Office Politics
by M Phoenix

Holy, Byronic eyebrows of doom, Spike thinks as he saunters into Angel's office. Talk about melodrama, if those things were detachable they could have their own bloody agent, and a TV movie deal.

"Get out," Angel growls; swiveling his chair away to face the wide, blank screen of windows.

"Hmm, let me think. No." Spike leans on the desk, ankles crossed, and flips a switch flooding the room with the sudden glare of sunlight.

The chair bobs once, twice, then rotates slowly towards him. Angel's eyebrows are now reading apocalyptic with a side of pleading. "Some of us have work to do."

"So I see," Spike says, nodding at the pencils, pens, files, blotter, executive stress relief toys, and suspiciously shiny battle axe all perfectly aligned on Angel's desk. He stands, crosses to the window, presses his palm against the glass and watches as the light seems to flare around it for a moment. He closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth; the feel of his palm leaving a print that'll piss off his Broodiness; but mainly enjoying the brief illusion of life.

There is a cacophonous sneeze behind him, and Spike spins round in time to catch Angel straightening his nose and looking embarrassed. "Dnust," he explains thickly, "I think one of my seams is loose, I inhaled some of my stuffing."

Spike is bent double with helpless laughter, hands on his knees, wheezing, nearly crying with mirth. When he finally recovers enough to look up Angel is staring at him, a blank gaze that still manages to carry the sorry weight of the world; though it's even harder than usual to take it seriously in the present circumstances. Still, something about that look makes Spike want to reach out and…he draws his errant hand back and shoves it deep into his pocket.

"Don't worry mate," he mutters, as he makes for the door; his shadow falling across the tiny, felt figure slumped in the depths of its leather chair. "Couple more days you'll be a real boy again."

He slams out and doesn't wait to hear Angel's reply.


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