A/N: I am so, so sorry for the long time between updates. Motivation for this story seems to come in short bursts if frenzied writing and then noting at all for a while. I am so, so sorry for the long time between updates.

Thanks to SakuraSyaoran4eva who's my new beta for this story. I'm sure the improvement in chapters is painfully noticable ;)

Spike sat quietly on his bed, playing his guitar. He was just making it up as he went along, and it, shockingly, sounded pretty good. It was a slow, sad song that eventually picked up speed and became angry.

He had a habit of getting lost in his music, and also a habit of making it sad and angry.

The song went on for ages, which was really much longer then any song should go for. His fingers had scabs on them from the times he had played in the past, and he played until his fingers bled, just because he could. The guitar was stained with layers of blood.

There was a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table next to him, and he eyed it occasionally. Most of it was gone but he was happy to say he hadn't drunk it all in one night. He had drunk a lot though. It was the only way he could really play his guitar. Sure, he could do it when he was sober, but to him it always sounded too mechanical.

There was a knock on his door and Spike closed his eyes for a second before rolling them behind his eyelids. Leaning over to the table he pushed 'stop' on the CD/cassette player he had been using to record himself playing. "Come." He said, slurring slightly.

Andrew poked his head around the door. "Uh, Spike? M-Mr. Rayne wants to see you downstairs." Spike just nodded, to drunk to even get aroused by Andrew's vulnerability. He stood, swayed ominously, and then managed to walk normally out of the room.

Well, normal enough for a drunk anyway.

The balcony and staircase leading down to the other room were made of metal and glass. Everything had a 'modern', sterile, and cold feel to it. Spike hated it and was thankful for the little freedom he'd been given so he could decorate his bedroom the way he wanted it.

Rayne was down in the entrance hall, looking furious and with a dangerous glint in his eye. He had his hands in his pockets and a threatening smirk on his face. "And here he is." He sneered to the person standing in the doorway.

Spike, however, didn't seem able to do anything. The man standing in the doorway was so incredibly stunning. He wore a loose T-shirt, which was the perfect tightness to give the suggestion of an absolutely fabulous body underneath without actually showing it, like Spike's tight blue one did. That alone had Spike drooling.

"Bloody hell." He breathed.

"Hey, I'm Angel…" Spike stared at him blankly so he added with a roll of his eyes, assuming correctly that Spike hadn't read it. "The guy who wrote the letter." He put his hands in his pockets and kept his eyes on the model, who was at the moment descending the stairs drunkenly, stumbling on the last step.

Angel rushed forward and caught Spike before he hit the ground. "Thanks." Spike said before looking at Rayne. "You can bugger off. I don't need a bodyguard." Rayne sent a hateful smirk at Angel before leaving with Andrew in tow. "Sorry 'bout him."

"Is he always like that?"

"Nuh, he just hates people who are nice. No idea why."

They settled on the bottom of the large staircase and Angel took in the celebrity. High, defined cheekbones and brilliantly blue eyes. His skin was pale and clear, but he wasn't fond of the heavy eyeliner or the makeup expertly covering up the bags under his eyes.

"Sorry. I was upstairs drinking."

"I can kind of tell." He put a hand on Spike's shoulder as the bleached blond put his head in his hands. "I can come back later if you'd prefer it."

"I'm sobering up, it's fine. Why are you so stubborn about … whatever this is?"

Angel sighed and retracted his hand as he felt the muscles tense up. Spike obviously didn't like being touched too much "Frankly, I'm a poor artist." Realizing what he'd just said, he elaborated. "I mean, I'm good at it but I don't like selling my stuff."

"Mate, I like art but I'm not giving you any money."

"Oh no, that's not what I meant. I want to paint or sketch you for a competition. I could do it from a photo, but I don't think I'll be able to get enough depth from one. I need you to model for me." He saw the look on Spike's face and knew he needed to convince him a bit more. "Isn't it boring doing the same thing over and over? Why not branch out?"

Spike narrowed his eyes at Angel for a second. "Right then. You've got yerself a deal."

"You're not going to ask about money, or anything else?"

He gave Angel a manic grin, clearly showing the extent of his drunkenness. "Nope. 'S the day after tomorrow good for you?"

Angel packed up another easel and threw it in the pile with the others. He didn't care for the easels as much as what he kept on them. The paintings were all leaning up against one wall, overlapping each other with the larger ones against the wall and the smaller ones leaning against the bigger few.

It was the afternoon, and Spike should have been there hours ago. He hadn't asked the guy to come in early, since Angel knew he would be hung over, so it was twice as rude for him to be late. To be honest Angel didn't mind, as it gave him time to tidy up.

He would have tried to clean the concrete floor, but it would have been pointless since it was stained with splatters of old paint. Whenever he was bored, Angel would draw up designs for things he could paint over it.

In the small kitchen Angel put on a pot of coffee for when Spike finally decided to show up.

There was a knock on the door and before Angel could tell the person they could come in, it opened. Spike strutted in with a pair of dark glasses on and a Starbucks coffee in his hand. Angel felt a little put out that he had made coffee for nothing, but forced himself to keep from commenting.

"Got anywhere I can put this?" Spike asked, holding up his cup.

"If it's full, you can put it on the bench, and if it's empty there's a bin under the sink."

He grabbed a few things from a chest in the corner while Spike went into the kitchen. There was some rattling around. "Did I interrupt your coffee making?" He asked when he saw the coffee pot.

"No." Angel responded distractedly. "I had it ready for you and your hangover, but I should have known you'd take care of it yourself."

Spike felt a bit guilty for a second, and then touched. No one usually went to so much trouble to do anything like that for him, so he felt obliged to have it. He took the pot off and filled his empty Starbucks cup before putting the lid back on and leaving the cup on the bench. He'd take it home with him and reheat it.

"Well, you shouldn't have bothered. Coffee's easy to get, there're shops everywhere."

He walked over to where Angel had his head in the chest. "I had it here the day before yesterday." The artist mumbled. Spike crouched next to him and Angel saw the curious look that he had on his face. "The photo I found in the magazine that wanted to make me want to do you."

"Do me?"

"For the competition." Corrected Angel, without a hint of a blush or sign he got the insinuation. It was a nice change, Spike mused, from the people who would fall over him and turn into a pile of goo at the slightest innuendo.

Angel pulled out a page that had been ripped out from a magazine. It was of a large formal event, and the main focus was of an actress who had just stood up to claim an award of some sort. Spike was in the background, tables away, so you could only just recognize him.

He was leaning back in his chair with a smoke in his mouth and was giving a very intense look to the person opposite him, while giving the two-fingered salute.

Spike shrugged as a tinge of colour appeared in his cheeks. "He was telling me I couldn't smoke in there. If I want a fag, I'm bloody well going to have a fag… can I have a fag?" He smiled at Angel's deep chuckle.

"Yeah, we can go to the roof. If you smoke in here I'll probably be killed by the Super."

So Angel grabbed a few things and they headed up to the roof, where Spike leant against the door to insure no one would be able to come up and interrupt them. Angel sat down on the roof ledge, notebook and pen in hand.

"Do you mind looking at that building over there for a while?" He motioned towards it. "I'd like to just get a rough profile of you, for a reference later on."

Spike shrugged and stared at the boringly grey building. "I've never been drawn before, do I need to stay still and not talk like with photo shoots?"

Angel looked up from his pad and frowned. "No you can talk and move, just keep looking in that general direction." He gestured towards it again.

Digging into the deep pockets of his leather jacket, Spike pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and offered the packet to Angel. "You smoke?"

"Not normally." He said, not taking his eyes off the paper. His hand was constantly moving the black ballpoint pen along the lined pad. Joyce had always frowned on him for using pens and lined paper for rough drafts, but Angel figured that it was pointless in changing something that worked so well.

Spike, who was still leaning against the door, nodded and started smoking.

"Are you really not allowed to talk during photo-shoots?" Angel asked suddenly after a few minutes of silence.

"Yeah."

Angel jumped as his pocket started vibrating. He put his pen and pad down before fishing in his pocket for the muted phone. Spike watched him and raised an eyebrow at the mobile's style, or rather the lack-there-of.

Both of Angel's eyebrows went up when he saw the number of who was calling. "Hang on, I've got to take this." He wandered off around to another part of the roof with the phone to his ear and his other hand in his pocket. Spike put the cigarette out under his heavy heel and pulled out another while wandering over two where the notepad was.

"Bloody hell." Apparently the drawing was only a rough one, but to Spike it looked pretty good. It was an outline of his head, nose and his eye, which was extremely detailed. There were several lines floating around, because it was a draft in pen, and there were a few faint dotted lines to show the shapes of his head.

Angel came around the corner with a dull look in his eyes and a slight frown on his face. "You have to go. I'll call you to make a time when you can come again, but right now you need to go."

Spike frowned and hooked his thumbs into his pants, momentarily pissed off. "And why should I do that? Last time I bloody checked I was the boss of me, not you." He stepped on the cigarette butt and crushed it into the ground with a dramatic flourish. "What's got your knickers in a twist anyway?"

"Damn it, Spike. I don't owe you an explanation."

Then Spike's phone rang. He pulled it out of his jeans and slid the top up to open it. "Spike here." He frowned. "Well, what happened?" He listened for a minute then slid it closed, turning to face Angel. "I gotta go… but it's not because you told me too." With that he thundered down the stairs and Angel faintly heard him exclaim something along the lines of 'Sodding pouf'.

The artist stayed on the roof, putting his hands on the ledge and sighing. From above, he saw Spike get into his car and drive away, leaving skid marks on the road.

Angel swore under his breath then looked around to make sure nobody had heard him.

In his car, Spike was swearing openly while he turned up his radio almost as high as he could stand it and lit another cigarette.

Speeding along the road, Spike ignored several red lights and cut a number of people off. Occasionally he would flip people off as he cut past them, but really didn't do anything else until he got to his destination. The hospital loomed over him like a monster. He had always hated them, but he had to go for Willow's sake.

He ran into the building and up to the reception. "Ah, you must be Mr… Bloody?" She said, or rather asked. Spike nodded at the fake name. "Your friend had been expecting you, she's on the second floor at the far end."

Spike bolted up the stairs, not bothering with the elevator. He slowed down a bit as he reached the hallway and spotted the redhead leaning against one of the hospital doors with her hands over her face.

"Will." He whispered to her and promptly received two armfuls of crying bartender. "I couldn't understand you on the phone. What happened?"

"T-Tara. S-She was sh-shot in the neck."

Spike tightened his arms around her. "It'll be okay, Luv. She'll be okay."