Spike opened one eye to look at him dubiously. "Mmmhmm. Not holding your liquor so well in your old age, eh?"

Angel blinked at him for a moment. "No. I mean, yes. I mean," he paused, frowning. "Buffy," he illustrated this with a jazz-hand sort of motion over his hair to indicate shiny. "She said it."

Spike frowned back. "Buffy? Peaches, Buffy likes cookies right fine." He poked Angel in the head once for emphasis. "'Specially the ones what have chocolate in 'em."

Angel swatted at the poking finger in annoyance and tried again. "No! She said she was a cookie. No, wait... she said she was cookie dough." He squinted, as if trying to see his words and work out if they'd made sense.

"She said what?" Spike opened both eyes to stare at Angel. They crossed slightly.

"Cookie dough," Angel nodded with conviction. "She said it the last time I talked to her. And that I couldn't eat her until she was finished baking."

Spike looked away suddenly. "Oh. Right. That cookie thing." He dug at the carpet with one booted toe. "Heard it a million times m'self. Course."

Angel regarded Spike blearily. He closed his left eye to see if that helped. Oddly, it did. "She never said it to you," Angel nudged Spike's knee with his own. "Did she?"

"She bloody well did!" Spike clumsily jabbed an elbow in the vague direction of Angel's ribs, glancing off of a thigh instead. "Always think it's all about you, don't you? Think she's just bidin' her time with the rest of us, going to realize how much she misses you and your bloody stupid hair one day. Bugger." Spike managed to get a hand on the back of the couch and pushed himself forward and away. He rested his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. His back hunched at Angel defensively.

Angel lurched semi-upright with indignation. "She didn't say it to you. She didn't ask you to..." He blinked and trailed off as Spike's shoulders flinched slightly further away from him. Angel swallowed guiltily. Those shoulders shouldn't look like that. Playing kick-the-Spike wasn't so much fun when Spike wasn't kicking back. He had the sudden inexplicable urge to admit to liking Spike's poetry again. "I mean. Not that she really said I should wait for her, exactly." Spike's shoulders eased a notch, and his head lifted ever so slightly back in Angel's direction. Encouraged, Angel tried again, "And she thought she was going to die when she said it. She's all moved on now and everything. Maybe she doesn't even remember. And I don't even like cookies much anyway. Or cookie dough."

Spike slanted a glance sideways at Angel, and slowly swayed backwards to settle down against the back of the couch again. "Like those flowery onion things better, m'self." He nodded gravely, if slightly unsteadily.

Relieved, Angel leaned back down, too. Their sides brushed at shoulder and knee. He nodded back. "Those are nice."

Spike's lips twitched, and he turned his head to regard Angel with amusement. "You've never had one, have you?" His elbow moved towards Angel again, but this time it simply rested lightly on top of Angel's forearm.

"Well. Not so much. But they still sound nice." Angel blinked at Spike and fidgeted slightly, trying to get comfortable. For some reason, the couch seemed to get more comfortable closer to Spike. He shifted his hip against Spike's absently. "Anyway, as far as desserts go, I liked those kolyadki things we tried when we were in St. Petersburg. Better than cookies." A tiny noise came from the back of Spike's throat. Angel frowned, certain that there was something he really should remember about those pastries besides how much he'd liked them and how unusual it was for him to like the taste of food.

There was a moment of silence. When Spike finally broke it, he sounded slow and careful, as if he were trying to pick his way through a minefield using words alone. "We didn't try kolyadki. I tried 'em. Afterwards, you tried..." The hand attached to the elbow that rested on Angel's arm waved vaguely, clarifying nothing. It landed over Angel's wrist as Spike gave up.

Angel's eyes widened as his inebriated memory finally sorted itself out. "Oh. Right. I tried you." He shut his mouth over this statement with an audible click, but he was too late to keep it from escaping. He held very still, not looking at Spike, but suddenly very aware of all the places they rested against each other. He felt the faint press and release against his side of the unnecessary deep breaths Spike took. Angel opened his mouth a few times, but words wouldn't come.

"Pretty good though." Spike twitched against Angel. "The kolyadki, I mean," he added quickly. "All... sweet. And pastry-like." He warily turned his head ever so slightly until he could see Angel out of the corner of his eye.

"Um. Yes. Sweet. I could, you know. Tell." Angel turned his head away. "I... I should---Nina's coming by later. I called her on the way back. I'd better get cleaned up, before..." he trailed off, but he didn't move to get up.

Very slowly, Spike started to pull away from Angel. Unaccountably, Angel's arm felt too light as the weight of Spike's lifted from it. Angel's hand closed on Spike's retreating sleeve and held it fast. For a moment he blinked down at his own fingers in consternation. He was certain he hadn't meant to do that. His hand tugged on Spike's sleeve until the withdrawing arm rested on his own again. All right, he must have borrowed Lindsey's evil hand, because he was sure he hadn't meant to do that either. Also, that was the only explanation he could give for why he still hadn't let go of Spike's sleeve. He glanced up, but Spike's face was turned away, and Angel could only see the arch of cheekbone and jaw. He found himself drifting forwards as if to see those curves of bone closer.

Spike spoke again suddenly, his voice sounding far away and slightly hoarse. "Should go. Let you get ready for your girl."

Angel still didn't let go of his sleeve. "It's okay," he answered softly. "There's plenty of time." His newly-evil hand tugged on Spike's sleeve again, until Spike cautiously returned to his place leaning against Angel. Spike's face was still turned away, and his body vibrated faintly with tension. Angel's other hand came up to leave the whiskey bottle in Spike's lap, almost like an anchor against any further attempts to get up and go. With a small sigh, Angel rested his head on the back of the couch. He waited. After awhile, Spike leaned his head back, too. Angel closed his eyes and felt his fingers releasing sleeve and curling around Spike's wrist instead. His fingertips rested lightly against Spike's palm.

"Angel?" Spike's voice was uncharacteristically small.

"Evil hand," Angel answered firmly without opening his eyes. "Never mind. Go to sleep."


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