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Horizontal Movement

by shrift

[Story Headers]

Spike sat down on the desk next to Angel. "So, what -- we just have to live with it? Get on with our lives?"

"'Fraid so," Angel said softly.

Why Angel had to be the sensible one about Buffy and The Immortal right now, Spike had no idea. "Fine. No problem. I was planning on doing that, anyway."

"Yeah? Me, too."

"Actually, I'm doing it right now," Spike said. "As we speak, I'm moving on."

"Moving on."

"Oh yeah."

"Right now," Angel echoed.

"Moving." After a moment, Spike turned to Angel. "Want to move on with a truly staggering amount of alcohol?"

"God, yes," Angel said immediately. He reached back for the telephone. "Harmony? Yeah. Are the Capo's relatives on their way? Great. Head's on my desk. Make sure they get it." Angel hung up, and Spike followed him to the private elevator leading to Angel's suite. Where the booze was. Which was a very important thing to have upon discovering that The Immortal was shagging the love of their lives, and that there was absolutely bugger all they could do about it.

Angel went to the bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey, holding the bottle out to Spike. Figuring that it would save him a couple hundred trips or so, Spike shrugged and took the entire bottle with him to the couch. Angel huffed in irritation and then joined him there, knocking Spike's feet off the coffee table before sitting on the opposite end.

The silence was as comfortable as things got between them, so Spike leisurely downed half the bottle before he said, "Andrew was your informant? What were you thinking, man?"

Angel shifted uncomfortably on the cushion and then glared. "I was thinking that I needed someone on the inside. Someone who Buffy already trusted."

"Oh," Spike said. He took another swig from the bottle. "Good thinking."

"I know." Angel snatched the bottle out of his hand and poured himself another very large glass of whiskey. "I'm not stupid."

"How'd you get him to agree to that, anyway?" Spike said, taking back the bottle. "I mean, last time we met, it was all 'blah blah you're on the side of evil, we're taking our nutty psycho-slayer now, have a nice day.' Wankers."

Angel smirked and then tried to hide it behind his glass. "Yeah. About that..."

Spike sat up abruptly. He knew that look, and he trusted it about as far as he could throw the great ponce. Although, come to think of it, that statement wanted a bit of revising these days. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Angel said, rising to retrieve another bottle of whiskey from the wet bar.

"Yeah, right," Spike said, slumping down and putting his boots back on the coffee table. "Pull the other one; it plays 'God Save the Queen'."

"Look, Andrew refused to agree until I... finessed the situation," Angel said, gesturing with the whiskey bottle. It sloshed in his hand.

"'Finessed'?" he spluttered around the mouth of his own bottle. "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means, 'cause now I've got all these horrible pictures crowding into my brain."

"No!" Angel said, dropping back down onto the couch abruptly. "No. Just... no."

Spike passed his hand over his eyes in relief. "All right, then what did you do?"

Angel's answering smile was entirely too pleased. "I told him that you were too embarrassed to ask, but if Andrew would do this for you -- for Buffy -- that it would really mean a lot."

"You utter bastard," Spike said wonderingly.

"Really, after that, taking Andrew onto the payroll was just a formality," he continued. "Especially after I told him how grateful you'd be."

"Right. Wonderful. So you're my pimp now, are you?"

Angel shrugged. "If that's what it takes."

"Long as I get a cut of the profits," Spike said, draining the last of the whiskey from his bottle and letting it thump onto the carpet. "Give over."

"I just don't get it," Angel said, letting him sneak a tipple or three from his glass. "I've got an apocalypse brewing, a god-king living in my friend's body, a really tall and annoying liaison guy to deal with --"

"Not to mention Wesley goin' off his head," he added helpfully.

"-- and now Buffy's being all intimate with my nemesis. Aren't there rules about that?"

Spike leaned his head back and contemplated the ceiling. "Rules about what?"

"Who you can date. After you're broken up. Cordy --" Angel's voice faltered just barely. "Cordy always said there were rules."

He kept staring at the ceiling. "Buffy really never cared much for rules, mate."

"Yeah," Angel said heavily. "Believe me, I know."

God, he hated this feeling. The tightness in his chest that never made any sense, because it wasn't like he needed to breathe. The soul had made it worse. Not that he was about to share that with anyone. Especially not Angel.

He lifted Angel's glass of whiskey. "To Cordy."

Angel narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"To Cordy," Spike repeated. "Because... she was an extremely gorgeous woman who..."

"Who spoke her mind, and followed her heart," Angel said, clinking his bottle against the glass tumbler. "To Fred."

"The smartest, prettiest, and bloody nicest girl who ever lived." Spike gulped the booze on that one, and it burned a tingle down his throat. "To Anya. She deserved better."

Angel topped off Spike's glass, and said, "To Doyle. Because he was my friend."

"For Darla," Spike said, finally looking Angel in the face. "She was one of a kind."

"For Darla," Angel nodded. Under his breath, he added, "And Connor. May he be safe always."

Connor? Spike thought. Oh, right, Connor. Why the hell did they have to drink to him?

Spike magnanimously pretended not to notice Angel's maudlin look, because he was pretty sure he didn't want to know what the hell that was all about. He'd learned that lesson well over a hundred years ago with Pedro the stable boy. "And for Drusilla, the crazy bitch who dumped me."

Angel drank deeply. "You know, the last time I saw Dru, I lit her on fire."

"Literally?" Spike said. "Because if we're talking figuratively, I'll have to hurt you on principle."

"Of course I meant literally, you moron."

"Drusilla Jubilee. Must've been grand." Spike laughed. "I could almost kiss you for that."

Angel grimaced. "Please don't."

"Back to the toasts, then." Spike squinted at his nearly empty glass. "Y'know, we could be at this all night, between the two of us."

"Nah, I don't think so," Angel said.

"What? Why not?"

Angel shrugged. "Because you're not annoying me, and that means I must be pretty drunk."

"Flatterer," Spike said. "Last one, then. To The Immortal. Because I'll never abandon you for the vile wretch, and that has to count for something."

"That's... almost touching," Angel said, frowning. "It's kind of disturbing, actually."

"I'm a warm and fuzzy guy."

Angel snorted. "No, you're not."

"I have my moments," Spike insisted.

"I'm going to bed," Angel said. He dropped the empty whiskey bottle on the carpet and rose slowly, trudging toward the bathroom. Spike listened to him splashing around in there for a bit, then stood up, slithered out of his coat, and weaved his way over to Angel's entirely decadent bed. He flopped onto it face-down, boots still on his feet, and crawled up until he found a pillow.

Very comfy. Sometimes Spike wondered why Angel didn't stay here all day.

A door clicked open. Footsteps. Displacement of air. Angel, no doubt looming at the foot of the bed.

"Get off my bed, Spike."

Spike sprawled a little more. "No. 'S'comfier than the one I've got."

The mattress dipped, and then Angel's voice was close to his ear. "You always did like going after what's mine."

Denying it would be ridiculous, considering the company he was keeping. Nothing to do for it but laugh, so Spike did. "Yeah, guess I do."

"Why is that, do you think?" Angel said, his tone calculating. "Is it because you've never had the real thing?"

If Angel thought he could intimidate Spike into finding another place to sleep, he had another think coming. "I loved Buffy, and you know it."

"Still, that doesn't explain why you went after her in the first place," Angel said, shifting around. "As I recall, you prefer brunettes."

Spike opened one eye and glared. "And you like 'em short and blonde. What of it?"

Angel stared at him pointedly. He only wore a pair of black pajama bottoms.

"The irony does not escape me," Spike said. "I repeat: what of it?"

"I think you want me," Angel said smugly.

Spike was definitely not moving from this bed. "Are you proposing a pity shag?" He rolled over and straddled Angel, pinning the git's wrists to the mattress. "Very well, I accept."

And Angel's smug grin collapsed into a storm cloud. "Get off my bed, Spike."

"Finders keepers," Spike said, and chuckled when Angel bucked underneath him. "You'll have to do better than that, hero."

"Like this?" Angel growled, rearing up and tumbling them over until they teetered on the edge of the bed. It was hard to get any kind of purchase on bare skin, whereas Angel was practically strangling him with his grip on the neck of his T-shirt. Spike struggled underneath Angel's bulk, jerking his knee up to get him where it hurt, but Angel rolled them again before he could make contact.

"You... stupid... tit," Spike snarled as they grappled with each other, rucking up the covers every which way.

Angel elbowed him in the face, the prat. "Don't... call me... a tit, William."

"Call you... anything I bloody like," Spike said, landing a solid punch to Angel's rather solid middle. "Ow. Damn... nancy... bog-trotter!"

"Damn it, Spike --"

"Would you just --" he said, and then howled when Angel shifted and Spike's knee bent in the wrong direction. "That hurt!"

"Yeah?" Angel said right in his face. "Good!"

Oh yeah, his blood was up now, and Spike was going to win this fight if he had to use every dirty trick in the book. He pushed off the bed with his elbows and planted a wet one right on Angel's mouth, and as soon as Angel flinched back in disgust, Spike would have the upper hand. It was a foolproof plan.

Except for the part where Angel kissed him back. Kissed him hard like Angelus used to kiss Drusilla when he knew Spike was watching. Possessive and rough, all sloppy tongue and sharp teeth, and exactly the thing to throw Spike off his game.

He jerked back. Angel's lips were pink and wet. "What --"

"Shut up," Angel growled, and kissed him again. And for once, Spike decided to obey. Possibly because he suddenly remembered that Darla had taught Angel everything she knew, and that everything Darla knew about sex was no small potatoes.

That was the ready excuse, anyway.

Angel licked his way inside Spike's mouth, sucked on his tongue, and then kicked open Spike's legs.

"Done this before, have you?" Spike said when Angel undid his button fly with one deft tug.

"I thought I told you to shut up," Angel said.

"And you thought that would work?" Spike asked curiously, lifting up helpfully as Angel tugged down his jeans.

"Hope springs eternal," Angel said. He settled between Spike's legs and kissed him again. A dirty, noisy kiss that made Spike move, yanking at Angel's pajama bottoms, their cocks sliding against each other and Angel's hands up his shirt. Angel's hair felt soft under his fingers, his shoulders and chest these smooth slabs of muscle. Pale skin with purple bruises in the shape of Spike's knuckles.

Their clothes were half off, legs tangled together. Angel smelled like whiskey and tasted like soap. Spike bit Angel's neck just under his ear, bit him hard with flat teeth. Angel grunted and moved against Spike harder, hips thrusting in a circle, making the bed squeak. Spike groaned when Angel sucked on his throat and scratched down his chest with his fingernails, and then he groaned some more as Angel brought him off fast with one broad hand. Angel wiped his hand on Spike's T-shirt and rubbed his cock against his hip.

It was a quick fuck, messy and loud, and unbearably hot, Angel panting in his ear even though he didn't have to breathe, his cock big and hard as he fucked Spike's fist.

"Yeah, come on," he said. Angel grimaced and came, resting his forehead on Spike's collarbone. Spike put his hand on the back of Angel's neck. "You're heavy."

"You can take it," Angel said. He squeezed Spike's balls and then rubbed his thumb over Spike's asshole. "I'm going to fuck you later."

Spike pushed back against his thumb helplessly. "Yeah, all right."

"I wasn't asking," Angel told him.

"Yeah," Spike said, smacking him hard on the back of the head. "All right."

Angel growled but didn't move away. "You'll have to get off my bed eventually, Spike."

"So will you, I'd wager," Spike said. "And I'm not the one with a company to run."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

This wasn't exactly moving on, but Spike supposed it was close enough for now. He was half a moment from sleep when Angel muttered, "I'm still fucking you later."

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Fandom:  Angel
Title:  Horizontal Movement
Author:  shrift   [email]   [website]
Details:  Standalone  |  NC-17  |  *slash*  |  12k  |  05/20/04
Characters:  Angel, Spike
Pairings:  Angel/Spike
Summary:  In which Angel and Spike get drunk and screw.
Notes:  Post-ep to Angel 520 - "The Girl in Question".
Disclaimer/Other:  Quick beta pass by Nestra. Remaining mistakes are my fault.

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