Chapter Text
Angel didn’t glance away from the book he was reading as he heard the front door open, but he did stop reading mid-sentence and listen. Listened to Spike and Snoopy come into the front hall, Spike’s boots heavy and Snoopy’s nails skittering on the wood, puppy-eagerness still at odds with his suddenly-long legs.
There was a click as Spike released the catch on the leash, and the dog went through to the mud room. Angel heard him lapping water from his bowl. Spike slid out of his coat, then sat on the hall chair and undid his boots, changing into the soft leather “house shoes” he wore indoors.
Angel smiled a little at that, thinking how the Spike he used to know wouldn’t have bothered, would probably have even actively fought about it. But then he had been living in Angelus’s house; now he was living in his own. Funny how that possessive changed your whole attitude.
Spike came into the living room, and then Angel did look up. Spike was in his black jeans and a blue cashmere sweater, and he stood in the entryway in that slightly hunched-forward way that Angel knew was meant to look casual and relaxed, but which really had the vampire stretched tight, like a bowstring.
He walked over, plucked the book out of Angel’s hand, and might have thrown it dramatically over his shoulder if it weren’t for Angel’s slight widening of his eyes, so he tossed it gently onto the sofa instead. He swung one leg over Angel’s lap and settled into it, pressing his body against Angel’s and kissing him deeply, twining his long fingers into Angel’s hair.
Angel wrapped one arm around Spike’s back, his large hand between Spike’s shoulder blades, pulling him as close as he could, then reached higher to tangle in the dirty-blond hair that now fringed Spike’s collar.
They kissed, open-mouthed, hungry for the taste of one another, twining tongues with the practiced skill of centuries, until their mouths felt bruised and sore. Even then they only moved a whisper apart, staring into one another’s eyes and panting for unneeded breath.
“Upstairs?” Spike asked, and Angel stood, lifting Spike, too, then kissing him again.
“Or right here?” Spike gasped. “Right here is good.”
- - - - -
The next day dawned overcast, a usual mid-winter’s day. Spike let the dog out for a bit early then went back to bed, waking again later to find Angel writing something.
“Put that away,” Spike murmured. “Time for all good little vampires to be sleeping or fucking.”
“In a minute.”
Spike gave a very put-upon sigh and Angel rolled his eyes. “We’ve been invited to a gallery show, down on Basin, the Blue Star Frog Gallery.”
“Which one’s that? Can’t keep all those ridiculous names straight.” Spike reached down and pulled his cigarettes from between the mattress and box spring, moved his ashtray from the bed-table to his lap and lit up. With a disgusted look, Snoopy rose from the floor and walked into the hall.
“I think it’s the one next to the historical society,” Angel said thoughtfully. “The one with the American primitives in the window.”
“Oh yeah,” Spike said. “Flags and stick figures and no perspective whatsoever.”
“Anyway, they’re introducing a new artist, and we’ve been asked to attend.” Angel passed over a glossy, full-color brochure. “He looks interesting, and maybe we could meet some different people.”
Spike looked at the page. The paintings were dark, fantastic and surreal, with pale figures emerging from shadows. “They look like vampires,” Spike said.
“Yeah, can’t say that wasn’t also intriguing,” Angel said. “Check his picture on the back.”
Spike flipped over the paper and snorted. “Little Goth poser,” he said. “Are you serious about going?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Spike blew out a stream of smoke. “An evening of pretentious yuppies and whining black-clad teenagers for starters.”
“Yep. Sounds like fun, don’t you think?” Angel gave Spike a grin.
“I’ll never understand your fascination with these wannabes,” Spike said.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” Angel said. “Humans pretending to be something they don’t believe exists, while we’re right beside them.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Spike said. “Is there an open bar at this thing?”
“Of course. And the Wonderland is catering.”
Spike took another drag. “I guess it sounds alright,” he said.
- - - - -
The gallery opening was the first “society” event that Angel and Spike had been invited to since arriving in town, but after dropping the amount of cash they had at the antique shops, restaurants, and specialty stores already, both vampires knew it was only a matter of time.
Angel looked over at Spike as they entered the brightly-lit gallery and allowed himself a small smile. His lover was dressed impeccably in a black sweater and wool trousers, his blond hair stylishly tousled, and Angel couldn’t resist a light touch to the back of his hand. “You look stunning,” he whispered, and Spike smiled.
“I know,” he said smugly.
“Liam! Will! Thank you so much for coming,” a woman, presumably the gallery owner, called to them, and Angel searched his memory his memory for where he’d met her.
“Amanda Rialle. The night the red-headed torch singer was at the Wonderland,” Spike said under his breath, and Angel gave a small nod.
“Amanda. Thank you so much for inviting us,” Angel said.
She came over to them, took each of their hands in turn and air-kissed their cheeks. “How could I not?” she said. “Men of discriminating taste such as yourselves. But come. Let me introduce you to the genius we’re honoring tonight.”
She led them across to a small knot of, yes, black-clad teenagers, and pulled aside a young man dressed as a Victorian dandy, his black hair pulled back into a long ponytail.
“Allow me to present Sebastien DellaMorte,” Amanda said.
The young man extended a gray-gloved hand. “A pleasure indeed,” he said.
- - - - -
Spike was standing on the front sidewalk smoking when Angel was ready to leave, and Angel came up behind him, rested his hands on Spike’s hips, and kissed the soft skin behind his ear. “Did you have fun?” he asked.
Spike shrugged. “I suppose,” he said.
“What did you think of the artist?”
“Interesting,” Spike admitted. “I kind of like the way he uses light and texture.”
“I’m glad you like him,” Angel said. “Because I’ve commissioned a painting from him.”
Spike chuckled. “A portrait of the great Angelus, I suppose,” he said.
“Not exactly,” Angel said. “More like a portrait of the great William the Bloody.”
Spike turned in Angel’s arms, bringing his hands up to Angel’s face. “Not even at knife-point,” he said.
Angel’s expression fell. “Why not?”
“Sitting for days with some obnoxious git?” Spike said. “I’d rather drink holy water.” He stepped back, inclining himself towards their home. “You ready to go, then?”
Angel nodded sadly. “Yeah,” he said, and took Spike’s hand.
They walked a few blocks in silence, Spike looking sideways at Angel’s disappointment, until he finally pulled Angel into a dark alley. “Okay,” Spike said. “I’ll do it. But I’m not going to be nice.”
“Merely civil should be sufficient,” Angel said.
“Alright, then,” Spike agreed, and then let Angel kiss him.
- - - - -
Spike woke to find Angel writing again.
“What now?” he mumbled.
“Umm…”
“Please, not another gallery opening.”
“No,” Angel said. “I got a card from… Buffy yesterday.”
Spike sat up. “What did she say?”
“She wants to visit.”
The sentence hung in the air above them like a nest of wasps, waiting for one of them to either poke it with a stick or slowly back away.
“That might be… okay…” Spike said, his voice barely audible.
Angel calmly put his papers aside and slid closer to Spike, put one hand on his cheek. “She says she understands,” Angel said. “She says she still wants to be friends. With both of us.”
Spike nodded.
“She wants to come with Willow. Just for a week.”
Spike swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said, then put on a brave face. “That sounds great. They could shop, and we’ll take ‘em to some of the restaurants. We’ll just relax. It’ll be nice.”
“Yeah,” Angel agreed. “It’ll be nice.”
“And if it’s not,” Spike said. “There are some very nice inns a few blocks down.”
Angel kissed him quickly. “But it will be,” he said. “Nice.”
Spike nodded again, then pushed himself out of bed. “Snoopy needs to go out,” he said, pulling on his bathrobe. When he’d gone, Angel resumed his writing.
- - - - -
“So what do you need?” Angel asked Sebastien, when the artist arrived at the house a few nights later.
The young man wandered into the living room, not answering right away. “Just some space to work,” he said. “And time for inspiration to come.”
Angel looked back at Spike, who was waiting on the stair, and the younger vampire seemed to be stifling laughter.
“My things are in the car,” Sebastien said, turning around, and Angel watched Spike instantly re-set his face into the picture of attentive interest. “I’ll just go fetch them.”
He stepped out, and then Spike did laugh.
“Civil,” Angel reminded him, and Spike descended and crossed to the fireplace, where he threw himself loosely into a wing chair.
Sebastien made three trips, setting up an easel, work table, and two goose neck lamps in the bay window.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Let’s go, Snoop,” Angel said, and he withdrew upstairs to their TV room. Spike could distantly hear the opening theme of “Lawrence of Arabia” begin to play.
“How should I sit?” Spike asked.
Sebastien looked up from his arrangement of pencils and charcoal. “You know far better than I what your lover finds attractive,” he said.
Spike nodded, grudgingly, and sat up straight, turning his body away from the artist, but his face towards him; dropped his chin, but raised his eyes, his mouth slightly open and pursed. He laid one hand on the chair’s arm, his fingers splayed wide.
Sebastien stepped up to the easel and sketched several quick lines over the paper, not taking his eyes from his subject. He flipped the sheets over several times, each time scratching no more than a dozen or so strokes. “You can relax, now,” he said when he’d done eight or so. “I just needed to get some basic shapes.” He flipped back to the first page, took a handful of pencils and pulled a chair up to the easel.
“I’m just doing sketches tonight,” Sebastien explained. “Get a feel for my subject. Then I’ll take them back to my studio and work on the painting there.”
Spike frowned. “Will you need me there?”
Sebastien shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “Since my work is impressionistic, most of what I’ll need will be in my head. I may return once or twice, but not for any length of time, only long enough to gather sensations. I’m not merely painting a likeness, I’m trying to capture the image of your soul.”
Spike was glad the artist took that moment to turn and reach for more pencils.
“Tell me about yourself,” Sebastien asked when he’d resumed his work. “Have you and Liam been together long?”
Spike smiled. “Yes,” he said. “And no.”
Sebastien smiled himself, though he was now intent on his work. “An enigmatic answer,” he said. “I like that. Could you elaborate?”
“Well, we fucked and fought for awhile. Then I was with someone else for a long time and we never saw each other. Then we fought off and on for awhile more. Then we finally admitted we really wanted to fuck each other. And then it became love.”
“Ah, love,” Sebastien repeated. “When did that happen?”
Spike hesitated, not much caring for this painter, but so in love that he wanted to shout it to the world. “A few months ago,” he said, and when Sebastien did not interrupt, just scribbled on his paper, Spike went on, “we were traveling. A world tour. I suppose it had become love somewhere along the way, but when we finally said it aloud we were in Paris.” He smiled fondly. “On top of the Eiffel Tower.”
Sebastien smiled at that, himself. “Sometimes romance fits the cliché,” he said kindly.
“That it does,” Spike admitted, and they sat in silence awhile.
“So. World tour,” Sebastien said after several minutes. “That sounds romantic.”
Spike gave a small snort. “Hardly,” he said. “More of a business trip. A filthy, nasty, exhausting business trip…”
“Where else did you go?”
Spike leaned his head back. “St. Petersburg… Mumbai, India… some rat-hole in southeast Asia, then Kyoto, Japan, which was pretty, but we didn’t have much time for sight-seeing…”
Sebastien’s handful of pencils hit the floor, bouncing and rolling away. “Sorry, sorry,” the artist said quietly, dropping to one knee and picking the pencils up.
“Tell me about Liam,” Sebastien said when he’d resumed his sketching. “Is he an affectionate man?”
“I don’t wish to discuss the intimate details of our personal life,” Spike said calmly. “So why don’t you busy yourself with your doodling, alright?”
Sebastien stood and began gathering his materials. “I think I have all I need for now,” he said tightly. “I shall return again in a few days.”
Spike rose as well. “I look forward to it,” he said.
- - - - -
Spike found Angel lying on one of the TV room couches, Snoopy stretched out beside him.
“That didn’t take long,” Angel said.
“I thought the dog wasn’t allowed on the furniture,” Spike said.
Angel glanced down at the animal as though noticing him for the first time. “He isn’t allowed on the living room furniture,” he clarified.
Spike crossed the room and shoved Angel’s feet aside to sit beside him.
“Civil?” Angel prompted.
“That painter’s a drooling wanker,” Spike replied. “I gave him more civility than he deserved.”
Angel sighed, and Spike patted his ankle.
“He’ll be back,” Spike said.
Angel patted the dog’s head. “Get down,” he said, and Snoopy looked at him, then got onto the floor. “Come here,” he said to Spike, and, with a grin, Spike did.