stakebait | (no subject)

A short Spike/Angel snippet. Early ATS season 5. Self-rated PG. Mutant Enemy characters, not mine.

"You just have to tell them how you feel, that's all."

Spike likes Fred, he really does, and not just because she's skinny and half-crazy, or because he's grateful to have a body that can grip a shot glass and crush a lime to sticky pulp in his hand. He reminded himself of this so that he wouldn't ram a plastic stirrer up her left nostril to see if he could mix the smart back in.

"Test that hypothesis, did you, pet?" he said instead, and poured another round without dripping a drop on the stainless steel gurney that served them for a bar.

She slammed it back like a pro and only spoiled it a little with a tiny cough and widened eyes. "Yeah."

"How'd that go for you?" Spike asked.

"It wasn't a statistically significant sample," she enunciated with exaggerated dignity. "Gimme the salt."

Spike left it where it was, just out of reach. "Admit it, talking never goes well."

"You evil salt hoarding fiend," Fred accused.

Spike quirked an eyebrow. "I need it to spice up my bloody boring unlife."

Fred squinted, trying to focus. "Did you really season your victims?"

"Nah," Spike sent the salt careening at high acceleration, but the reigning Wolfram & Hart air hockey champion caught it just before it went off the edge. "It's like edible underwear. Fun for a lark, but not worth the effort. Can't taste it after the first drink anyway."

Fred winked. "Can't taste anything after the first drink. Switch to the nasty stuff."

Spike eyed her appraisingly. She couldn't be that pissed if she was snaring flying condiments. "Cheap date you are."

Fred lifted her glass in a toast. "You said it! All you have to do is not be evil, or condescending, or a demon, buy me a funnel cake and I'm yours for life!"

Spike passed the employees of Wolfram & Hart under mental review. "So you're not seeing anyone, then?"

Fred folded her bare arms on the table and rested her cheek in the hollow of the nest. "No," she said. "Not since Knoxy wanted me to wear this weird blue wig in bed. Which you can NOT tell Wes about, okay? I'm already behind schedule this month, I do not want my best lab assistant turned into kinky Swiss cheese."

Spike nodded. "Got it. No sex with cheese."

Fred picked her head up and laughed. "You're drunk."

Spike shook his head. "Not nearly drunk enough."

"C'mon," Fred coaxed. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"He mocks me mercilessly for the rest of eternity."

"Besides that."

"He tells Buffy." Spike shuddered.

Spike could see Fred opening her mouth to offer more peppy encouragement. Drastic measures needed to be taken.

"You know how you meet some guy and forget his name, and by the time he's chatted you up for twenty minutes it's too late to ask?"

Fred nodded. "That's why I make my whole department wear name tags. Ah, the awesome power!"

Spike ignored the digression. "It's the same thing. You can't walk smash up to a bloke and say "by the way, I've been in love with you for a hundred years, sorry I forgot to mention it but work's been a bitch, you know how it is."

Spike's voice had gotten rather tight and loud; he gentled it with an effort. "So just leave it, love, will you? Least said soonest not getting my bloody head ripped off and fed to me."

Fred's forehead wrinkled. "There's something wrong with that sentence."

Angel's voice came from behind them. "Yeah. Since when do you work, Spike?"

Fred whirled around and several strands of her loose hair whipped Spike across the cheek.

Spike poured himself another shot and downed it before he bothered to turn. "You get lost in the building again? Hit the intercom, I'm sure security'll send a Saint Bernard with a bottle of O Neg round its neck."

Fred found her voice. "Angel! How long have you been there?"

Angel shrugged casually. "Bout a hundred years."

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Cute.

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