Pairing: Angel/Host
Rating: PG-13
Archive reposts: Songs of Mercy, and LoveLorne.
Disclaimer: Not making any money. Characters belong to Joss Whedon & Co. (Unfortunately.)
Summary: Challenge of Dusk's. Spike comes to call.
Angel regrets not leaving him to burn at sunrise. Sequel to A Social Call.
Note: The vituperian lizard relates to ‘A Social Call'...it's a little rude lizard of funny colours... oh, go read it already.
"Mon amant m'a quittée,
(My lover has left me)
Au gai viva la rose
(Long live the rose)
On dit qu'elle voit une autre..."
(They say she's seeing another)Angel opened his eyes, a frown creasing his brow instantly. He had been woken from an extremely strange dream, about Kate Lockley, singing Madonna for the Host. Since the chances of that happening were slim to nothing, he hadn't expected the night to get any more peculiar.
"He's gonna leave her And then she'll come back to meeeeee!"
The same voice announced at full volume, in a distinctly more colloquial tone than the previous lyrical lilt. Recognising the voice, Angel closed his eyes again. To say he disliked being woken at the crack of dawn, or to be precise about eighteen minutes before it, was the understatement of the century. Cordelia's theory that waking a sleeping vampire was about as safe and sane as poking an anal probe up the backside of a dragon, was a fairly accurate assumption. Some wake-up calls he could forgive. This was not going to be one of them. "This is not happening," he muttered to himself.
"Oi! Peaches! Lemme in!" Came the all too familiar bawl from below.
Angel swung out of bed and padded over to the window, just to convince himself that this was some figment of his imagination. "This is not happening. This is not happening," he repeated under his breath with every step. His heart sank into his toes and flopped across the carpet as he registered the figure that was responsible for the unearthly caterwauling taking place outside his window.
Bathed in the ever-weakening streamers of moonlight, glowing ethereal in the cloudy grey blue of the fading night sky, stood Spike. Groaning inaudibly, Angel leaned his forehead against the cool dark glass of the windowpane and closed his eyes. The "this is not happening" mantra died a reluctant death as his fears were confirmed.
Perhaps it was due to the entire four minutes of sleep he had managed to snatch, but Angel didn't immediately register the full impact of the situation. He was toying with the idea of crawling back into bed and leaving his protégée to burn to a well deserved death. It was only when he decided that this probably wasn't going to shut Spike up quickly enough for his taste, that he opened his eyes again and really took in the situation. Spike was not only standing outside his bedroom window bellowing French poetry, diabolically misquoted, (assuming he remembered correctly) but he was also naked. Completely butt naked.
"Dammit to Hell," Angel swore.
"Wassa matta?" The Host rolled over, wrapped in layers of sheets and looking entirely too comfortable for Angel's liking.
"Visitor," the vampire muttered. The Host opened one eye.
"At this time in the morning? Does no-one keep civilised hours any more?"
"Apparently not," Angel grumbled darkly.
Outside the glass-shattering squall resumed. The Host closed his eye.
"Well, shut it up, behead it, do whatever you like, just stop the massacre of that perfectly good piece of poetry."
Angel regarded the Host. The temptation to behead him as well, if they were going in for a pre-breakfast slaughter, was entirely too strong for comfort. The decimation of a poem was pretty much the last thing Angel was concerned about at this point in time. Exactly what the hell Spike was doing in L.A. and how soon he planned on leaving were much more in the forefront of his mind. Along with the deep burning desire to see his childe fried to a cinder.
Grudgingly, driven more by the severe glare the Host was managing to administer without so much as lifting a lid than the need to find out what Spike wanted, Angel pulled on his bathrobe and headed downstairs. It was not so much the Host's expression that compelled him, as the thought that if he did succumb and tear out his throat, they wouldn't be able to repeat the events of last night again any time soon.
He had almost reached the bottom step when the main doors exploded inwards, in a shower of glass that left the frame swinging from splintered hinges, and his offspring beamed up at him from a star-fished position on the welcome mat. Footsteps sounded immediately from the hallway and the Host appeared, wrapped in a banana coloured robe, his hair standing up as though he had been electrocuted, mostly due to the amount of time Angel had spent running his hands through it last night.
Spike staggered to his feet and smiled beatifically at his sire.
"Hello Peaches. Pleased to see me?" he hiccupped, ambling past him into the reception area.
Angel stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. This was fortunate for Spike. If Angel had been alert enough to process the remark, his life expectancy would have been drastically reduced.
Spike came to a standstill in the centre of the room. His body was the colour of marble, shimmering beneath the sunless glare of the electric light. Pinpricks of silver winked from his cheekbones. It took Angel a moment to realise that they were stars, a girl's glittery makeup decoration. As he watched, Spike prised one out from between his teeth. His first reaction was to say: who did you eat? But realising that Spike didn't smell of blood, and the fact that some of the stars were also located in his naval, and lower, he knew ‘what did you do?' Was more appropriate. Nothing would induce him to ask that question. Ever.
"New fashion is it?" the Host spoke into the stunned silence. "I really don't think it'll catch on... then again, I said that about last season's hot pink craze." He shuddered at the memory. Spike blinked up at him, offering a toothy grin. To Angel's relief he was too drunk to register the significance of the Host's presence and attire. The recent relationship between the pair was still an awkward subject, particularly on the off chance that one of his colleagues might walk in.
"What are you doing here Spike?" he asked wearily.
"Came to see you," Spike informed him, swaying slightly and smiling all the wider. "Had a drink. Nice bar. Nice bars," he amended.
Angel sighed and chose not to pursue the topic. He was finding himself increasingly distracted by Spike's slender body and loose, easy smile.
"Oh, for God's sake, put some clothes on!" he muttered, peeling off his robe and flinging it at his errant child. He also prayed that Spike wouldn't notice the shorts he was wearing. A ‘tasteful' present from the Host. They were a particularly lurid shade of green, almost identical to the Host's skin colour and bore a pattern of clowns in various contortions. Apparently this was because he ‘didn't appreciate the value of colour', but there had been rather too many clown related possessions accumulating ever since the incident with the Easter Bunny, for Angel to be convinced by this explanation.
The robe crumpled to the floor as Spike completely missed the catch. Bending over to rescue it, more out of reflex that anything, saw him join it plastered across the carpet. From a sitting position, Spike proceeded to try to stuff his head through one of the armholes. With a poorly concealed growl, Angel marched over and yanked Spike roughly to his feet. Irritated, he manhandled Spike into the robe; pulling the cord tight and wishing Spike either breathed or had circulation as he did so. These manoeuvres left him facing Spike, and in extremely close proximity. The younger vampire reached out and caught hold of Angel's neck chain, twirling it provocatively between his fingers.
"Why don'tcha go back to bed?" he murmured, trailing his fingers down the length of Angel's torso. Conscious of the Host's presence, Angel stepped back sharply.
"Pack it in Spike!" he barked, all the more annoyed because of the sudden desire to pull his childe into his arms and do exactly what he said. He could only hope that the Host hadn't sensed that.
"Mon amant m'a quittée," Spike threatened to pick up where he had left off.
"Not surprised," Angel growled.
"Mais... mais... she'll come back," Spike added, his French failing him at long last.
"Et je n'elle voudrais pas," Angel finished. Spike regarded him with deep suspicion. "The ending of the poem?" Angel explained, a lot more patiently than he felt. "You won't want her."
Spike continued to eye him.
"If your lover left you, wouldn't take them back," the Host tried, "Well, I wouldn't. Glutton for punishment or just a little, well," he put a forefinger to his temple and twisted it, "If you did."
Spike stared at the demon as if he had only just realised he was there. Angel closed his eyes again, dreading what he was about to say. Predictably, it was not good.
"Hey," Spike said, with a note of wonder in his voice, "You're green."
"Point for observation there," the Host said sarcastically.
Spike giggled, a high thin sound bordering on slightly hysterical. "You look... you..." he began sniggering uncontrollably now. "You look like a jelly baby!"
Of all Spike's insults this certainly didn't rate as a self-confidence crusher. But it was none the less rude and the Host did not appear impressed.
"I'm touched," he said snippily. "If we are getting personal your singing technique could use a little work, and I'm not the one wearing female accessories." Spike just blinked at him. Angel masked a smile.
Spike's expression took on a distinctly more curious tinge. His gaze flickered from Angel to the Host and back again. Evidently the effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off.
"No," he drawled. " I guess you ain't."
Angel waited tensely for the next sentence. If this was another part of his atonement, he should be pretty much ready to shansu for not decapitating Spike already.
"Hey," Spike said slowly, a look of dawning comprehension spreading across his face. "Hey!" he continued at a louder volume, "I know what you two are." His gaze travelled over the Host's short, yellow robe and Angel's ‘decorative' shorts.
Spike, if you say it I will cut your head off, Angel thought grimly. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his involvement with the Host, more surprised at it than anything in truth. He simply dreaded trying to handle the reactions of his friends. Wesley had been responsible for that, at least in part. Angel had wished himself anywhere, even the pits of hell, almost, when his human co-worker had walked in on them kissing. He was also not wild about the idea of the whole of Sunnydale knowing, although given Willow's current relationship, they would probably not handle it too badly. Still, he had no desire to put that to the test.
"Hey!" Spike repeated. "You're... you're lesbians!" he announced dramatically.
Angel shook his head in despair. The Host frowned.
"I believe the word you are searching for is bi-sexual. Possibly even gay."
"No," Spike insisted. "Lesbians."
Angel and the Host looked at each other.
"He could have said a lot worse," Angel pointed out.
You have to be lesbians. S'like Wicca an' her ‘Ara. Tara. Youse shaggin' in't ya?" Angel directed his gaze at the floorboards, muttering
"Then again..."
The Host smiled in a slightly twisted fashion.
"Us. Gay. Not lesbian."
"Uh, uh," Spike shook his head firmly. "Lesbian. Lesbians," he corrected after a moments thought.
Outside voices sounded.
"It's spaghetti Wesley! I think I can manage to cook that!"
"Without fusing the lights?" Came the innocent enquiry.
Cordelia entered carrying a packet of microwaveable spaghetti and a plastic spoon. She was glaring at Wesley. Her shoe landed with a crack on the splintered glass and she instantly forgot about the criticisms of her cooking ability. Spinning around she registered the presence of Spike before anything else. A shriek of surprise mingled with alarm escaped her lips. She was evidently recalling his last visit, which had involved hours of torture and combat over the Gem of Amara. She lashed out automatically with the nearest thing to hand. The packet of dried spaghetti caught him squarely on the nose. Spike's jaw fell open and he stared at her with an expression normally reserved for the mentally retarded regarding simultaneous equations. Cordelia was distinctly surprised too.
Wesley had the look on his face that had made Angel want to crawl into a hole last week. It was back in full force and notched up about ten degrees. Angel was starting to think that actually Hell wasn't such a bad comparison. Cordelia had gone suddenly quiet. The look on her face suggested she had been as slow on the uptake as Angel had been earlier, and was now feeling seriously disturbed. Her glance ticked from Spike to the Host to Angel.
"No. No, no, no! Oh no! NO!" she stammered, her horrified gaze swinging a full circuit to take in each of them.
"Cordelia, honey. You really ought to see someone about that stutter. I hear that there's some excellent elocution classes over at..."
"Oh puhlease!" Cordelia fixed the Host with a wither at ten paces glare. He withered obediently and she turned her beady eye on Angel.
"I don't even wanna know what went on here last night! And... " she trailed off suddenly looking as though she was about to be eaten alive. "Are you evil?"
"No," Angel began "Cordy..."
"Evil? Cordelia, sweets, there's no way Angelus would be without the leather."
"He's not wearing any pants!"
"I rest my case."
"Good point. Evil Angel would never wear... where did you get them anyway?" she added casting a dubious look in the direction of his shorts. Angel cringed.
Shaking her head Cordelia did seem about to return to her original topic. Exactly what the hell they thought they were doing. She was distracted, however, by Spike. Evidently bored with their discussion, he had ambled off. He was currently standing far too close to the computer for Angel's liking.
"Spike..." he began hastily.
He was cut off by a screech from Cordelia. "What are you doing?!"
It was then that Angel registered what it was that Spike was fiddling with. He had a bottle of Cordelia's brand new nail polish. It was the first time she had spent any money on herself in over a month; frankly Angel and Wesley had been growing distinctly worried about her. It was also a particularly attractive shade of bottle green, which the Host had admired the night before. As the horrified assembly watched, Spike extracted long streamers of elasticised chewing gum from between his teeth. He mashed it into a thick discoloured wad and pressed it to the bottom of the bottle. He then proceeded deliberately to stamp it down onto the top of the computer, fastening it securely in place.
Cordelia opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it. No sound came out. Angel found himself equally speechless at the audacity of certain vampires.
"Uh, Spike," he began.
The Host descended the stairs, his robe riding up to reveal rather a lot of slim green thigh. He retrieved the bottle of nail varnish and suggested that Spike might be better occupied doing something other than his current choice.
"Ah shurrup, ya great nonce," Spike told him, an insult normally reserved for Angel. The Host handed the bottle to Cordelia with a sigh.
"Spike," Angel said, his patience truly at an end. His eyes were starting to itch due to lack of sleep. The last dregs of sleep having washed away sometime ago, he was now feeling more annoyed than disbelieving. The Host shook his head as if to say ‘just leave it' there was also an element of ‘get him the hell out of here' in his eyes too.
"Spike, perhaps we can arrange for you to leave, like now." Cordelia had given up trying to remove the sticky mass, which peeled like cheese strings and attached themselves to her fingers, sweater sleeves and anything else that happened to be available.
"Sunny," Spike replied unconcernedly.
"So?" Cordelia replied bluntly.
Spike regarded her with an expression of mild exasperation.
"Sunlight," he said, as though she was slow witted. "I don't wanna fry, ya stupid bint."
His language was growing more colourful as the effects of the alcohol consumption wore off.
"I would like it very much," Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him. Spike shrugged.
He turned back to the computer, digging one chipped black nail into the hardening glue left by his chewing gum. Cordelia was watching him, an expression of revulsion creeping onto her face as she realised what he was wearing.
"Hey, isn't that Angel's...?" she broke off again."Forget it, I'm not even asking."
Angel cringed, suddenly feeling incredibly underdressed and frankly embarrassed at the compromising situation, which Cordelia, like Wesley, had a knack for walking in on.
"This?" Spike tugged at it, effectively loosening the knot and causing the robe to gape, revealing his pale stomach. "Ya think I wear this sorta crap?"
"You are wearing it," Cordelia pointed out.
"Only coz nancy boy don't like to see me wiv no clothes on. Dunno why. He never used to mind."
Angel was beginning to wonder why he hadn't staked Spike the instant he fell onto his inappropriately labelled ‘welcome' mat. Chip or no chip, he was perfectly capable of wreaking havoc without raising a finger. All he had to do was open his mouth. "Yeah, he used to eat people and stick hot pokers in their sides too," Cordelia reminded him.
"Before he walked into Lesbo land," Spike grumbled.
"What?"
"Him and the Poddington Pea over there. Lesbians," Spike jerked his thumb at the offending pair.
"Okay. Now I'm gonna hit him for you," the Host warned Angel.
"Be my guest," the vampire murmured.
"Uh, Spike?" Cordelia began.
"Just go," Angel said wearily to Wesley and Cordelia.
"Can you give the boss a day off?" Cordelia asked him curiously.
She had been dropping a lot of references to Wesley being the boss, partly to compensate for her slip the other evening, but mostly because he kept bringing the subject up. It had been really getting to Angel. Cordelia was managing to wind Wesley up a treat and still appearing to compensate for a fairly minor mistake that Wesley was growing obsessive over.
"If it means that I am not required to deal with Spike then I will grant him the ability," Wesley replied primly.
"Oh, okay," Cordelia whisked around at high speed. Angel yelped as a beam of light hit him squarely on the left shoulder. He leapt sideways, his shoulder smarting, a thin wisp of smoke rising from it. The doors reopened and Cordelia's head poked around them.
"Oops," she offered apologetically.
Wesley cast a worried glance in the direction of the singed vampire and then hurried after Cordelia.
"You got him running your company?" Spike demanded as the doors, or rather door, swung closed again.
"Yes," Angel's tone of voice dared Spike to comment. The blond vampire just went off into peals of laughter that rang around the hotel lobby. Angel and the Host exchanged glances, mentally drawing straws on who was going to smack him one first. As it turned out, disappointingly enough, neither one got the chance to. Spike's laughter cut off with inhuman abruptness. He pivoted around to face them. An inane grin spread across his features, his eyes glazed and he passed out.
With Spike packed off to bed, temporarily no doubt, Angel set about warming a couple of mugs of blood and making Lorne some coffee to compensate for the interruption in their attempt to get some sleep. Fixed on the task he was beginning to feel the aching, incapable sensation that came from the after effects of a demonic battle and rather too much time in bed, without actually sleeping. A pair of arms stole around his waist, hands sliding up his body to loop around his shoulders. Lorne pressed his chin into Angel's collarbone.
"Feeling huggy are we?" Angel murmured.
"It comes naturally. Unless I'm wearing that jacket," he added gesturing to the one slung over Angel's kitchen chair. It was the one in a particularly rare colour, specific to the Vituperian lizard from his own dimension.
"I'll try to remember that," Angel smiled.
"It's not like you are exactly Mr. Public Display anyway. You are too reserved, big guy, let go the inhibitions."
He felt Angel tense automatically and smoothed his hands up and down the vampire's chest rhythmitically, trying to soothe the ruffled feathers. After a moment he felt the muscles unknot again and Angel leaned his head back, baring his neck to the Lorne's lips trustingly.
Angel turned in the Host's embrace, his cool lips gently seeking, soft and still slightly unsure. Lorne spanned his hands across Angel's spine, effectively trapping him. The vampire pressed closer to him, evidently not objecting.
"I take it you aren't drinking coffee," Lorne murmured, nuzzling Angel's jaw.
Angel pulled back abruptly and turned away. He wiped his mouth.
"Sorry."
Mentally he could still picture Buffy's revulsion. The way she had backed away from him, rubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand and avoiding his eyes. She had felt guilty at hurting him, reminding him of what he was, but had been unable to accept it. Once, when Wesley had been newly appointed as her Watcher, he had asked if there was any blood letting practices in their relationship, a form of sexual intimacy to vampires, particularly since they could never pretend Angel was human, safely at any rate. She had been fairly horrified then as well.
"Okay, first I say eeew! and then no way! That is just..." she had broken off, looking at Angel, seeing the discomfort he was trying to conceal. He had felt uncomfortable, but mainly with the question and not its possible answers. She had backtracked rapidly, but the damage had been done. She had also never asked him if he had indulged in such practices.
Lorne reached up to cup his face as Angel told him all this. The vampire wouldn't look at him.
"Hey," Lorne said, in a tone far softer than his usual, brash one. "I know what you are. And I wouldn't change it. None of it. Hey, if you can handle the horns and the ‘jelly baby' look, I don't think a little blood enters the equation." Angel found himself smiling. He closed his hand over Lorne's and drew the fingers lightly across his lips, kissing the crimson nails. The microwave pinged suddenly and they both started.
"So what is it that you have such an issue about, anyway?" Lorne asked him as they took seats at the table, coffee and blood in respective mugs. Lorne was drinking from his own novelty mug, which read: Back off, you're standing in my aura! A present from Cordelia when she had decided that everyone needed their own personal mug.
"In case you die," she had said. "I don't want any more visiony type gifts or anything so if we all just leave a mug, something to remember each other by, you know."
It had turned out to be the anniversary of Doyle's death, which Angel had been rather depressed about. The Host had found him staring at a singed sketch of an indiscriminate shape, which he had been regarding in a trance like state for hours and had retrieved from the wreckage of the previous site of Angel Investigations. Looking at the mug, Angel asked himself what it was exactly that upset him.
"I'm not sure," he admitted after a pause. "If anyone was liable to give me grief over the whole ‘us' thing, I would have expected it to be her."
"She's actually very open-minded."
"Yeah," Angel mused, "It makes me wonder why."
"Maturing, my flower, she'll not be twenty forever, unlike some," He added, grinning at Angel over the rim of his mug.
"Not noticing you getting any older either," Angel replied. Lorne shrugged self-consciously. "I just meant I wonder what goes on with Cordy that she is so open minded," Angel continued thoughtfully.
"She doesn't talk much about her private life then?"
"Not these days," Angel sighed, realising how much things had changed. "The only thing I know for sure is that the girl has never been to a cookery class or even read a book on the subject in her life." Lorne grinned appreciatively. The finances at Angel Investigations were still recovering from the electricity bill stemming from Cordelia's last cooking episode.
"She didn't seem to mind the Wicca girl you mentioned and her friend. There is the possibility..."
"Cordelia?" Angel almost laughed, "No, I can't imagine... Besides, she only said she didn't mind to us. I have no idea what she said to Willow."
"I wouldn't have thought it of you instantly," the Host pointed out.
"I'm two hundred and forty seven years old," Angel said flatly. "You think I've been walking around with my eyes closed?"
"I didn't say I was logical." Lorne grinned. "Come to think of it given your status a Scourge of the Empire you might have found uses for certain sexual practices that are a little other than the widely accepted ‘norm'."
Angel jerked roughly to his feet and turned his back on the Host. Deliberately he began washing up his mug, using it as an excuse to keep his back turned.
Lorne set his own aside and came up behind him quietly.
"Look, Angel," he laid his hand on the vampire's back, feeling him stiffen but not flinch away. "We're going to have to do some talking. You don't feel too comfortable about your past..."
"But you are entirely too comfortable with it," Angel snapped, his voice like ice.
"Not with mine though," Lorne said honestly. Angel didn't turn but something in his demeanour softened. He set the cup aside and leaned his weight on both his hands gripping the draining board. "If you don't want to talk about your history or accept it or whatever, I'm not the one with grounds to tell you to. I know you'll pull the lead-by-example card on me and hey, I'm not ready to deal with my skeletons-in-the-closet either. I just want you to know that I can handle yours. I'm not the Slayer, no natural prejudices to consider. With these horns, you think I can criticise on the spiky department?"
"Guess not," Angel admitted thoughtfully.
"Except perhaps about the demon bearing the name. I ask you, was it really necessary to turn him? Couldn't you just have eaten him or something? What on Earth possessed you?"
"Now? I can't imagine. Dru, I think."
"Women," The Host sighed. "It's enough to turn anyone queer."
* *
* *
*Details of challenge are as follows:
Angel/Host pairing, any rating.
Must include:
- a bar that isn't Caritas
- Public nudity
- Angel's shoe full of demon goo
- Alternative uses for spaghetti
- Something harmless used as an impromptu weapon
- The Host's skin colour being compared to something
- Someone making an assumption and refusing to be dissuaded
- Phantom Dennis
- Madonna music
- Cordy's private life speculation
- A computer
- A sewing kit
- Silver stars
- Nail polish
- Kate Lockley ref
- Chewing gum
- A line in a language other than English
- A plastic spoon
- One of them offering to beat someone up for the other
- Poetry being misquoted
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