A/N: Having been attacked by the happy bug, I've decided to finally write something non-angsty.

-Takes place sometime after Spike's got his chip, but before his obsession with Buffy begins.

Disclaimer: Spike and Angel are not mine. If they were, I'd be off doing other, better…uh, things…than writing fics. At least I have my fish. And the sharks.

Oh, and some liberties were taken with the L.A. aquarium. And the general layout of aquariums altogether.

This can't be happening. This cannot be bloody happening. Because this is impossible.

From behind me, I can hear Angel shift nervously. I'm the one that's doing all the hard and dangerous work, and he's fidgeting like I do when I've been coerced into watching one of those poofy ballets and operas he adores so damn much.

"What happened to 'trust me, Angel, I can do this in five minutes?'" he demands. "It's been fifteen."

"Ten," I retort. "And what about you? What happened to 'I'm a goddamned fluff ball, but I'm gonna keep quiet so that William the Bloody can concentrate and get this bleedin' thing done within five minutes'?"

"I never said that."

"Doesn't mean it's not true. Fluff ball," I add under my breath.

"Call me that again, boy, and I rip your own fucking fluff balls out," he growls.

Wanker sometimes forgets he's not so threatening anymore.

I grin at him. "You say so, luv. Just keep your gob shut while you do it, yeah?"

He sighs and stays mum for all of thirty seconds. Then:

"What if someone comes?"

"That's why you're keeping watch, innit?" I jam the thin metal wire up into the little hole. "'Sides, you can always eat him. Or it could be a her," I muse. "What are the chances of a virgin her coming along?"

"Spike."

"What? I can't eat 'em anymore. Least you could do is let me have my fantasies. I'm sure monks get to wank off in the privacy of their rooms."

Angel heaves another great, big sigh. "Just hurry up."

"Patience, pet."

"You said you could do this in less than five minutes. That was the only reason I agreed to this ludicrous idea of yours."

I snort and pause in my work to glance at him. "The only reason you agreed to this brilliant idea of mine is because you'd never again taste the delicious piece of ass known as me otherwise."

I twist the straightened paperclip some more, but to no avail.

"Spike, if you cannot pick the lock by now, you're not going to be able to any time soon," Angel says, checking his watch. "Let's go already."

Go? Uh-uh. No fucking way. I did not shag and drag his hulking dead mass here just to go.

I stand up and latch onto the handles. "We. Are. Not. Going." I give the doors one final, vicious tug. They fly open and I fly back into Angel. He ends up flat on his back; I end up directly on top of him.

I roll over so that we're face-to-face and grin triumphantly.

Angel's gaze flicks from me to the now-open doors, then back again. Bleedin' ingrate doesn't appear to appreciate the fact that I'd managed to get us access inside.

"You couldn't have done that sooner?" he asks.

"Sod off." I roll off of him. "'S not like you helped any."

----------

He crashed into the lobby last month. Literally. The door was in splinters and I'm sad to say that said splinters did not make it through his chest. Because if they had, I would be in my room and reading a nice book…or at the very least, fighting my daily quota of evil.

I would definitely not be here right now. Here in this…this watery place containing creatures with bulging eyes that remain open when they sleep, and bulbous, squishy things with far too many legs. And it's all my fault. I really hate to admit it, but it is.

I took Spike out for sushi. It was his death day and I figured that Spike being Spike would enjoy anything out of the ordinary. I was correct on that part I think…and even if I wasn't, I am fairly certain he enjoyed what came afterwards. I know I did, especially when I got to—

Anyway.

For two days afterwards, nothing happened (if you don't count the fact that he painted nearly all of the windows in the first floor of the hotel black and then said something about "eternal curtains" when I slapped him upside the head and demanded to know what the fuck did he think he was doing.)

Then day three rolled around and I awoke to find Spike looming over me, cigarette in mouth, wicked grin stamped firmly on his face, and a gleam in those brilliant blue eyes of his I have come to fear. The gleam that says he is planning something and that I will be a part of that plan.

"C'mon, ducks. We've got some eight hours ahead of us."

"Eight hours to do what?"

"To go see the fishies!" he proclaimed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "To see

--God help me--

the what?"

Spike heaved an impatient sigh. "Fish, Angel. You know—little buggers that swim around under water." He flapped…or waved…or…or did something with his arms that I suspected was an impression of swimming fish.

"And why would we want to see fish?"

--someone help me?--

"'Cause they're cool!" He tugged on my arm. I yanked it out of his grasp.

"Spike, fish are creepy, slimy…things…without eyelids. And it's ten at night. The pet store closes at five-thirty. Plus," I concluded, eyeing his cigarette with distaste, "I've told you not to smoke in bed."

Spike rolled his eyes and shook his head. "First of all," he began, ticking off a finger, "I'm not in the bed, I'm on the thing. Second, I know when the pet store closes. Third, I'm not talking about a bloody pet store, ya ponce."

"You're not."

--I need a stake--

"'Course not. I'm talking about an aquarium."

"An aquarium?"

--I need a drink--

"Spike, I assure you they're closed by now as well."

--Preferably something strong--

Spike gave me his patented are-you-fucking-daft look and blew a cloud of smoke in my face to accentuate his point. "Angelus, tell me you weren't actually planning to pay your way in?"

I wasn't. I was just in denial. Apparently, that's the stage before anger.

I had a feeling I'd be moving on soon.

"We are not breaking into an aquarium," I told him firmly. It was a waste of a sentence, 'cause Spike sure as hell didn't listen to me.

Sometimes I wonder if he missed the memo saying that childer are supposed to obey their sires.

Then I figure that he probably threw the thing in the fire as soon as he saw what it was about.

"But I like fish," he pouted. Spike is a fine fighter, but it's he pouting that is his most powerful move. The eyes are cunningly lowered, the bottom lip is subtly extruded, and the head tilts slightly to the left…

Fortunately, through much discipline and concentration, I can sometimes resist The Pout.

His kisses, however, are another story.

Dark lashes fluttered, fingers cupped my cheek, his lips pressed softly to mine, and—as on every other occasion—I was suddenly reduced to an extremely agreeing mood.

Thus, here I am.

Spike called me a slut once. Though I vehemently denied it at the time, I'm starting to consider the possibility he may be right…but dammit, I spent a hundred years without any and five hundred years in Hell where getting some wasn't all that great of an experience, okay? If anyone has a right to be a slut, it's me, and dear Lord, what is he doing?

"Spike!" I whisper loudly, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. If I panic, he'll only laugh and pretend he has a form of hearing dyslexia, in which everything I say is registered completely opposite in his brain. Come to think of it, he'll do that anyway.

Do they sell hard liquor at aquariums?

"What's wrong?" he asks, turning to me with an innocent expression. I have never, in my entire unlife, been able to pull off that look successfully.

Of course, he has an unfair advantage in this department, since he's completely incapable of feeling guilt—a fact I don't believe is due entirely to his lack of a soul.

"Spike, get your hand out of the goddamned fish tank!"

"I just wanna see what they feel like." But to my surprise, he does as he's told and grabs my hand instead, pulling me up next to him.

"Don't you think they're pretty, luv?"

I peer closer. And yeah, all right, they're a hell of a lot prettier than the ones wrapped up in seaweed and rice and a few other ingredients I couldn't quite recognize. They're all shimmering, florescent colours, lazily floating in the water…I wish I could be that carefree.

Almost unconsciously, I slip my arms around his waist. Rest my chin on his right shoulder and run my tongue along the side of his neck. His blood hums beneath his pale skin and I can almost taste the thick, sweet, coppery tang of it.

Spike leans into me and tilts his head back, pressing his lips to mine. His fingers slide up the inside of my thigh and slowly creep toward my—

Ugghhhh…Mmmm. Oh. Oh, this is nice. This is very, very nice. Because I don't get this a lot. Not the fact that he has his hand…there…'cause I actually do get that a lot…but the other thing. The gentle kissing.

Spike doesn't like to show affection, whether in public or in private. His kisses are always passionate and vicious unless (as in earlier tonight) he wants to seduce me into doing something I normally wouldn't. Fucking is frequent, making love is rare, and sweet, loving whispers are reserved for when he thinks I'm asleep. The only times I ever get to hear him say the words "I love you" are when he's just woken up and is still too disoriented to have properly put up his Big Bad façade—and sometimes, not even then. And I don't mind. I know he likes to keep up his badass exterior and I know that despite all the times he annoys the hell out of me and makes me want to rip his stupid, insolent head off, he really does love me. And sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get to enjoy his tender side. Take now, for instance…

Oh, yeah. More trips here should definitely be in order. More trips here and more of this. More of my beautiful boy and his pretty mouth and those delicate fingers…

Then Spike takes my hand and jars me out of my sense of peace with one shattering phrase:

"Let's go, peaches. I wanna see the sharks."

----------

To be honest, it wasn't about the fish, coming here.

Okay, I'm lying. It was, mostly. I mean, look at 'em. They're bloody beautiful. Taste great, too, though, these are probably not the ones that were in my sushi…

But I digress.

It was also about Angel. Namely Angel getting out of the house. In my entire month with him, he left the house exactly one time in the name of non-business. That was my death day. Other than that, he stayed curled up in that bloody chair of his during all his free time, reading God knows what. So there were interludes of activity. Many, actually. But while I'll take a good shag any day, a bloke needs a spot of fun sometimes. I need a spot of fun. And that's the only reason for this little outing, 'cause I'm sure as shit not worried about my poof of a sire…

Right. Anyway, all it took to put my grand plan together was a bit of persuasion on my part.

There are some definite upsides to a soulful Angel.

His arms encircle me tightly and he starts licking the side of my throat like some kind of giant cat. I wish he had a reflection so I could see the look on his face in the glass…or, well, the top of his head anyhow, considering his face is currently buried in my neck.

I'll settle for leaning back. Kiss him softly and sweetly and all that foofy shit just the way he likes it, and grab hold of the front of his trousers so that he starts groaning and sucking in shallow breaths like he actually needs the oxygen.

My sire sounds right happy, and when I study him closer, he's got this dreamy expression of pure contentment.

Huh. That can't be good. I doubt fish could make the pouf lose his soul, but who knows, considering he can't get off on witnessing mass murder and general carnage anymore without going all dour-faced and woe-is-me, or risking his sorry Batman ass trying to stop it.

So just in case, I take my hand away—invoking a whine of protest from Angel which I ignore—and start to pull him along.

"Let's go, peaches. I wanna see the sharks."

----------

When you sire someone, you assume certain responsibilities. Teaching your childe how to hunt. How to defend himself. The usual. You also assume that your childe will have the common sense and demeanour of his mortal age and therefore, there will be no need to supervise him like he's a goddamned five-year-old.

Clearly, this is not the case with Spike.

"Spike. Spike. Will!"

The last finally attracts his attention. He twists his head around. "What?"

"Get the hell down from there!"

I can hear his sigh of annoyance from all the way up there. I'm pretty sure the annoyance is written all over his face, too.

"Why?" he asks, sounding plaintive. Not pissed off, not challenging, not taunting. Simply the tone of a small child asking why he should not stick his dripping wet finger in the electrical socket. For some reason, it's what sets me off.

"Why?" I echo incredulously. "Why?"

--why, Powers, why? Why must you punish me so?--

"Spike, you're about to jump into a tank full of sharks! Shouldn't I be the one asking why?"

"They're supposed feel like sandpaper," he replies, as though that's supposed to explain everything. It probably does, in his mind.

"They're sharks," I say flatly. If he's going to end up dead, I want to be the one that killed him.

"I know that, Angel. What of it? Vampire strength, remember?"

"Vampire strength will not allow bits of your flesh to piece together again and—" Oh, screw it. Why am I even arguing with him? There is no arguing with Spike. There is only Let Spike Do What Spike Wants or Make Spike Do What Angel Wants.

I fully intend to stick to the latter.

Hence, the jumping up and latching onto his belt.

"Oi!" he yelps, my sudden attack causing him to lose his grip. We both come toppling down, landing in a pretzel-like tangle of leather, limbs and game faces. I'm sure we'd make quite a sight if there were anyone here to see us. Fortunately, there isn't. Unless…

Do they turn on those security cameras after hours?

----------

Jesus fucking Christ, does the man know no fun? I just wanted to touch them, for God's sake; I wasn't planning to jump in and swim directly into their digestive systems.

He scowls at me, and I retaliate by snarling at him.

"Bloody, effin' sonofabitch."

I must sound real pissed because the scowl dissolves in an instant.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he says, and aw, hell, he sounds all soulful and wounded and he's got those puppy-dog eyes and…and no! No, I will remain pissed off at him because I AM pissed off—

"You're not mad?" he continues. I quickly shift my gaze to avoid his spell, but it's too late: his puppy eyes are turned up to the max before I can escape them.

Manipulative prick.

I glare at him. "You're a complete pillock, Angel."

Angel smiles. He knows that when I'm well and truly angry, I either start ranting or throw various objects, or both.

He's really destroying my image. Even the chip doesn't reduce me to this. With Angel, I become…

I become Angel.

Oh, if the Slayer could see me now…

I wonder if those cameras are on?

----------

"You have a good time tonight, pet?" he asks as he climbs into bed beside me.

I'd like to tell him "no". Or not respond at all, because his question is clearly rhetorical—he obviously believes I hated our little outing.

But quite frankly, I did enjoy tonight. I enjoyed the fact that he held my hand—something he rarely ever does. I enjoyed watching him light up like a little kid. I definitely enjoyed our moment in front of that tank of exotic fish. Hell, I enjoyed the fish, too. And right now, I'm really enjoying the way his black-polished nails are trailing up and down my arm.

So…

"Yeah, Spike. I had fun."

Here endeth my first fluff attempt. Feedback would be very much appreciated. :-)