All About Spike

Working the Angles
By Mer

Spike/Angel implied
Fox owns, not I. No profit, only play.
Spoilers through, um, the one before Hellbound. ATS 5.3?

Spike stood in the middle of the revolving door and thought. Hardly anyone was up and about, this time of night, and he found the slow automated whoosh of the grab bars through his useless fingers soothing, almost hypnotic. There had to be a trick to it. He was standing on the 14th floor, after all, not plummeting down through bloody ductwork and wires and ceiling tiles and the cubes of startled nightshift workers. He could sit in Angel's chair, not go pratfalling through like a, well, prat. So how come he could also stand in Angel's desk?

Fuck if Spike could figure it. Alive, dead, animate or inanimate didn't seem to make the difference. And it sure as fuck wasn't a matter of will, or he'd have sunk his fist into that Hrothgar demon -- and his fangs into Angel's throat.

Spike was trying to feel positive about his new lack of fleshy bits. He could go for a walk in the sun now, even without that poncy glass Angel's new digs were covered in. He couldn't be staked, or decapitated, or dunked underwater by idiot evil, or tortured by the slightly smarter sort. He could walk right into any house he wanted without an invitation. Hell, he could walk into any locked room or vault in the city, an ability whose information-gathering uses he expected to dawn on the big lug any week now. He had a feeling the watcher had thought of it long since -- maybe even as soon as he showed his screaming face -- but the man didn't trust Spike enough to mention it, even after he'd bloody well proved which side he fought for now.

As if he could fight at all. Bugger the power of positive thinking, and the bloody horse it rode in on. Spike couldn't feed, he couldn't fuck, he couldn't feel. He couldn't drink, he couldn't dial a phone or change the sodding channel on the telly or turn the pages of a book. And he couldn't sleep. Ghosts don't, apparently. Not even the sacrifice department had enough sheep for him to count. Though they had, as it turned out, 419 sheep currently in inventory, and not a one of them black.

Spike popped down to the sub-basement absentmindedly. 418. One of Angel's pet lawyers must be bucking for a promotion.

Angel. The bastard. That was the heart of it. Spike missed Buffy like he missed holding a cigarette or throwing a punch. Like blood. Like breath. But Spike was used to missing Buffy. Buffy had been missing, one way or another, since he first bloody well fell for her. Loving her made him think of Dru saying rosaries without beads. So many ways she had to go someplace he can't touch, that one more almost felt like home.

Angel was something else. Angel was the home you can't go back to again, the river you can't cross twice. But no one had consulted Spike or proverbs, and here he bloody well was, with nothing better to do than watch the son of a bitch sleep.

Oh, hel -- shit. Here he was again. Of all the tricks his new gig came with, this popping up anyplace he happened to be thinking of was the biggest pain in the arse of all.

Spike plunged his hand into Angel's guts and wiggled, just because he could. Angel didn't wake up. Spike gave him two fingers, and then one finger, considering how the old ponce had gone native. Couldn't even hear the Irish in his voice any more, unless he was angry or -- well. Yeah. He put his thumb to his nose and wiggled.

He sighed. Taunting Angel in his sleep was a new low, true, but it wasn't much more fun taking the piss when he was awake, these days. Spike sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He didn't go through it, so that was something.

Bugger that. Wasn't like he was gonna make the springs creak, after all. Spike sat carelessly on the edge of the bed, he lounged out across the bed and put his boots on the pillow. He put a boot through Angel's head, while he was at it. Bastard didn't even have the courtesy to flicker an eyelid. Spike stood and jumped up and down on the bed. That was almost fun, for a minute, until he fell through to the eighth floor -- accounting. Poor saps were deader than he was.

Spike stopped short. It couldn't possibly be anything that stupid and simple, could it? He tried to push a button on a nearby terminal. Nothing, as expected. He looked around self-consciously for security cameras -- he was going to to look like a right git whether this worked or not -- and tried to sit on it instead. And yes, there he was, perched like a hood ornament on a computer that looked like something out of those cartoons Dawn used to watch, but not going through.

Right, then. Anything he needed for support, he could touch. Try to do anything else and no dice. Who came up with this shit, Spike wondered. Probably someone in the contracts department. Lucky for them he couldn't hold a knife.

He popped back up to Angel's penthouse without quite admitting what he had in mind. Angel was still sleeping, not surprisingly, like the dead. Spike perched carefully on the edge of the bed again, then very slowly stretched out, spreading himself over Angel's sleeping body as if it were a soap bubble he was trying not to pop.

Spike held very still. Lord only knew if Angel could feel him. Not like he could ask the floor. As plans went, this was one of his stupidest. The wanker was bound to wake up sooner or later, and then what the hell would he say? But in the meantime there was that chest solid and real beneath him, and hours left till morning.

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