Sides of the Bed.

Author: Romany
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: Teen, PG-13
Fandom: AtS
Length: 802 words
Spoilers: AtS S5, no specific spoilers
Warnings: slash, my own sense of humor, peculiar domesticity.
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Joss and ME.
Summary: Spike tries to prove a point, bickering ensues.


“Pull my finger.”

Angel glared at Spike as he shifted, the sheet rustling. “You've got to be kidding me, Spike. Are you five?”

Spike looked almost grim, extended his hand further, the light from the blinds latticing him. “Angel, just do it.”

Angel didn't want to deal with the bickering if he placed his foot just so and kicked Spike firmly out of the bed. Too late for fists and harsh words, so he reached out and tugged on that finger.

And that was it. Nothing happened. “Is there a point? I've got a full client list tomorrow. Plus two beheadings.”

“Think I proved my point.” Spike put both arms behind his head, leaned back and smiled.

“Which is...? Forget it. Maybe I should give you back the remote.” He reached over to the drawer of his nightstand to get the battered remote, wincing at the haphazard duct tape holding the batteries in from Spike's 'repair'.

“Point being, if I was old Uncle Charlie or some such there would have been much noise and hilarity at your expense. Can't do that though, can I? Not physically possible for the likes of us. That's what being human is, Angel. It's breaking wind and belching and rolling about in your own sick. It's snoring and waking up in a puddle of your own piss. Not just the crying and the dying and the high-minded crap you call poetry. It's all of it. And if that's what you want, you'd best think on it hard.”

And Angel just looked at him, even in the dim light so luminous. How had it come to this? Spike's soggy and dog-eared paperbacks littering the floor here, Angel's immaculate shaving kit underneath the chipped vanity over there. They even had sides of the bed now. Sides of the bed, Spike making some kind of crude sense and...

He felt that sick bubble of incredulous joy rise beyond irritation. And it wasn't just new wonder but old, waiting, lurking, ready to burst free. So he did the only thing he could.

“You're disgusting,” he said as his foot connected with Spike's thigh, and he kicked him out and off.

He heard nothing beyond a soft thump for a moment, but then a sigh emanated from the floor. “Hand over the remote, would you? You sorry excuse for a twat, you're just lucky you got your shag in before.”

Angel leaned over the edge with the remote. “You okay?” he said. And then he got a firm punch in the face.

Yes, this was definitely more like it.

“You know, Spike, why does it always have to be the face with you?” And he dove over the side, his own fist raised.

They rolled around in silence, grappling, knocking over a floor lamp, the bulb shattering. They rolled until they hit the far wall and came apart.

Spike sat up, wiped the blood from his mouth, and laughed. “Now who's the one who's five, old man?”

Angel sat beside him, placed his hand on Spike's knee and squeezed gently. “I'm just tired.”

Spike turned slightly, cupped Angel's chin and just looked at him. “Know that. Would've landed a few more otherwise.” And then he grinned. “Maybe gotten a good fuck on the floor after.”

Angel looked at him. “Spike, what do you want from me?”

“Trust fund?”

“I'll open a Cayman Islands account tomorrow if you promise to go and make a personal withdrawal.”

Spike snorted, brushed his lips against Angel's, “Still trying to run me off? Not taking your Caribbean vacation, ta ever so. We've got business to take care of here yet. Big things, Angel.”

“Such as?” Angel said as he picked himself off the floor and headed back to bed.

“Such as you managing to shut it while I catch the last of Conan,” Spike said as he retrieved the damaged remote from the floor. One battery had rolled under the bed. Spike retrieved it, shoved it back in, and replaced the duct tape. He turned the tv on.

“Okay,” Angel managed as he fluffed his pillow and settled.

Spike climbed back into bed. “And while I get all the box scores for the Premiership.”

“Now that's just mean,” Angel said while trying to figure out who the musical guest was.

“Who's the one that just got a right good kick in the arse for speaking God's truth?” Spike said. “Lord, I need a beer.”

“Don't look at me.”

“Fine. Then get your own drink.”

“I don't need a drink.”

“Of course you do, a man needs one now and again.”

“What I need, Spike, is to get some sleep.”

“Right. Do that after you get that beer for me then.” And Spike rolled over as if it were all settled.

Angel muttered and laughed all the way to the refrigerator as he got that beer.

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