"Get some clothes on."
I blink at him, twice, in rapid succession. This is quite strange. Usually, the command is "get your clothes off," followed by some insult to my heritage.
"What, you daft? Put some damn clothes on." He checks his watch in an obvious gesture of annoyance. Also strange. Not the annoyed part. He's always annoyed. But Spike never checks his watch. I didn't know he had a watch. It's probably mine.
"Why?" I ask, even as I climb out
of the comfort of my bed, the mound of pillows and the soft wisps of sleep
that had just begun to surround me again...Damnit. I don't wanna put my
clothes on. How come we never get to do what I wanna do? It's
always "let's fuck in a fountain"
or "let's have a quick grope in an alley" or "let's go annoy Angel while
he's tied to the bedpost."
I sit back down on the bed.
"Spike," I whine, and ah Christ, I'm whining. I don't care. "I don't wan-gah!"
"What is with you and the 'gah'?" he glares at me, all the while pulling me up and off the bed by ripping my left arm out of its socket. "Get. dressed. We're going out, and we don't have much time."
For the first time, I notice what he's wearing. Blink. "Who are you and what have you done with Spike?"
***
Apparantly the shock of seeing a new shirt got his tongue. Which is fine by me, cause now I don't have to listen to him whine about wanting to go back to bed while I rummage through his drawers and toss him some clothes. He stares at them to make sure they match or some such shit. How many shades of monochrome are there, ya pillock?
Now he's staring at my feet. "They're shoes," I tell him slowly. "Shoe-s. Say it with me now. But finish getting the fuck dressed while you do it, all right? I'm gonna be really pissed off if we're late."
He does that blinking thing again. If I have to dress him, this gig is off.
I toss my duster on, and hope he doesn't notice the clean denims. One more shock to his already overtaxed small brain and he's gonna stroke.
***
Spike has dragged me *out* of bed.
Made me put clothes *on*. Is dressed in a new shirt, clean pants and the
shoes I had to threaten him with bodily harm to purchase during our ill
fated trip to the mall. Is driving rapidly in order to get to somewhere
we
apparantly have an *appointment*
for.
So on the hour long trip to..whereverthehellwe'regoing...one, single, insane thought keeps running through my brain.
Obviously, I am dying.
***
"Yea, table for two. Reservations under the name of Fat Mike." I shrug at him as the hostess wordlessly nods, crosses the name off the list, and grabs a couple of leather bound menus.
"Was either that or Bloody, William-the." The chit shows us to a table. I don't think he heard. I don't think he's processed a damn thing since we walked into this place, actually. Another plus in the column marked 'shut-Angel-right-the-Hell-up'.
A cozy leather bench seat for two
in the darkest part of the place, two menus, and a wine list later, and
we're in business. If he'd stop with the fuck all confused blinking for
two minutes, this would be a mite more fun. Oh hell, that's a lie. I got
the better
of him, and that *is* the fun.
I smirk at him. "What?"
"You--I---We---I can't afford this."
"Right. Bloody good thing you ain't payin' for it, then, innit?"
"Spike..*you* can't afford this."
I do that stupid blink right back at him. Master of the obvious. No wonder he's a goddamn detective.
"Neither one of us is payin', so shut up before I change my mind, drag you back home and leave you to your sodding misery whilst I get drunk and play Nintendo all night, Ok?"
"But--who--?"
"Angelus, stop stuttering. It's only becoming during blow jobs. Otherwise, it's right annoying. And the answer to your idiotic blathering is Weasley and Gunn."
"You stole money from Wesley and Gunn!?"
"No, you asshole," I reply calmly. He's already riled, and I really wanna try this bottle of wine, number 52. It's red, and it's supposed to taste "woodsy." No idea what the hell that means but it sounds entertaining.
"Then where'd you get the money?"
"From Wesley and Gunn." I repeat slowly.
"You *killed* Wesley and Gunn for money to take me out to dinner?"
The waitress interrupts us before I can punch him in the head. So I settle for kicking him under the table.
***
Spike is ordering food. From a menu. At a restaurant. Maybe it's a tumor. I have a brain tumor and noone wants to tell me.
Can vampires have tumors?
"Spike?"
"Yea, what? You didn't want the Night Out Special for Two? Cause if you're gonna change your mind, do it fast. I'm friggin hungry."
"No. No. That's--fine."
It's a tumor.
The waitress comes back and puts this funny little pot in the middle of the table. Soon, it's smoking.
"Spike, the pot's on fire." And, why is there a pot?
"Nah, it's just smoking."
He leans back, and touches his boot clad foot to mine beneath the table. I move an inch, thinking maybe he wants more leg room, but his foot follows. Soon he is rubbing the side of my foot with his own. Spike is playing footsies with me under a table.
At a restaurant.
It's a malignant tumor.
***
So I'm explaining to this 247 year old know-nothing-about-real-life-Nonce what 'fondue' is, while trying to get him liquored up on #52. The liquoring part is working rather nicely; he's still tired, and he's a lightweight pansy anyway. The fondue concept, however, is taking a bit longer.
"Why would you go to a restuarant to cook your own food?" And he looks genuinely puzzled. Dink.
"Cause it's *fun*," I tell him, momentarily forgetting that the concept of 'fun' is as alien to him as the virtues of daytime television, or good taste in women.
"Ok, look...watch." I spear a piece
of raw meat and drop it into the bubbling oil. Yeah. Dead animal flesh,
fire, bottle of wine, and mute Angelus. Damn, the only way this could be
any better would be if I was getting a blow job under the table while
eating the waitress.
***
Spike is picking up chunks of dead
cow with little pointy forks and tossing them into the pot. Which would
be disturbing enough in and of itself if he weren't also making helpless
"moo" noises, and then cackling with glee as the meat slowly cooks.
One more round of "Die, you sodding
bovine!" and I'm going to need another bottle of #52.
He picks up a piece of chicken (("Bastard! Thought you could escape William the Bloody, did you?")) and waves it in front of my face. I pull back reflexively, and he laughs out loud, waggling it some more and proceeding to make hideous clucking noises in a British accent.
"Anglo-Saxon chickens. Now that is frightening," I mutter and down another glass of wine. Somehow, my glass has yet to be empty, although I know I am drinking far more than I probably should be.
"Are you gonna eat some of this or not--and before you ask me 'why?' and force me to skewer your forehead with this here little fork, don't ask me 'why'."
He is taunting me around a mouthful of chicken, beef, shrimp, soy sauce, horseradish, and some concoction that smells suspiciously like those tacos Gunn is so fond of. I may have vampire taste buds, but I know that has to be a bad combination.
"Ok," I concede, "but not all of it mixed together like that."
He mumbles something about my anal-retentive eating habits, but stabs me some shrimp sans gratuitous coatings and hands it to me with a grin. His fingers graze mine and linger there...
"Eat it or I'll stick it up your ass."
Spike love-talk. And now, I am sure of it. Big tumor. No hope.
I turn to catch his gaze, and ask, "Spike, am I --"