Sorry, I'm Gay (8/35?)
Sorry, I'm Gay
SingingWalking In The Rain
"I Hate DoIng FuckIng InVenTorY," Spike mumbled, flipping through a rack of CDs. "I Hate DoIng Fuck- Ok, 15 Weezer..." He marked something down on his clipboard before going back to catalogue which albums they were.
It was almost midnight. Spike had been there every day that week, counting Cds and keeping track of what had been sold that day. Buffy had done nothing to help, writing it off as it being the responsibility of the shift supervisor, who, unfortunately, was Spike. He was tired. He was angry. He hadn't seen his... boyfriend... for more then ten minutes that week. Which sucked, because Angel's showing was supposed to be the next night, and it didn't look like he'd be done in time.
Dejectedly, he sat back on his heels, counting syllables on his fingers. "I Hate This BloodY FuckIng Job... damn, two short... I Want To Kill My FuckIng UnCle. Shit!"
There was a loud knocking on the door, and Spike slammed his fist into the wooden display he crouched next to. He'd had to chase away stupid fucking teenagers who thought they were still open every night that week, and he really wasn't in the mood. He stomped over to the entrance, being as loud as he could - in hopes of venting a little - unlocked, and threw open the door, ready to yell.
He paused. He smiled.
"Hey. Though you'd be working this late again." Angel smiled and held up a brown paper bag. "I come bearing chicken fingers."
Spike could barely stop himself from throwing himself into his arms. Instead, he grabbed thee bag and stomped over to sit on the counter, gesturing for Angel to follow.
"So. Inventory..." Angel rocked back on his heels, looking around at the complete mess of CDs and boxes around the store. "Must really... suck."
"Yeah," Spike sighed, ripping into the Chinese carton. "And we can't even close the bloody shop to do it, either. Have to keep tabs on what's being sold and stay here 'till fuckin' one in the mornin'..."
"I'm suddenly glad I've never had an actual job long enough to have responsibilities." Angel reached over and grabbed a piece of chicken, grinning a bit when he was glared at. "Why don't you just order your minions to do it for you?"
"Tried it," Spike said around a mouthful. "They've got no fuckin' respect..."
He glared around the store, suddenly feeling boxed in. "Let's take a walk," he said, reached behind the counter for his coat.
Angel looked appreciatively at the vision of spike bent over the counter. "It's starting to rain, y'know."
"Don't care." Spike pulled on the worn leather, grabbed a ring of keys and stomped back over to the door. He held it open and waited for Angel to leave before hitting the lights and locking things up.
The night was cool and wet and made Spike feel alive. He turned his face towards the sky, feeling the raindrops that landed on his face. He knew Angel must have been looking at him oddly, but he really didn't care. He felt like he had been locked away for years, and the fresh air was going to his head. He felt like... dancing in the streets. But not singing. That would have been too clichéd.
He heard Angel chuckle and cracked an eye open to glare at him. "What?"
"Your hair's all curly."
His hands flew to his head, and found that, indeed, his gel had... ungeled, and his hair was returning to its natural curl. Normally, he would have sworn and run for cover, before the damage got any worse. But he just shrugged it off and continued on.
"So, what have you been doin' all week without me, then?"
"Painting, mostly," Angel said, checking that his own hair was holding up. "I had to finish most of them off, fix backgrounds and stuff like that. Even started some new ones. Still want to do another one, if I can think of something in time..." He paused, looking over at the other man. "Buffy and Faith won't mind that I painted them, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Buffy'd probably be all-" Spike pitched his voice higher and skipped around as he spoke. "Oh my god! That's so awesome! My hair looks great."
Angel laughed, and Spike gave him a little curtsey for his performance. "I'm going to hold you to that now, you know." there were a few moments of silence as Spike tried to resist jumping into a puddle. "Do you think they could make it tomorrow?"
"Who, the girls? Yeah, they'd love to go." Spike hesitated a moment before mumbling, "Don't know if I can, though..."
Angel stopped short. "Why not?"
"Work," Spike sighed, leaning against a streetlight pole. "It's the one bloody thing I'm supposed to do every year, with or without help. I don't... I don't wanna disappoint him..." This last was said softly, in hopes it wouldn't be heard. He shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing, not for the first time, he hadn't decided to quit smoking.
Angel stared at the picture of dejection, taking in every detail he could. A few seconds passed, and he reached out, talking Spike's face in both hands and moving it to face him. The blond looked at him in confusion, but his expression melted to a soft smile when Angel grinned at him. He took another moment to take in this as well before stepping closer, barely brushing their lips together as he pulled him close.
"Tomorrow," he whispered over the sound of the rain. "You're going to tell Buffy and Faith that none of you will go to my show unless the inventory gets done. And, if you run out of time, you'll leave them there to finish up and come by yourself. Because I want you there with me when I'm getting compliments and offers from potential buyers and art students are flirting with me. I want to show you off."
Spike's arms snaked around Angel's waist, and he rested his head on his shoulder. They rocked slightly as they embraced, and Spike had such a rush of warmth and contentment he almost swooned.
Minutes later, Angel pulled away, unconsciously fixing his hair. "I've got to go," he admitted, looking at him through damp eyelashes. "I've still got some things to do before tomorrow..."
"Yeah, sure, s'alright with me." But it really wasn't. As they walked back, all Spike could think of was getting in that car with him, going back to the apartment he'd never seen, watch him paint till all hours of the morning. And when the hour got too late for either to function, he wanted to curl up around him and hold him as they slept.
He cursed work again, under his breath, and tried not to think about it.
When he reached his car, Angel just stood there, playing with the handle. "So... I'll see you tomorrow, then?" he asked nervously, trying not to blush.
Spike nodded. "Count on it."
Angel gave him a smile that made his stomach flip around. He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before climbing into the car, not ever minding getting his interior wet.
Spike resisted the urge to wave as he drove off, but still watched him as he left, standing in the rain until long after the car had disappeared.
SingingWalking In The Rain
"I Hate DoIng FuckIng InVenTorY," Spike mumbled, flipping through a rack of CDs. "I Hate DoIng Fuck- Ok, 15 Weezer..." He marked something down on his clipboard before going back to catalogue which albums they were.
It was almost midnight. Spike had been there every day that week, counting Cds and keeping track of what had been sold that day. Buffy had done nothing to help, writing it off as it being the responsibility of the shift supervisor, who, unfortunately, was Spike. He was tired. He was angry. He hadn't seen his... boyfriend... for more then ten minutes that week. Which sucked, because Angel's showing was supposed to be the next night, and it didn't look like he'd be done in time.
Dejectedly, he sat back on his heels, counting syllables on his fingers. "I Hate This BloodY FuckIng Job... damn, two short... I Want To Kill My FuckIng UnCle. Shit!"
There was a loud knocking on the door, and Spike slammed his fist into the wooden display he crouched next to. He'd had to chase away stupid fucking teenagers who thought they were still open every night that week, and he really wasn't in the mood. He stomped over to the entrance, being as loud as he could - in hopes of venting a little - unlocked, and threw open the door, ready to yell.
He paused. He smiled.
"Hey. Though you'd be working this late again." Angel smiled and held up a brown paper bag. "I come bearing chicken fingers."
Spike could barely stop himself from throwing himself into his arms. Instead, he grabbed thee bag and stomped over to sit on the counter, gesturing for Angel to follow.
"So. Inventory..." Angel rocked back on his heels, looking around at the complete mess of CDs and boxes around the store. "Must really... suck."
"Yeah," Spike sighed, ripping into the Chinese carton. "And we can't even close the bloody shop to do it, either. Have to keep tabs on what's being sold and stay here 'till fuckin' one in the mornin'..."
"I'm suddenly glad I've never had an actual job long enough to have responsibilities." Angel reached over and grabbed a piece of chicken, grinning a bit when he was glared at. "Why don't you just order your minions to do it for you?"
"Tried it," Spike said around a mouthful. "They've got no fuckin' respect..."
He glared around the store, suddenly feeling boxed in. "Let's take a walk," he said, reached behind the counter for his coat.
Angel looked appreciatively at the vision of spike bent over the counter. "It's starting to rain, y'know."
"Don't care." Spike pulled on the worn leather, grabbed a ring of keys and stomped back over to the door. He held it open and waited for Angel to leave before hitting the lights and locking things up.
The night was cool and wet and made Spike feel alive. He turned his face towards the sky, feeling the raindrops that landed on his face. He knew Angel must have been looking at him oddly, but he really didn't care. He felt like he had been locked away for years, and the fresh air was going to his head. He felt like... dancing in the streets. But not singing. That would have been too clichéd.
He heard Angel chuckle and cracked an eye open to glare at him. "What?"
"Your hair's all curly."
His hands flew to his head, and found that, indeed, his gel had... ungeled, and his hair was returning to its natural curl. Normally, he would have sworn and run for cover, before the damage got any worse. But he just shrugged it off and continued on.
"So, what have you been doin' all week without me, then?"
"Painting, mostly," Angel said, checking that his own hair was holding up. "I had to finish most of them off, fix backgrounds and stuff like that. Even started some new ones. Still want to do another one, if I can think of something in time..." He paused, looking over at the other man. "Buffy and Faith won't mind that I painted them, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Buffy'd probably be all-" Spike pitched his voice higher and skipped around as he spoke. "Oh my god! That's so awesome! My hair looks great."
Angel laughed, and Spike gave him a little curtsey for his performance. "I'm going to hold you to that now, you know." there were a few moments of silence as Spike tried to resist jumping into a puddle. "Do you think they could make it tomorrow?"
"Who, the girls? Yeah, they'd love to go." Spike hesitated a moment before mumbling, "Don't know if I can, though..."
Angel stopped short. "Why not?"
"Work," Spike sighed, leaning against a streetlight pole. "It's the one bloody thing I'm supposed to do every year, with or without help. I don't... I don't wanna disappoint him..." This last was said softly, in hopes it wouldn't be heard. He shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing, not for the first time, he hadn't decided to quit smoking.
Angel stared at the picture of dejection, taking in every detail he could. A few seconds passed, and he reached out, talking Spike's face in both hands and moving it to face him. The blond looked at him in confusion, but his expression melted to a soft smile when Angel grinned at him. He took another moment to take in this as well before stepping closer, barely brushing their lips together as he pulled him close.
"Tomorrow," he whispered over the sound of the rain. "You're going to tell Buffy and Faith that none of you will go to my show unless the inventory gets done. And, if you run out of time, you'll leave them there to finish up and come by yourself. Because I want you there with me when I'm getting compliments and offers from potential buyers and art students are flirting with me. I want to show you off."
Spike's arms snaked around Angel's waist, and he rested his head on his shoulder. They rocked slightly as they embraced, and Spike had such a rush of warmth and contentment he almost swooned.
Minutes later, Angel pulled away, unconsciously fixing his hair. "I've got to go," he admitted, looking at him through damp eyelashes. "I've still got some things to do before tomorrow..."
"Yeah, sure, s'alright with me." But it really wasn't. As they walked back, all Spike could think of was getting in that car with him, going back to the apartment he'd never seen, watch him paint till all hours of the morning. And when the hour got too late for either to function, he wanted to curl up around him and hold him as they slept.
He cursed work again, under his breath, and tried not to think about it.
When he reached his car, Angel just stood there, playing with the handle. "So... I'll see you tomorrow, then?" he asked nervously, trying not to blush.
Spike nodded. "Count on it."
Angel gave him a smile that made his stomach flip around. He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before climbing into the car, not ever minding getting his interior wet.
Spike resisted the urge to wave as he drove off, but still watched him as he left, standing in the rain until long after the car had disappeared.