A/N: I've fixed the mistake in this chapter, and the one in the summery. Thanks guys.

WARNINGS:
Mentions of attempted suicide, Character death, Mentioned drug use, and Mild Slash (finally).

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A harsh cough woke Angel up. His head snapped up, found the source and then landed with a thud on his pillow. He sighed, rolling his eyes. Spike was on the ground floor of the apartment, apparently coughing up a lung while reading the paper.

"It's your own fault for smoking, you know." Angel called down. Throwing the doona off the bed, he rolled onto the floor and then slid down the ladder. "Oh, no, don't worry, you didn't wake me." He mumbled under his breath, ignoring the fact he was being ignored.

Crossing the apartment to the Kitchen, Angel noticed that there was a cup of hot tea already sitting on the bench for him. After staring blankly at it for a second or two, he then pointed and opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't mention it," Spike snapped. "Ever."

Angel frowned at Spike's attitude, and realized that for the first time in two days the model had woken up before him. This alone wouldn't be much to capture his interest because as far as Angel was concerned, Spike could wake up at whatever hour he wanted. Even 11:40 like he had the previous nights. The blonde was tense, and for no apparent reason other then his intense interest in reading the newspaper.

Trying not to be obvious, Angel tried to casually ask if Spike was reading anything interesting. The response was "Mate, you could at least try to be subtle." which made Angel clench his fists and blush in both anger and embarrassment.

"I don't know why you decided to hang around, Spike, but you can either drop the attitude or get lost. It's your choice." He eyed the ashtray next to Spike's cup of coffee. "And what have I told you about smoking in here?"

Spike blinked at Angel before grabbing a pack of smokes off the table and storming out. For a second Angel felt a lump in his throat. For some strange reason worried that Spike had opted for the 'get lost' option, but then noticed the leather duster hanging over one of his easels and knew the model would be back.

The newspaper had been left on the bench, and Angel crossed over to read it, not worrying about Spike's privacy since he knew that if the roles were reversed the blonde wouldn't even consider not reading it.

While drug use is definitely climbing in this day an age, people are still shocked by stories of celebrities using and getting caught. Do they do it for the publicity? Well, some do. Others have a reason that could give an insight into the youths of today. William 'Spike' Pratt-

Angel stopped reading and checked the length of the article. It was huge, and although he did enjoy reading, he found that just at the mention of Spike in an article about drugs made him feel sick to his stomach. He was very much against recreational drug use, since he'd had some bad experiences with using, and didn't really want to read much more.

Skimming down the article, he discovered a few statements. 'Teenage clinical depression' was one, and 'Raised by an overly strict nanny, due to his mother's mental health' was another. One word in a sentence made him, to his horror, read the whole paragraph against his will.

Darla discovered her eighteen-year-old ward unconscious in their living room. Young William's blood indicated that he had attempted suicide by taking all of his mother's pills. These, along with the amount of recreational drugs in his system, had made death almost inevitable. It vas lucky for him that Drusilla, in a brief and rare show of sanity, had rolled her son onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. After being released from the hospital, Darla had kept William locked in his room for a month, forcing him to detox himself against the doctors' recommendations that he be sent to a rehabilitation centre.

Glad he hadn't eaten anything yet, Angel slowly put the newspaper down and folded it so the article would stop glaring at him. The article, even just the small part he had read, had gone into such detail that it was clear someone close to Spike had spilt his secrets to the press.

It was only then that Angel realized that it was raining and if Spike was where he thought then the younger man would freeze. He grabbed the long jacket and noticed a piece of paper fall out of a pocket. Angel didn't think twice about picking it up and putting it into his own pocket.

Spike was exactly where Angel thought he would be. The model didn't notice anyone was on the roof with him until Angel put a hand on his shoulder. Spike jumped and spun around, swinging his fist as he did. Angel caught it before it hit his jaw and glared at the blonde.

"I thought you could use this." He held the coat out, as a sort of peace offering for earlier.

Spike took it and threw it on quickly. "Thanks." He mumbled, quiet to the point where Angel wasn't sure whether he'd heard or just thought it.

"You're welcome." He said, being only a little bit sarcastic. He saw through the rain that Spike's eyes were bloodshot, and his face and nose were slightly red. Whatever was left of his annoyance seemed to fade rather quickly. "I… um." He hesitated, not knowing how Spike would react to what he wanted to say. "I read the article."

Blue eyes hardened and teeth clenched. A sodden, half smoked cigarette dropped from Spike's fingers. "Really" he ground out.

"Is all of it true, or just most?"

Spike's eyed Angel's soaking wet shirt and gel-free hair, which was starting to go wavy from the exposure to more then a little moisture. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not get pneumonia." He snapped. "I'm going in."

Angel took a step forward and drew himself up to his full hight. Spike found himself thinking that he looked very impressive when he did that. "No." There was an almost animalistic growl in his voice. "I don't know you all that well, but I do know that if we put this off, even just to go down the stairs, you'll find a way to avoid this."

"Looks like you do have a brain hidden behind that massive forehead after all." Spike leaned back, suddenly seeming apathetic to everything. "Yeah, most of it's true. It was Darla's booze and not mum's pills though. She always found it easier to blame everything on someone who had no idea what she was on about."

"Your mum saved you though, so she had some idea of things."

"Yeah. I always suspected she played the 'insane woman' act up a bit." Spike's accent had softened slightly, and Angel couldn't help but notice. "She sounded like she talked nonsense, but there was a twisted logic behind everything she said, and she always looked after me. Better then Darla did anyway."

Angel hesitated before taking a step forward and wrapping his arms around Spike, who stiffened before relaxing into the embrace. "I think you need to get out of the city." Angel mumbled into Spike's bleached hair. "I'll look around for a place where we could go, but I can't afford anything fancy."

Spike discretely wiped his eyes with his sleave, and his nose on Angel's shirt, before pulling out of his new friend's hold. "No one's as nice as you without there being a catch." He said dryly. "What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing." Angel sighed and looked past Spike's head. "We haven't known each other for long, and I don't know much about you, but you seem to have made yourself at home in my apartment already and I get the feeling you can't normally do that very easily." He took a moment to choose his words. "You are the third most infuriating person I know, and no one can make me change moods as quickly as you can."

Pausing to search for words again, Angel became aware he was still holding Spike close to his body. He blushed, and then immediately felt stupid for doing so. "I think there's more to you then what you'd like me to think there is." He concluded, wondering whether anything he'd said in the last five minutes had made sense or not.

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Spike watched Angel sleep. There was something almost hypnotic about the rise and fall of the artist's chest and the occasional hint of movement behind his eyelids.

Too many thoughts were going around the Englishman's head. One was the image of a blushing Angel, and others were along the lines of 'he's right, I need a holiday', 'I wonder how much of the article he read', and 'he looks much less like a pouf without the hairgel'.

Since he had been staying with Angel, he had been feeling less pressured to be someone he wasn't and he really liked it. There was something that he was a bit anxious about, and that was this trip thing that had been mentioned. He was worried that he would overstay his welcome, or maybe cross the line between acquaintance and 'sex buddy'.

Spike knew he definitely wanted to sleep with Angel, but didn't think the other man would go for it if he came out and said 'hey, lets have sex some time'. With people like Angel, who had a reasonable head on their shoulders, getting them to bed was almost an art form.

He placed a hand on Angel's arm and lent over, placing a small kiss on slightly parted lips.

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Angel passed the room, oblivious to Spike's eyes following his every move. His lips moved as he read the letter over again. Spike took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully while trying to read the lips he had kissed last night. He only deciphered one word, which was spoken after the letter had been torn in two. He raised a scared eyebrow.

Grabbing an easel, canvas, and stick of charcoal from different places in the room, Angel hastily drew what seemed to be random lines. Spike blinked. This was the first time he'd really seen the artist actually live up to his title and create some art. Emotions seemed to pour off him and flow through his hand.

Spike noticed the raw passion in Angel's dark eyes, despite the blankness of his face, and felt he should worry about both his safety and Angel's sanity.

It took a while for Angel to calm down and to drop the charcoal, but then he started to gently smudge parts of his creation with his fingers, as his anger changed to sadness. Spike just watched, surprised that his short attention span hadn't made his eyes stray from the other man.

Angel finished and sank to the floor, crossing his legs in an Indian style and crossed his arms. He managed to look vulnerable as well as volatile, so Spike took caution as he approached.

The picture was of Angel's brother, Ford. Well, half of his face, made and surrounded by jagged lines and thick details, which were smudged to make it look three-dimensional. Spike looked at Angel, who looked up with an expression that said he had only just remembered the room occupied more then just himself and an ex-blank surface.

"He died." He said broodingly. "Accidentally overdosed on his pain meds."

Spike nodded, remembering when his mother had died of the same thing. "It's hard." He sat next to Angel. "Who had to write the letter?"

"My mother." Angel answered blankly. "It was barely legible, so my stepfather took over. He didn't seem disturbed by it at all." he added as emotions finally showed themselves in his voice, but they vanished with a sigh and were replaced with fatigue. "They want me to come down there as soon as possible."

"Well, you did say you were going to take me out of the city, so I'll come with." He patted Angel on the back before standing and grabbing his coat. "First, we need to get right drunk." He bounded out the door, all of a sudden full of unexplained energy at the thought of alcohol. "C'mon. I'll drive."

Angel snapped back to reality. "Spike, come back here." He yelled, not wanting to move from his spot on the floor. Mentally he was feeling much better, as he had expressed and gotten out every major emotion on the canvas, but physically he was just drained. Spike came back and stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt.

Taking in the 'power stance', as he had dubbed it, and the determined look in Spike's eyes he knew the fact that he didn't really drink wouldn't be accepted as a reasonable excuse.

"Just let me get my coat." He sighed.

Spike beamed at him. "Bloody brilliant." He gave Angel the thumbs up.