Work Text:
Angel is sitting at his desk, in his office. He’s been staring at several different pieces of paper, some important documents that he needs to sign, some plans for new strategies to tackle the rising demon threat. He misses the old strategy of going out onto the streets – and the alleys, and the sewers – and stabbing them.
These piles of paper have been sitting there for hours now, and so has he. Some of them he simply needs to pick up a pen and write his name, but even that seems impossible to him. He scowls. He wonders if he stares at them for long enough they will sort themselves out. How many times has he wondered that in the last two hours? He thinks.
In the forefront of his mind is not the work he’s supposed to be doing, instead the obnoxious bright overhead lights, that he doesn’t need to see, that Eve tells him he must keep on – “you need to keep up appearances, seem at least a little normal.” he remembers her saying. Instead of the work is also the loud overwhelming grating layers of noise outside the office. How come they can make windows that fog up on command, but they aren’t even soundproof?
Just as Angel thinks he might be close to willing himself to actually do something, his door opens overly dramatically, and he can easily guess who’s just come inside his office. Spike stands in front of his desk, hands in his pockets, and with a bemused and mildly irritated look on his face that Angel doesn’t really feel like he has the time for.
“Angel, how come I don’t have an office?” Spike says, and Angel sighs, and places his head in his hands. Spike and he had had this discussion many times before. He doesn’t respond.
Spike – clearly not taking this as a cue that Angel doesn’t feel like having this conversation – continues. “I mean, really? All the rest of your team have their own bloody offices. I mean sure they actually have things to do in there… but I bet if I had an office I’d find something important to do with it.” Angel, at this point, starts trying to tune out what Spike’s saying, in an attempt to get on with his work that he hasn’t gotten on with yet – still.
Unfortunately, his mind has decided that Spike’s talking to him is the perfect justification not to do any work, and he fails at tuning him out. His mind doesn’t take this as a sign to stop being annoyed at Spike’s “constant yammering” as he had once called it, and it only serves to stress Angel out even more.
This continues for about two minutes before Angel snaps, and once he starts, he can’t seem to stop despite how much he wants to.
“Listen Spike, I don’t care if you want an office, you don’t need one.” he says aggressively, and Spike stops talking, seemingly grateful that Angel is at least participating in the exchange.
“Now, I have a lot of work to do, that I have been trying to do for the last three-and-a-half fucking hours, and I can’t seem to get it fucking done, and it needs to be done by tomorrow fucking morning and I’m running out of time to do it and I don’t know what I’m going to– oh fuck.”
His rant at Spike is interrupted by a strong feeling of nausea and an acidic lump in his throat. He reaches for the trashcan, ignoring Spike’s shocked face. All of the blood he’s drunk that day pours out his mouth – vomiting for a vampire is a very different experience to when you’re human, it turns out – and there isn’t much of it. It’s red and slightly translucent, and the smell threatens to make him sick again, not that there’s anything left to come up.
Spike stares at him in shock for half-a-minute, before moving next to him. Angel can hear him mutter under his breath a mixture of “fuck”, “shit”, and “bloody hell” repeatedly. He expects Spike to mock him in some way, but instead he helps guide Angel to the floor, in a spot where he can lean against the side of his desk, and tip his head back against it, too. He’s grateful Spike closed the door after he entered this time.
He grabs a tissue from the almost-full box – vampires don’t use many tissues, unsurprisingly – and hands it to Angel, so he can wipe the small splatter of blood from his chin. The tissue then makes its way into the trashcan, with the vomit, soaking up some of Angel’s lunch and turning a dark pinkish-red.
Spike sits opposite, leaning against the bottom of the shelf on the wall. The expression on his face is surprisingly kind, so much so that it’s uncanny when directed at him and catches him off guard. Angel feels a salty taste on his tongue, and a small prick at his eyes. He turns toward the window, looking out at the city, and more importantly avoiding making eye-contact with Spike – who does the same. You’d think I’d be embarrassed comes to mind but I guess when you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Spike…
That’s not to say of course that there’s no embarrassment, but the last time he cried at all was probably years ago, and he was most likely insane from trauma at the time, so he’s not sure it counts.
Angel closes his eyes, and his tears fall more freely, creating tracks down his face that gather in the corners of his lips. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
He bathes in the long-familiar scent of Spike, and strangely enough it calms him. It distracts him somewhat from the work that he still hasn’t done. Regrettably, not enough, and the thought of it overwhelms him all over again. This time though, a small – so very small – sob comes out of his chest and escapes his mouth.
He hears the quiet rustle of fabric as Spike no doubt turns to him, and Angel wonders what he’s going to do. That’s when the rustle becomes slightly louder, and the smell of Spike gets stronger and moves closer to him. He feels him press up against his side. Angel sat in shock for a moment, still surprised at how gentle Spike is being. Isn’t Spike supposed to despise me? He thought. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Spike.
An arm promptly reached over Angel’s shoulders, and in his slouched position he was at the perfect height to be nudged to rest his head on Spike’s own shoulder. The position was one that the two vampires hadn’t taken up in over a hundred years now, but it felt so familiar to him, and he imagined it did to Spike as well.
Angel didn’t know how long he sat there with Spike, entangled together, breathing in each other’s calming scents – but it was long enough that Wesley came into Angel’s office, clearly looking for him. Luckily for them, their position behind Angel’s desk couldn’t be seen from the doorway, and Wesley’s presence remained only brief after believing him to be elsewhere.
Eventually, Angel decided it would be best to move. When he opened his eyes, the sun had set, making him aware just how much time he spent sitting on the floor of his office with Spike. Spike, who had closed his eyes too by now. He also opened them, and the two shuffled awkwardly apart, looking in opposite directions. Without a word between them, Spike exited the office, straightening out his coat before doing so of course. Angel headed towards his private elevator that took him to the penthouse.
He was torn between never wanting to speak about his small, frankly quite embarrassing breakdown, and slightly hoping it would happen again, so he could spend more time in Spike’s presence, without the two of them arguing.