by s.a.

Spike wants to move. It's late, and he's hungry, and right now he's really bored. He kind of wants that chocolate muffin Fred left in the lounge because he can't remember actually ever eating a chocolate muffin, and he wants to see what it tastes like.

He sighs and rustles a little, but not too much because he's been told not to move. Not that he usually takes commands from anyone, but there's two fucking people in the world for whom he does what he's told, and lucky for him they're both alive. Figuratively speaking.

He looks over at Angel, who only has one eyebrow raised and both eyes on his paper, but somehow that one eyebrow seems to convey both, "Do you honestly think you're going anywhere?" and "If you're good, you'll get a chocolate muffin." So he sits relatively still and watches the ceiling. He thinks he must have even less patience now than he did when he was still a vampire, which seems remarkable, but he never used to bounce his knee when he was a vampire and now he has the serious and mind-numbing compulsion to do just that.

Angel makes a quiet suggestion for him to turn to the left a little, and he does, feeling a ripple of air over his skin that makes him shiver. He sees Angel smirk a little and makes a face at him, but whatever. He has a nice view for himself, anyway, in this position, and occupies himself by watching the muscles in Angel's arm shift as he draws thin, quick lines, his fingers jumping all over the page.

Spike never sees the picture until months later, and then he blames this not-being-preternatural thing on how he managed to walk right by the detailed sketch in the hallway every day. He inspects it, pleased with the results.


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