The Small Places, 1/2
Title: The Small Places
Author: girlpire
Pairing: Spangel
Summary: After an unfortunate battle with a demon, which resulted in his needing hand reattachment surgery, Angel is confined to his Wolfram and Hart apartment while he recovers. With help from the only other person who can really understand what he's going through, Angel begins to re-evaluate his personal definition of beauty.
Author Notes: This story was written for spring_spangel and is in two parts because i have two days. The second part will be posted on April 11th. This is as close to hurt/comfort as I will probably ever be able to make myself write, although it doesn't really present itself as h/c, IMO. The complete story is rated NC17, but the NC17 bits are in the second part. I fully intended to write a PWP, but i couldn't manage to avoid some deeper meaning - which isn't to say that the story is very deep, but that it takes getting through this part to get to the porn. And after the porn, you can expect more meaning. Probably. I haven't quite finished it.
"The Small Places is a brilliantly written story about finding healing and beauty where you least expect it. The most intriguing part is that there is no dialogue. Spike doesn't speak until almost the very end, but his character comes through loud and clear. Even without Spike's "voice," this does not feel like a one-sided story. Angel's pain and Spike's effort are both equally present. This is, in a very real sense, a redemption story. Rather than focus solely on his past evil, Angel discovers the small acts of beauty in himself and the world around him. As he says, "You don't make something beautiful. You find something beautiful, and then you immortalize it. I've sort of always done that, I guess. I just never thought about it that way." Bravo to Girlpire for a stunning and innovative story! Scrumptiously wonderful read every time and for these reason she is our best author."
*
*
The Small Places, Part One of Two
*
Angel sat in his favorite suede chair in the den of his suite, staring forlornly out of the window overlooking the city. It was the middle of the day on a Tuesday, but he hadn't gone down to his office because Fred had threatened to do something scientific and scary and a little confusing to him if he showed up at work this soon after his surgery. He wasn't even supposed to be out of the hospital wing yet, but he'd refused to stay there, so they let him go back to the penthouse under the condition that he not do anything strenuous, like move from one place to another or stare out of the window or breathe.
He sighed. It made him wince.
His sketchpad lay open on his lap. He'd thought he would try drawing some, but his right hand still couldn't hold the pencil correctly, and he'd been told it wouldn't be able to for another couple of weeks after the reattachment procedure. He'd always been a fast healer, so he'd tried to draw anyway, but the faint squiggles he'd made on the page looked like a little kid's drawing, and it depressed him. He was holding the pencil in his left hand, wishing he were ambidextrous, when he heard the suite door open, followed by the clomp-clomp of booted feet wandering through the apartment.
Angel didn't get up. Under normal circumstances, he would have simply pushed his visitor back outside the apartment and then shut the door in his face, but he still ached all over from his battle to the death with that damned octopus-looking thing, so he continued to sit there feeling sorry for himself, waiting for Spike to wander close enough to where he was sitting so he could tell him to go away.
After a moment, Spike found him. Angel didn't even look up. "Go away," he said.
Spike crossed over to the couch opposite of Angel and plopped down onto it.
Angel sighed and winced again. "What do you want, Spike?" he asked. Without giving the blond time to answer, Angel went on, "Whatever it is, no. I'm not in the mood to grant any of your stupid requests today. Can't you see I'm dying?"
Spike raised an eyebrow.
"Figuratively," Angel said.
Spike smirked.
"I don't know why you always have to remind me that we're already dead. As if I could forget."
Spike shrugged.
Angel pointedly looked back out of the window. "Leave me alone," he said. "Go bother Wesley." When Spike didn't move, he asked, "And why haven't you said anything?" He glanced back over at the couch.
Spike grinned and held up a hand, his index finger and thumb rubbing together.
"Money?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded, then looked around the room. His eyes settled on a framed photo of Angel, Wesley, and Cordelia on the end table beside him. He picked up the picture and tapped the glass over Wesley's face.
"Wesley's paying you to be quiet?" Angel guessed. At Spike's nod, he huffed a little laugh and winced again. "I ought to give him a raise," Angel said. "Tell him I'll chip in if he can keep you from talking for a whole week."
Spike gave him a look.
"Right, don't tell him," Angel corrected himself. "I'll tell him. You sit quietly and try not to tilt your head too loud."
Spike ignored this comment and tapped his wrist, nodding in Angel's direction.
Angel glanced down at his hand. "It's fine," he said.
Spike looked skeptical. He pointed at the pencil.
Angel put the pencil back in his right hand, but he couldn't grasp it properly. "It's fine," he said again. He tried once more to manipulate the pencil against his sketchpad, but it slipped out from between his fingers. Off Spike's look, he grudgingly admitted, "Can't really... hold things..."
Spike nodded sympathetically. He made a rude gesture.
Angel grimaced. "Your first concern would be jerking off," he said.
Spike shrugged. He failed to look innocent.
"I'd rather be able to--" Angel stopped. He looked over at the expensive bouquet of get-well flowers from his friends, which was sitting on the coffee table, then back at his sketchpad. He'd almost said he'd rather be able to draw a flower, but then he'd remembered he was talking to Spike. "To go kill something," he finished.
Spike nodded again, settling back into the couch as though he were planning to stay for a while.
"Don't get comfortable," Angel told him. "You're not staying."
Spike gave him his patented Oh, really? look.
"I can't heal with you sitting there," Angel muttered.
Spike rolled his eyes, but he stood up to leave anyway, and Angel was grateful. Before he walked away, though, Spike reached into one of his duster pockets, pulled out an ugly little cactus in a terra cotta pot, and placed it on the coffee table next to the elaborate bouquet.
"The hell is that?" Angel asked, eyeing the squat plant with distaste.
Spike dropped a small piece of paper on Angel's lap.
Angel picked it up with his left hand and read, Get well, ponce. He nodded. "Nice, Spike. Real nice."
Spike smirked and turned to go.
"Thanks," Angel added. He thought Spike probably heard him, but he didn't turn back around.
When Angel heard the door close after him, he looked down at his sketchpad again, his useless hand lying on top of it. Once, more than a hundred years ago, he'd tried to explain to William how it felt to make something beautiful, how art can make you feel alive because it lives inside you, and how, once you've created beauty, you can never really die. Back then, he'd had very different ideas of what beauty was, but he still had the same drive to create it. William had thought the whole thing pointless. They were already going to live forever, right? But he had gone on writing his poems, just the same.
Angel hadn't actually thought about jerking off until Spike mentioned it.
He sighed. It made him wince.
*
The next morning, Angel didn't get out of bed. Since he couldn't go to work, and he couldn't go anywhere else because it was daylight, there wasn't any reason for him to get up. Also, he was still sore pretty much everywhere. His chest didn't hurt quite as much, though.
Around noon, Spike dropped by again. He wandered into Angel's bedroom and stood there at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.
"Go away," Angel said.
Spike rolled his eyes.
"I don't know why you insist on bothering me," Angel said.
Spike shrugged.
"You'd think that my not being at work and your not talking would mean you couldn't actually still bother me... but no. You still bother me."
Spike smirked. He tapped his wrist and pointed at Angel.
"It's fine," Angel said.
Spike mimed drawing something, then raised an eyebrow.
"Haven't tried today," Angel said. "But probably not."
Spike nodded sympathetically. He made a rude gesture.
Angel sighed. "Haven't tried that either."
Spike tilted his head.
"Really," Angel emphasized. Then he added, "Not that it's any of your business." He'd woken up with a hard on, but had stoically ignored it. He closed his eyes and pulled his covers up higher, as if dismissing his visitor. A touch to his foot made him open his eyes again. He moved his foot beneath the sheet. "Did you just touch me?" he asked.
Spike crooked his finger at Angel, then walked out of the room.
Angel didn't get out of bed.
A moment later, Spike returned. He put his hands on his hips and jerked his head towards the door.
"I'm not following you anywhere, Lassie," Angel said.
Spike made his Ha, bloody ha face.
"Look, what do you want?"
Spike slowly pointed at Angel, then pointed at the door, as if to say he couldn't be any clearer.
"You want me to come with you. I get that. Why?"
Spike mimed holding a glass and tilted it up to his mouth.
"You want me to drink with you? Spike, it's barely even noon."
Spike sighed and pushed his game face to the fore, miming the drink again.
"Oh," Angel said. "Right." He was kind of hungry. He sat up slowly and started to get out of bed, but stopped. "Could you just wait in the kitchen?" he asked.
Spike shrugged and walked out again.
Angel stood and stretched, his stiff muscles complaining. His ribs hadn't completely knitted back together, and a sudden, sharp pain in his side made him hunch over for a second. Then he trudged naked over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of pajama pants, dressing himself with only his left hand. He pulled out a t-shirt too, but didn't bother trying to put it on. It was only Spike.
He walked gingerly into his kitchen, finding Spike pouring blood into two mugs. Angel sat at the table and watched him put both mugs into the microwave and start it. There was a smallish box on the table.
"What's that?" Angel asked.
Spike came over and pushed the box toward Angel. He gestured for him to open it.
Angel glanced warily at the blond, but reached for the box anyway with his left hand. He tried to open it, but it kept slipping away from him. He brought his right hand up as well, but it didn't help much. He sighed. "I can't really..."
Spike picked up the box and opened it easily, placing it back in front of Angel. Then the microwave beeped, and he went to retrieve the mugs. Angel looked in the box.
"A camera?" He pulled it out, surprised. It was a nice one. Really nice.
Spike brought the blood to the table and set Angel's mug in front of him, settling into the opposite chair with his own mug.
"What's it for?" Angel asked.
Spike gave him a look.
"Taking pictures. Right. But... why?"
Spike shrugged a shoulder. He took a sip of his blood. When Angel didn't look away, Spike sighed and put down his mug in order to mime drawing again.
Angel furrowed his brow. "I told you, I can't draw until my hand gets better."
Spike pointed at the camera. He indicated the button on top.
Angel blinked. "You think I should take pictures instead."
Spike touched his nose. He picked his blood back up with a rather smug expression.
"That's... that's really..." Angel paused. "Thoughtful," he said. "It's not, you know... the same, but..."
Spike looked vaguely curious.
"Well, with drawing, you're actually creating something. It's... a lot more... personal, I guess. But when you take a picture, the camera does all the work."
Spike disagreed. He started to mime something, then stopped, looking slightly frustrated. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. He scribbled down, It's about beauty, yeah? The camera captures the beauty, but the trick is finding it. You're the one who does that. He held up the pad for Angel to read. Then he added, Because you're a poof, and held this up.
"Thanks," Angel said flatly.
Spike shrugged as though the whole thing had been very obvious. He tucked the pad and pen back into his pocket.
"Why aren't you talking, again?" Angel asked.
Spike held up a hand, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
"I know, Wesley's paying you, but how's he going to know if you talk to me?"
Spike tapped his ear.
"How would he hear you all the way up here? Not that I want you to start talking or anything."
Spike smiled and turned his head, pushing his ear forward a little bit.
Angel could just make out a small round mark behind Spike's ear. It looked almost like a mole. Since Angel was intimately familiar with every inch of Spike's body - although he tried not to think about it very often - he was surprised to find a spot he didn't remember. When he leaned closer, though, he saw that it was some sort of tiny electronic device stuck to Spike's skin, about an inch below his hairline.
"You let him bug you?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded.
"Must be a lot of money."
Spike smiled enigmatically.
The two finished their lunch in silence. Angel found the quiet oddly companionable, and he resolved to thank Wesley with cash. Spike wasn't such a nuisance when he wasn't talking. It was actually kind of nice having someone to sit with, too. Glancing over, he could see that Spike was trying to hide a grin.
"What?" he asked.
Spike indicated Angel's hair.
Angel reached up and felt the top of his head. His hair was completely flat, except for one piece sticking straight up in back. "Shut up," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, fluffing it a little. So Spike could still be a nuisance without talking. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he suggested.
Spike held up his hands placatingly, then took their empty mugs to the sink to rinse them out. When he was done, he caught a few drops of water in one of the mugs and carried it into the den area. Angel could still see him from the side, stooping down to let the water drip out into the ugly little cactus' terra cotta pot. Afterwards, he returned to the kitchen, dried the mugs, and placed them back into the cabinet.
"Thanks," Angel said as Spike closed the cabinet door. He waited for Spike to turn toward him and gestured at the camera. "For that. And lunch. It's not really like you to... I mean, I'm just not used to you being so... you know. So thanks."
Spike smiled briefly, then looked away. When he glanced back at Angel after a moment, he looked more serious. He came over and stood in front of Angel, tugging up the sleeve of his duster, holding his arm up at Angel's eye-level.
Angel could just barely make out a thin white scar circling Spike's wrist. Pretty soon, it would be completely faded, but it was still prominent enough to remind Angel of the ordeal Spike had gone through not long ago. His own scar was still a thick, angry line.
"Oh," was all he could come up with to say. "I didn't think about that."
Spike didn't look surprised. He reached over and let his hand rest on Angel's shoulder, squeezing it briefly. Then he pointed at the camera.
"I'll try it," Angel said.
Spike patted him on the back, then walked away. He lifted his hand in a small wave as he left the apartment.
*
A short while later, Angel was sitting at the desk in his study installing digital camera image retrieval software on his laptop. It wasn't as confusing as he'd feared it would be. There were little step-by-step instructions to tell him exactly what to do, and it didn't take very long to get everything set up. He just needed some images to retrieve.
He read the camera manual first. Well, not the whole thing, but enough to get a basic knowledge of the zoom feature and other settings. Then he went out into the den and stood in front of the flowers his friends had sent. They were beginning to droop a little. He took a picture of them.
Then he went back to his study and plugged the camera into the laptop, pulling the picture of the flowers from the camera.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he sighed and turned the computer off.
*
On Thursday, Spike came by again. Angel was still in bed.
"Don't you have any other clothes?" Angel asked sleepily.
Spike raised his eyebrows. He glanced down at his outfit and back at Angel.
"I was just wondering. You always wear that." Angel rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?" he asked.
Spike held up two fingers.
"Doesn't feel that late." Angel sat up slowly, his side still hurting. He glanced at the clock. It was about nine. He glared back at Spike.
Spike smirked.
"Go away," Angel mumbled, lying back down.
Spike walked around the bed and plopped down onto the empty side.
"Go away," Angel repeated, using his left hand to pull the pillow from beneath his head and smack Spike halfheartedly with it.
Spike took the pillow from Angel and lay down, placing it beneath his own head. He crossed his ankles, his boots not quite reaching the end of the bed.
Angel scowled. "Give me that," he muttered, taking the pillow back from Spike and shoving it back under his own head, where it belonged. "And get your feet off my bed."
Spike didn't move.
"What are you doing here this early anyway?" Angel asked.
Spike exaggerated a yawn.
"What am I, your entertainment? I don't care if you're bored. Leave me alone."
Spike shook his head sadly, a You'll never learn expression on his face.
Angel sighed heavily and shut his eyes.
Spike turned on his side, propped on one elbow facing Angel. He tapped him for attention, and when Angel opened one eye to look at him, he tapped his own wrist and raised an eyebrow.
"It's fine," Angel said. He closed his eyes again, again opening them when Spike tapped his arm.
Spike mimed taking a picture.
Angel looked away. "Yeah, I tried it," he said. "It's not really... I just don't think it's for me."
Spike tapped him again.
"Would you quit touching me?" Angel said, turning toward him. "It's weird enough that you're in my bed."
Spike pointed at his eye. He pointed at Angel and mimed taking a picture again.
"I'm not showing you," Angel said. "It looks stupid."
Spike poked him.
Angel stared. He pulled the sheet up higher and said, "If you leave right now, I promise to forget that you just touched my stomach."
Spike rolled his eyes. He got off of the bed and walked around to Angel's side. He crooked his finger.
"No," Angel said. "I'm staying in bed. I'm supposed to be resting anyway." He closed his eyes. They flew back open when he was tugged nearly halfway out of bed by the foot. "Spike!" He scrambled backwards, accidentally leaning on his right hand the wrong way. "Ow, fuck..." he groaned.
Spike looked slightly apologetic.
"See?" Angel emphasized. "I should be resting." He smirked. "Now don't you feel bad?"
Spike's eyes narrowed. He went for Angel's foot again.
Angel quickly moved his foot out of the way.
Spike changed tactics in mid-reach and grabbed the edge of the sheet instead. He whipped it down and off Angel's body in one fluid motion.
Angel made a grab for the sheet with his left hand but missed. He lay there naked and stunned for about two seconds before he grabbed a pillow and put it over his lap. He glared daggers at Spike.
Spike smiled gleefully, still holding the sheet. Then he made a rude gesture and nodded at the pillow.
"No," Angel gritted out. "I just have to wait until it goes away."
Spike looked especially amused.
"It's the morning!" Angel protested. "Don't even pretend it doesn't happen to you."
Spike tossed the sheet back at Angel, who caught it and dragged it up to his chest. Spike beckoned him again.
"You expect me to follow you after that?"
He nodded.
"Wait outside," Angel grumbled.
Spike smirked and walked out.
Angel dressed himself in a pair of pajama pants, like he had the day before. Most of his bruises had disappeared by now, except for the bad ones over his chest and side. He also had some bruising around his right wrist, along with the big red scar where his hand had been reattached. He tried to think how long it had been since Spike's hands had been replaced, but he couldn't remember. Angel still couldn't turn his hand or wiggle his fingers or thumb.
As he left the bedroom, he walked right into a blinding flash of light. He blinked, then saw Spike standing there with his camera. "I'm sure that will be lovely," Angel said.
Spike looked skeptical.
They walked into the study area, and Angel turned on his laptop. Spike handed over the camera, and Angel plugged it into the computer, transferring the picture of himself onto the screen. They both looked at it.
"You cut off my head," Angel said.
Spike shrugged.
"I've always wondered why we show up on camera. Doesn't seem like we would."
Spike nodded.
"It's a good quality picture though. You can see all my bruises." He pointed at the screen. "I didn't even know that one was there."
Spike looked down at Angel's chest, then back at the screen. Then he unplugged the camera and handed it to Angel. He backed up a few steps. He pointed at himself.
Angel obligingly snapped a picture. As Spike came forward again, he plugged the camera back in and transferred that picture onto the computer. They both looked at it.
Spike reached up and smoothed his hair.
"It's good," Angel said. "You're photogenic."
Spike smirked. He pulled his small notebook and pen out of his pocket and wrote, I'm hot. He held it up for Angel to see.
Angel rolled his eyes.
Spike wrote, Brought something for you. He showed Angel, then walked out of the room for a moment, returning with a book. He handed it over.
It was an art book. Angel opened it and flipped through a few pages. They were all photographs. "Thanks," he said.
Spike wrote, Show me yours.
Angel raised an eyebrow at him.
The photo, wanker, Spike wrote.
"No," Angel said. "It isn't very good. It's not like..." He gestured at the book.
Spike looked at him expectantly.
Angel sighed. "Fine," he said. He pulled up the picture of his flowers on the screen.
Spike looked at it.
"I told you it wasn't very good," Angel mumbled.
Spike tilted his head, squinting a little. Then he wrote down, Doesn't look like your drawings.
Angel read this. He pointed at the camera. "That isn't a pencil," he said.
Spike nodded. He sighed, as if saying Oh, well, and tucked the notebook and pen back into his pocket. Then he pulled them back out and wrote, Lunch later? He held it up for Angel to see.
"Sure, I guess," Angel said.
Spike nodded. He wrote, 1PM, showed Angel, then turned and left the penthouse.
*
Angel lay on his couch and flipped through the book of photographs. They were beautiful. There were quite a few landscapes, but there were also a lot of close-ups of ordinary things. He liked those the best. If you zoomed in close enough, you could forget what the object was and just see the beauty in the shapes that made it up. Looking at the pictures, he could sort of understand what Spike had meant the day before, when he talked about finding the beauty. It was hidden in the small places, in the little swirls and crevices you didn't think to look in until someone else pointed them out.
Angel went to get his camera.
*
When Spike came back at one, Angel was sitting at his laptop. He turned it off as Spike came in the room. "I took some more pictures," he said. Spike looked curious, but Angel told him, "I don't want you to see them yet."
Spike nodded. He went into the kitchen. Angel followed him and sat down at the table while Spike heated up two mugs of blood. Angel had moved the little cactus to the kitchen, and it now sat on the table, an oddly aesthetic centerpiece.
"I looked at the book you gave me," Angel said when Spike brought the mugs to the table. "I liked it."
Spike looked pleased. He sat down and took a sip of blood.
"What you said... about finding the beauty in things before you can capture it... that makes sense."
Spike nodded.
Angel drank some of his lunch and then went on. "It's like... you don't make something beautiful," he explained. "You find something beautiful, and then you immortalize it." He looked at Spike intently when he said this. "I've sort of always done that, I guess," he said. "I just never thought about it that way."
Spike held Angel's gaze for a few seconds, then looked down. He drank from his mug.
They sat in silence for a while. Then Angel asked quietly, "Do you remember when I used to draw you?"
There was a pause, and then the blond head dipped slightly in a nod.
"It was almost always after... you know," Angel said.
Spiked huffed a little laugh.
"You always looked so... content. The expression on your face. I... really liked it. That's what I was trying to keep. Mostly."
Spike nodded slowly. He bit his lip, then pointed at Angel.
"What, me too?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded again.
Angel smiled. "Too bad you're a horrible artist," he said.
Spike looked away, sighed, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his little notebook and held it up.
Angel blinked. "You wrote about me?"
Spike shrugged as if it were no big deal. He stuck the notebook back in his pocket.
"I didn't know," Angel said. "I thought you just wrote those silly little love poems for Dru. And that one for Darla. Remember? When she laughed at you in front of all our minions?" Off Spike's look, he added, "Yeah, I don't really... remember that either..."
Spike glowered.
"Anyway, this is really... good blood." Angel drank the rest of his.
Spike didn't move.
Angel swallowed and slowly set the mug down. "So, I was thinking about it, and..." He cleared his throat politely, letting the fingers of his left hand play around the edge of his mug. "I wondered if you would come back, you know, later. Tonight."
Spike's expression changed from miffed to surprised, then slightly amused.
"I mean, after you left, you know, after lunch. If you would... come back. Here."
Spike tilted his head.
"Just to, I don't know, hang out or whatever. Not like... you know what, forget it. Never mind. Pretend I didn't say anything."
Spike waited.
"It's just, I thought maybe I could take your picture, is all," Angel said. "Like when I used to draw you." He looked away and sighed. "Forget it," he said again.
Spike kicked him under the table.
"Ow!" Angel said. "What the hell was that for?"
Spike gave him a look. He mouthed, When?
"Um," Angel said. "Is eight o'clock alright?"
Spike considered. He held up nine fingers.
"Okay, nine," Angel said.
Spike nodded, then finished off his blood and stood up. He took their mugs to the sink and rinsed them out, then dried and put them away. Angel watched him move.
"I guess I'll see you later," Angel said.
Spike waved briefly before he left the apartment. As the door shut, Angel's eyes fell to the little cactus, sharp and green in the middle of the table. He smiled.
*
second part here.
Author: girlpire
Pairing: Spangel
Summary: After an unfortunate battle with a demon, which resulted in his needing hand reattachment surgery, Angel is confined to his Wolfram and Hart apartment while he recovers. With help from the only other person who can really understand what he's going through, Angel begins to re-evaluate his personal definition of beauty.
Author Notes: This story was written for spring_spangel and is in two parts because i have two days. The second part will be posted on April 11th. This is as close to hurt/comfort as I will probably ever be able to make myself write, although it doesn't really present itself as h/c, IMO. The complete story is rated NC17, but the NC17 bits are in the second part. I fully intended to write a PWP, but i couldn't manage to avoid some deeper meaning - which isn't to say that the story is very deep, but that it takes getting through this part to get to the porn. And after the porn, you can expect more meaning. Probably. I haven't quite finished it.
"The Small Places is a brilliantly written story about finding healing and beauty where you least expect it. The most intriguing part is that there is no dialogue. Spike doesn't speak until almost the very end, but his character comes through loud and clear. Even without Spike's "voice," this does not feel like a one-sided story. Angel's pain and Spike's effort are both equally present. This is, in a very real sense, a redemption story. Rather than focus solely on his past evil, Angel discovers the small acts of beauty in himself and the world around him. As he says, "You don't make something beautiful. You find something beautiful, and then you immortalize it. I've sort of always done that, I guess. I just never thought about it that way." Bravo to Girlpire for a stunning and innovative story! Scrumptiously wonderful read every time and for these reason she is our best author."
*
*
The Small Places, Part One of Two
*
Angel sat in his favorite suede chair in the den of his suite, staring forlornly out of the window overlooking the city. It was the middle of the day on a Tuesday, but he hadn't gone down to his office because Fred had threatened to do something scientific and scary and a little confusing to him if he showed up at work this soon after his surgery. He wasn't even supposed to be out of the hospital wing yet, but he'd refused to stay there, so they let him go back to the penthouse under the condition that he not do anything strenuous, like move from one place to another or stare out of the window or breathe.
He sighed. It made him wince.
His sketchpad lay open on his lap. He'd thought he would try drawing some, but his right hand still couldn't hold the pencil correctly, and he'd been told it wouldn't be able to for another couple of weeks after the reattachment procedure. He'd always been a fast healer, so he'd tried to draw anyway, but the faint squiggles he'd made on the page looked like a little kid's drawing, and it depressed him. He was holding the pencil in his left hand, wishing he were ambidextrous, when he heard the suite door open, followed by the clomp-clomp of booted feet wandering through the apartment.
Angel didn't get up. Under normal circumstances, he would have simply pushed his visitor back outside the apartment and then shut the door in his face, but he still ached all over from his battle to the death with that damned octopus-looking thing, so he continued to sit there feeling sorry for himself, waiting for Spike to wander close enough to where he was sitting so he could tell him to go away.
After a moment, Spike found him. Angel didn't even look up. "Go away," he said.
Spike crossed over to the couch opposite of Angel and plopped down onto it.
Angel sighed and winced again. "What do you want, Spike?" he asked. Without giving the blond time to answer, Angel went on, "Whatever it is, no. I'm not in the mood to grant any of your stupid requests today. Can't you see I'm dying?"
Spike raised an eyebrow.
"Figuratively," Angel said.
Spike smirked.
"I don't know why you always have to remind me that we're already dead. As if I could forget."
Spike shrugged.
Angel pointedly looked back out of the window. "Leave me alone," he said. "Go bother Wesley." When Spike didn't move, he asked, "And why haven't you said anything?" He glanced back over at the couch.
Spike grinned and held up a hand, his index finger and thumb rubbing together.
"Money?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded, then looked around the room. His eyes settled on a framed photo of Angel, Wesley, and Cordelia on the end table beside him. He picked up the picture and tapped the glass over Wesley's face.
"Wesley's paying you to be quiet?" Angel guessed. At Spike's nod, he huffed a little laugh and winced again. "I ought to give him a raise," Angel said. "Tell him I'll chip in if he can keep you from talking for a whole week."
Spike gave him a look.
"Right, don't tell him," Angel corrected himself. "I'll tell him. You sit quietly and try not to tilt your head too loud."
Spike ignored this comment and tapped his wrist, nodding in Angel's direction.
Angel glanced down at his hand. "It's fine," he said.
Spike looked skeptical. He pointed at the pencil.
Angel put the pencil back in his right hand, but he couldn't grasp it properly. "It's fine," he said again. He tried once more to manipulate the pencil against his sketchpad, but it slipped out from between his fingers. Off Spike's look, he grudgingly admitted, "Can't really... hold things..."
Spike nodded sympathetically. He made a rude gesture.
Angel grimaced. "Your first concern would be jerking off," he said.
Spike shrugged. He failed to look innocent.
"I'd rather be able to--" Angel stopped. He looked over at the expensive bouquet of get-well flowers from his friends, which was sitting on the coffee table, then back at his sketchpad. He'd almost said he'd rather be able to draw a flower, but then he'd remembered he was talking to Spike. "To go kill something," he finished.
Spike nodded again, settling back into the couch as though he were planning to stay for a while.
"Don't get comfortable," Angel told him. "You're not staying."
Spike gave him his patented Oh, really? look.
"I can't heal with you sitting there," Angel muttered.
Spike rolled his eyes, but he stood up to leave anyway, and Angel was grateful. Before he walked away, though, Spike reached into one of his duster pockets, pulled out an ugly little cactus in a terra cotta pot, and placed it on the coffee table next to the elaborate bouquet.
"The hell is that?" Angel asked, eyeing the squat plant with distaste.
Spike dropped a small piece of paper on Angel's lap.
Angel picked it up with his left hand and read, Get well, ponce. He nodded. "Nice, Spike. Real nice."
Spike smirked and turned to go.
"Thanks," Angel added. He thought Spike probably heard him, but he didn't turn back around.
When Angel heard the door close after him, he looked down at his sketchpad again, his useless hand lying on top of it. Once, more than a hundred years ago, he'd tried to explain to William how it felt to make something beautiful, how art can make you feel alive because it lives inside you, and how, once you've created beauty, you can never really die. Back then, he'd had very different ideas of what beauty was, but he still had the same drive to create it. William had thought the whole thing pointless. They were already going to live forever, right? But he had gone on writing his poems, just the same.
Angel hadn't actually thought about jerking off until Spike mentioned it.
He sighed. It made him wince.
*
The next morning, Angel didn't get out of bed. Since he couldn't go to work, and he couldn't go anywhere else because it was daylight, there wasn't any reason for him to get up. Also, he was still sore pretty much everywhere. His chest didn't hurt quite as much, though.
Around noon, Spike dropped by again. He wandered into Angel's bedroom and stood there at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.
"Go away," Angel said.
Spike rolled his eyes.
"I don't know why you insist on bothering me," Angel said.
Spike shrugged.
"You'd think that my not being at work and your not talking would mean you couldn't actually still bother me... but no. You still bother me."
Spike smirked. He tapped his wrist and pointed at Angel.
"It's fine," Angel said.
Spike mimed drawing something, then raised an eyebrow.
"Haven't tried today," Angel said. "But probably not."
Spike nodded sympathetically. He made a rude gesture.
Angel sighed. "Haven't tried that either."
Spike tilted his head.
"Really," Angel emphasized. Then he added, "Not that it's any of your business." He'd woken up with a hard on, but had stoically ignored it. He closed his eyes and pulled his covers up higher, as if dismissing his visitor. A touch to his foot made him open his eyes again. He moved his foot beneath the sheet. "Did you just touch me?" he asked.
Spike crooked his finger at Angel, then walked out of the room.
Angel didn't get out of bed.
A moment later, Spike returned. He put his hands on his hips and jerked his head towards the door.
"I'm not following you anywhere, Lassie," Angel said.
Spike made his Ha, bloody ha face.
"Look, what do you want?"
Spike slowly pointed at Angel, then pointed at the door, as if to say he couldn't be any clearer.
"You want me to come with you. I get that. Why?"
Spike mimed holding a glass and tilted it up to his mouth.
"You want me to drink with you? Spike, it's barely even noon."
Spike sighed and pushed his game face to the fore, miming the drink again.
"Oh," Angel said. "Right." He was kind of hungry. He sat up slowly and started to get out of bed, but stopped. "Could you just wait in the kitchen?" he asked.
Spike shrugged and walked out again.
Angel stood and stretched, his stiff muscles complaining. His ribs hadn't completely knitted back together, and a sudden, sharp pain in his side made him hunch over for a second. Then he trudged naked over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of pajama pants, dressing himself with only his left hand. He pulled out a t-shirt too, but didn't bother trying to put it on. It was only Spike.
He walked gingerly into his kitchen, finding Spike pouring blood into two mugs. Angel sat at the table and watched him put both mugs into the microwave and start it. There was a smallish box on the table.
"What's that?" Angel asked.
Spike came over and pushed the box toward Angel. He gestured for him to open it.
Angel glanced warily at the blond, but reached for the box anyway with his left hand. He tried to open it, but it kept slipping away from him. He brought his right hand up as well, but it didn't help much. He sighed. "I can't really..."
Spike picked up the box and opened it easily, placing it back in front of Angel. Then the microwave beeped, and he went to retrieve the mugs. Angel looked in the box.
"A camera?" He pulled it out, surprised. It was a nice one. Really nice.
Spike brought the blood to the table and set Angel's mug in front of him, settling into the opposite chair with his own mug.
"What's it for?" Angel asked.
Spike gave him a look.
"Taking pictures. Right. But... why?"
Spike shrugged a shoulder. He took a sip of his blood. When Angel didn't look away, Spike sighed and put down his mug in order to mime drawing again.
Angel furrowed his brow. "I told you, I can't draw until my hand gets better."
Spike pointed at the camera. He indicated the button on top.
Angel blinked. "You think I should take pictures instead."
Spike touched his nose. He picked his blood back up with a rather smug expression.
"That's... that's really..." Angel paused. "Thoughtful," he said. "It's not, you know... the same, but..."
Spike looked vaguely curious.
"Well, with drawing, you're actually creating something. It's... a lot more... personal, I guess. But when you take a picture, the camera does all the work."
Spike disagreed. He started to mime something, then stopped, looking slightly frustrated. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. He scribbled down, It's about beauty, yeah? The camera captures the beauty, but the trick is finding it. You're the one who does that. He held up the pad for Angel to read. Then he added, Because you're a poof, and held this up.
"Thanks," Angel said flatly.
Spike shrugged as though the whole thing had been very obvious. He tucked the pad and pen back into his pocket.
"Why aren't you talking, again?" Angel asked.
Spike held up a hand, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
"I know, Wesley's paying you, but how's he going to know if you talk to me?"
Spike tapped his ear.
"How would he hear you all the way up here? Not that I want you to start talking or anything."
Spike smiled and turned his head, pushing his ear forward a little bit.
Angel could just make out a small round mark behind Spike's ear. It looked almost like a mole. Since Angel was intimately familiar with every inch of Spike's body - although he tried not to think about it very often - he was surprised to find a spot he didn't remember. When he leaned closer, though, he saw that it was some sort of tiny electronic device stuck to Spike's skin, about an inch below his hairline.
"You let him bug you?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded.
"Must be a lot of money."
Spike smiled enigmatically.
The two finished their lunch in silence. Angel found the quiet oddly companionable, and he resolved to thank Wesley with cash. Spike wasn't such a nuisance when he wasn't talking. It was actually kind of nice having someone to sit with, too. Glancing over, he could see that Spike was trying to hide a grin.
"What?" he asked.
Spike indicated Angel's hair.
Angel reached up and felt the top of his head. His hair was completely flat, except for one piece sticking straight up in back. "Shut up," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, fluffing it a little. So Spike could still be a nuisance without talking. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he suggested.
Spike held up his hands placatingly, then took their empty mugs to the sink to rinse them out. When he was done, he caught a few drops of water in one of the mugs and carried it into the den area. Angel could still see him from the side, stooping down to let the water drip out into the ugly little cactus' terra cotta pot. Afterwards, he returned to the kitchen, dried the mugs, and placed them back into the cabinet.
"Thanks," Angel said as Spike closed the cabinet door. He waited for Spike to turn toward him and gestured at the camera. "For that. And lunch. It's not really like you to... I mean, I'm just not used to you being so... you know. So thanks."
Spike smiled briefly, then looked away. When he glanced back at Angel after a moment, he looked more serious. He came over and stood in front of Angel, tugging up the sleeve of his duster, holding his arm up at Angel's eye-level.
Angel could just barely make out a thin white scar circling Spike's wrist. Pretty soon, it would be completely faded, but it was still prominent enough to remind Angel of the ordeal Spike had gone through not long ago. His own scar was still a thick, angry line.
"Oh," was all he could come up with to say. "I didn't think about that."
Spike didn't look surprised. He reached over and let his hand rest on Angel's shoulder, squeezing it briefly. Then he pointed at the camera.
"I'll try it," Angel said.
Spike patted him on the back, then walked away. He lifted his hand in a small wave as he left the apartment.
*
A short while later, Angel was sitting at the desk in his study installing digital camera image retrieval software on his laptop. It wasn't as confusing as he'd feared it would be. There were little step-by-step instructions to tell him exactly what to do, and it didn't take very long to get everything set up. He just needed some images to retrieve.
He read the camera manual first. Well, not the whole thing, but enough to get a basic knowledge of the zoom feature and other settings. Then he went out into the den and stood in front of the flowers his friends had sent. They were beginning to droop a little. He took a picture of them.
Then he went back to his study and plugged the camera into the laptop, pulling the picture of the flowers from the camera.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he sighed and turned the computer off.
*
On Thursday, Spike came by again. Angel was still in bed.
"Don't you have any other clothes?" Angel asked sleepily.
Spike raised his eyebrows. He glanced down at his outfit and back at Angel.
"I was just wondering. You always wear that." Angel rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?" he asked.
Spike held up two fingers.
"Doesn't feel that late." Angel sat up slowly, his side still hurting. He glanced at the clock. It was about nine. He glared back at Spike.
Spike smirked.
"Go away," Angel mumbled, lying back down.
Spike walked around the bed and plopped down onto the empty side.
"Go away," Angel repeated, using his left hand to pull the pillow from beneath his head and smack Spike halfheartedly with it.
Spike took the pillow from Angel and lay down, placing it beneath his own head. He crossed his ankles, his boots not quite reaching the end of the bed.
Angel scowled. "Give me that," he muttered, taking the pillow back from Spike and shoving it back under his own head, where it belonged. "And get your feet off my bed."
Spike didn't move.
"What are you doing here this early anyway?" Angel asked.
Spike exaggerated a yawn.
"What am I, your entertainment? I don't care if you're bored. Leave me alone."
Spike shook his head sadly, a You'll never learn expression on his face.
Angel sighed heavily and shut his eyes.
Spike turned on his side, propped on one elbow facing Angel. He tapped him for attention, and when Angel opened one eye to look at him, he tapped his own wrist and raised an eyebrow.
"It's fine," Angel said. He closed his eyes again, again opening them when Spike tapped his arm.
Spike mimed taking a picture.
Angel looked away. "Yeah, I tried it," he said. "It's not really... I just don't think it's for me."
Spike tapped him again.
"Would you quit touching me?" Angel said, turning toward him. "It's weird enough that you're in my bed."
Spike pointed at his eye. He pointed at Angel and mimed taking a picture again.
"I'm not showing you," Angel said. "It looks stupid."
Spike poked him.
Angel stared. He pulled the sheet up higher and said, "If you leave right now, I promise to forget that you just touched my stomach."
Spike rolled his eyes. He got off of the bed and walked around to Angel's side. He crooked his finger.
"No," Angel said. "I'm staying in bed. I'm supposed to be resting anyway." He closed his eyes. They flew back open when he was tugged nearly halfway out of bed by the foot. "Spike!" He scrambled backwards, accidentally leaning on his right hand the wrong way. "Ow, fuck..." he groaned.
Spike looked slightly apologetic.
"See?" Angel emphasized. "I should be resting." He smirked. "Now don't you feel bad?"
Spike's eyes narrowed. He went for Angel's foot again.
Angel quickly moved his foot out of the way.
Spike changed tactics in mid-reach and grabbed the edge of the sheet instead. He whipped it down and off Angel's body in one fluid motion.
Angel made a grab for the sheet with his left hand but missed. He lay there naked and stunned for about two seconds before he grabbed a pillow and put it over his lap. He glared daggers at Spike.
Spike smiled gleefully, still holding the sheet. Then he made a rude gesture and nodded at the pillow.
"No," Angel gritted out. "I just have to wait until it goes away."
Spike looked especially amused.
"It's the morning!" Angel protested. "Don't even pretend it doesn't happen to you."
Spike tossed the sheet back at Angel, who caught it and dragged it up to his chest. Spike beckoned him again.
"You expect me to follow you after that?"
He nodded.
"Wait outside," Angel grumbled.
Spike smirked and walked out.
Angel dressed himself in a pair of pajama pants, like he had the day before. Most of his bruises had disappeared by now, except for the bad ones over his chest and side. He also had some bruising around his right wrist, along with the big red scar where his hand had been reattached. He tried to think how long it had been since Spike's hands had been replaced, but he couldn't remember. Angel still couldn't turn his hand or wiggle his fingers or thumb.
As he left the bedroom, he walked right into a blinding flash of light. He blinked, then saw Spike standing there with his camera. "I'm sure that will be lovely," Angel said.
Spike looked skeptical.
They walked into the study area, and Angel turned on his laptop. Spike handed over the camera, and Angel plugged it into the computer, transferring the picture of himself onto the screen. They both looked at it.
"You cut off my head," Angel said.
Spike shrugged.
"I've always wondered why we show up on camera. Doesn't seem like we would."
Spike nodded.
"It's a good quality picture though. You can see all my bruises." He pointed at the screen. "I didn't even know that one was there."
Spike looked down at Angel's chest, then back at the screen. Then he unplugged the camera and handed it to Angel. He backed up a few steps. He pointed at himself.
Angel obligingly snapped a picture. As Spike came forward again, he plugged the camera back in and transferred that picture onto the computer. They both looked at it.
Spike reached up and smoothed his hair.
"It's good," Angel said. "You're photogenic."
Spike smirked. He pulled his small notebook and pen out of his pocket and wrote, I'm hot. He held it up for Angel to see.
Angel rolled his eyes.
Spike wrote, Brought something for you. He showed Angel, then walked out of the room for a moment, returning with a book. He handed it over.
It was an art book. Angel opened it and flipped through a few pages. They were all photographs. "Thanks," he said.
Spike wrote, Show me yours.
Angel raised an eyebrow at him.
The photo, wanker, Spike wrote.
"No," Angel said. "It isn't very good. It's not like..." He gestured at the book.
Spike looked at him expectantly.
Angel sighed. "Fine," he said. He pulled up the picture of his flowers on the screen.
Spike looked at it.
"I told you it wasn't very good," Angel mumbled.
Spike tilted his head, squinting a little. Then he wrote down, Doesn't look like your drawings.
Angel read this. He pointed at the camera. "That isn't a pencil," he said.
Spike nodded. He sighed, as if saying Oh, well, and tucked the notebook and pen back into his pocket. Then he pulled them back out and wrote, Lunch later? He held it up for Angel to see.
"Sure, I guess," Angel said.
Spike nodded. He wrote, 1PM, showed Angel, then turned and left the penthouse.
*
Angel lay on his couch and flipped through the book of photographs. They were beautiful. There were quite a few landscapes, but there were also a lot of close-ups of ordinary things. He liked those the best. If you zoomed in close enough, you could forget what the object was and just see the beauty in the shapes that made it up. Looking at the pictures, he could sort of understand what Spike had meant the day before, when he talked about finding the beauty. It was hidden in the small places, in the little swirls and crevices you didn't think to look in until someone else pointed them out.
Angel went to get his camera.
*
When Spike came back at one, Angel was sitting at his laptop. He turned it off as Spike came in the room. "I took some more pictures," he said. Spike looked curious, but Angel told him, "I don't want you to see them yet."
Spike nodded. He went into the kitchen. Angel followed him and sat down at the table while Spike heated up two mugs of blood. Angel had moved the little cactus to the kitchen, and it now sat on the table, an oddly aesthetic centerpiece.
"I looked at the book you gave me," Angel said when Spike brought the mugs to the table. "I liked it."
Spike looked pleased. He sat down and took a sip of blood.
"What you said... about finding the beauty in things before you can capture it... that makes sense."
Spike nodded.
Angel drank some of his lunch and then went on. "It's like... you don't make something beautiful," he explained. "You find something beautiful, and then you immortalize it." He looked at Spike intently when he said this. "I've sort of always done that, I guess," he said. "I just never thought about it that way."
Spike held Angel's gaze for a few seconds, then looked down. He drank from his mug.
They sat in silence for a while. Then Angel asked quietly, "Do you remember when I used to draw you?"
There was a pause, and then the blond head dipped slightly in a nod.
"It was almost always after... you know," Angel said.
Spiked huffed a little laugh.
"You always looked so... content. The expression on your face. I... really liked it. That's what I was trying to keep. Mostly."
Spike nodded slowly. He bit his lip, then pointed at Angel.
"What, me too?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded again.
Angel smiled. "Too bad you're a horrible artist," he said.
Spike looked away, sighed, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his little notebook and held it up.
Angel blinked. "You wrote about me?"
Spike shrugged as if it were no big deal. He stuck the notebook back in his pocket.
"I didn't know," Angel said. "I thought you just wrote those silly little love poems for Dru. And that one for Darla. Remember? When she laughed at you in front of all our minions?" Off Spike's look, he added, "Yeah, I don't really... remember that either..."
Spike glowered.
"Anyway, this is really... good blood." Angel drank the rest of his.
Spike didn't move.
Angel swallowed and slowly set the mug down. "So, I was thinking about it, and..." He cleared his throat politely, letting the fingers of his left hand play around the edge of his mug. "I wondered if you would come back, you know, later. Tonight."
Spike's expression changed from miffed to surprised, then slightly amused.
"I mean, after you left, you know, after lunch. If you would... come back. Here."
Spike tilted his head.
"Just to, I don't know, hang out or whatever. Not like... you know what, forget it. Never mind. Pretend I didn't say anything."
Spike waited.
"It's just, I thought maybe I could take your picture, is all," Angel said. "Like when I used to draw you." He looked away and sighed. "Forget it," he said again.
Spike kicked him under the table.
"Ow!" Angel said. "What the hell was that for?"
Spike gave him a look. He mouthed, When?
"Um," Angel said. "Is eight o'clock alright?"
Spike considered. He held up nine fingers.
"Okay, nine," Angel said.
Spike nodded, then finished off his blood and stood up. He took their mugs to the sink and rinsed them out, then dried and put them away. Angel watched him move.
"I guess I'll see you later," Angel said.
Spike waved briefly before he left the apartment. As the door shut, Angel's eyes fell to the little cactus, sharp and green in the middle of the table. He smiled.
*
second part here.