Post Angel Season Five "Destiny."
Spike’s head fell forward, his
hands clenching around his glass. “Bugger.”
He watched as the bartender brought the glass over, Scotch
of a dubious year splashing the bar as it was set down in front of Angel.
“Shoulda known you’d rally the
team to find me. Never figured you’d do the grunt work yourself,” Spike said wearily, lifting his own glass and
gulping the whiskey, then reaching for the bottle on the bar next to him and refilling it.
“You took my Viper.
Again,” Angel said, slowly turning his glass on the bar.
“Left it at the docks,” Spike said, glancing
up to look at Angel. “Keys in it and all.”
“And then you charged freighter passage. On my credit
card. To New Zealand,” Angel said, looking around the dank bar.
Spike shrugged. “Hadn’t
been out of L.A. in a bit.” He lifted his glass, smirking. “Well, other than our little trip to Nevada. Figured
the other side of the bleedin’ world was far enough…” he turned to Angel, toasting him. “So. Come
to join me in a cup of Christmas cheer?”
Angel lifted his hand from the sticky bar top and wiped it against his
jacket. “Yes, Spike,” he sighed, nodding slowly, “I’m in a bar, a gay bar, called ‘Flesh,’
in New Zealand, just to lift a pint and join you in a couple jigs and reels.”
When Spike returned his glare
with a grin, Angel gritted his teeth, continuing, “I came to find you because…” he sighed again, dropping
down on a barstool next to Spike. “You have to come back. The prophecy…the Shanshu, as much as I want to believe
Fred and Wes are wrong about this, it involves both of us. I’m here to take you back to L.A.”
for Angel’s glass, tossing back the Scotch and grimacing before splashing whiskey into it. “Yeah, figured that
might be it. Kinda thought you’d send Charlie. Or Harmony,” he added, rolling his eyes.
Angel said tightly.
Spike reached over, placing his hand on top of Angel’s and tilting his head. “Ah,
all alone at Christmas? The holidays are a right bitch, aren’t they?”
Angel jerked his hand back as Spike
turned away, snickering.
A go-go dancer in a limp Santa hat and red sequined g-string sidled up, looping his arms around
Spike’s neck. “Fancy a lap dance?”
Spike leaned back, grinning. “I’m good, mate, but
my friend here…he’s having a bit of a blue Christmas.”
“Spike,” Angel growled. Spike
waved the dancing boy away, chuckling. “Oh, drink up, Angel,” he said, shoving the glass back in front of him.
“It’s a long freight ride home.”
Two bottles of whiskey…several hours of bad techno…and
a poorly harmonized rendition of “Good King Wenceslas” later…
“What was your happiest Christmas,
“Well…once it snowed in California…and Buffy made me realize I still deserved to live…”
Spike said impatiently, his hand falling clumsily to Angel’s thigh. “Not most soulful. Happiest.”
Angel grinned, leaning in, his lips just brushing Spike’s ear as his voice lowered, “Remember that time
Spike’s eyes lit up. “At the Roman Baths?”