Ch. 3: The Desk

It broke. Bloody desk. Why the hell does the pouf have one anyhow? It's not like there's any use for it. 'Course, it is Angel's link to the past. Days of playing Batman and helping the hopeless. Spike kind of wishes he has a link to the past, too, one that he can hold in his hands. He doesn't even have his duster, not his original one anyway.

Damn Italians.

Angel's desk is no more, though, and Spike remains adamant to the conclusion that it is not his fault. In principle, he's right.

But Spike is the one who brought up the People. People that belong to Before and that, according to Angel, must stay there unless otherwise stated.

--"how come you don't say anything anymore?"

--"I—I talk. I'm talking now."

--"I meant anything meaningful. Words come, but they're empty, mate."

--The statement was a shadow of his Victorian poet days. Clichéd and unoriginal. But it hit home.

--"since when did you become so metaphorical?"

--"you never say anything about...you know, about them. Like they never existed to you."

--Angel leapt to his feet at that and slammed both palms on the table so hard the thing creaked. Then collapsed. Crash, bang. Books and papers and pens scattered to the floor.--

Angel's scowling now. Or rather, the permanent scowl on his face has deepened.

Spike glares at him, daring him to say anything. Angel being Angel takes the dare.

"Get out, Spike. Right now."

Bastard.

"It's not me who went an' pounded my great, hulking, gorilla hands on—ow!" Angel's shoved him up against the wall. "Christ, 's only a desk, for fuck's sake."

Angel lets him go. Looks a little guilty. "Sorry."

He's not getting off that easy.

"Y'know, mate, say a word enough and it'll become invisible."

"Well, what the hell else do you want me to say?"

Pretty soon, they're both yelling again. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike sees Illyria peek in for a few seconds before quickly vanishing. He's noticed she's been doing that a lot more often lately.

Spike pounces and they end up rolling around on the floor in a bizarre, vampire ball. Fangs flash, eyes glow gold. It's more of a half-assed attempt at a proper fight than anything; even Angel has resorted to amateurish methods such as hair-pulling.

Then Angel pins him to the floor. Crushes his lips to Spike's. There's a slight tang of pig's blood and day-old coffee.

It's referred to as "makeup sex". Couples sometimes do this. Spike and Angel only do this. The Double F's, Spike has taken to calling it: Fight and Fuck.

Angel needs the former; Spike needs the latter. The Double F's are the few ways they can play-pretend that they are just like everyone else, feeling fine and free of haunting ghosts.

It's a little perverted. Unhealthy to be sure. But it's a workable system.

And that's all that matters.

The next day, he does it. Since he's still convinced what happened yesterday was not his fault, he's not altogether sure why does it. As though...as though he's looking for Angel's approval? Oh, good Lord, no. Nope, it's not that. He's still not sure what it is, but it's certainly not that...

Either way it's done. No taking it back now.

He steps back a little to admire his work and decides he did do a rather nice job of assembling the thing, considering only one hand was fully operational.

The door cracks open.

"Spike, why the hell are you in my—oh." Angel stops short as he sees the antique-ish oak desk sitting exactly where the older, now-defunct one used to be.

He walks over slowly. Runs a hand over the glossy finish. Spike can tell he likes it.

"Where'd you get it?"

Spike shrugs and breathes out a nervous stream of smoke. "Not important."

Angel looks up. "Thanks. It...it's nice." He smiles a little.

Spike shifts awkwardly. "Just try not to smash it, too, yeah?"

Tell me what you think...this will probably wrap up soon.