Title:  Horizontal Movement
	Author:  shrift
	E-mail:  darth_shrift at yahoo.com
	Rating:  NC-17, Angel/Spike slash
	Summary:  In which Angel and Spike get drunk and
	screw.
	Spoilers:  Post-ep to Angel 520 - "The Girl in
	Question".
	Notes:  Quick beta pass by Nestra. Remaining mistakes
	are my fault.
	Disclaimer: Characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant
	Enemy, et al.


*


Spike sat down on the desk next to Angel.  "So, what
-- we just have to live with it?  Get on with our
lives?"

"'Fraid so," Angel said softly.

Why Angel had to be the sensible one about Buffy and
The Immortal right now, Spike had no idea.  "Fine.  No
problem.  I was planning on doing that, anyway."

"Yeah?  Me, too."

"Actually, I'm doing it right now," Spike said.  "As
we speak, I'm moving on."

"Moving on."

"Oh yeah."

"Right now," Angel echoed.

"Moving."  After a moment, Spike turned to Angel. 
"Want to move on with a truly staggering amount of
alcohol?"

"God, yes," Angel said immediately.  He reached back
for the telephone.  "Harmony?  Yeah.  Are the Capo's
relatives on their way?  Great.  Head's on my desk. 
Make sure they get it."  Angel hung up, and Spike
followed him to the private elevator leading to
Angel's suite.  Where the booze was.  Which was a very
important thing to have upon discovering that The
Immortal was shagging the love of their lives, and
that there was absolutely bugger all they could do
about it.

Angel went to the bar and poured himself a glass of
whiskey, holding the bottle out to Spike.  Figuring
that it would save him a couple hundred trips or so,
Spike shrugged and took the entire bottle with him to
the couch.  Angel huffed in irritation and then joined
him there, knocking Spike's feet off the coffee table
before sitting on the opposite end.

The silence was as comfortable as things got between
them, so Spike leisurely downed half the bottle before
he said, "*Andrew* was your informant?  What were you
thinking, man?"

Angel shifted uncomfortably on the cushion and then
glared.  "I was thinking that I needed someone on the
inside.  Someone who Buffy already trusted."

"Oh," Spike said.  He took another swig from the
bottle.  "Good thinking."

"I know."  Angel snatched the bottle out of his hand
and poured himself another very large glass of
whiskey.  "I'm not stupid."

"How'd you get him to agree to that, anyway?" Spike
said, taking back the bottle.  "I mean, last time we
met, it was all 'blah blah you're on the side of evil,
we're taking our nutty psycho-slayer now, have a nice
day.'  Wankers."

Angel smirked and then tried to hide it behind his
glass.  "Yeah. About that..."

Spike sat up abruptly.  He knew that look, and he
trusted it about as far as he could throw the great
ponce.  Although, come to think of it, that statement
wanted a bit of revising these days.  "What did you
do?"

"I didn't *do* anything," Angel said, rising to
retrieve another bottle of whiskey from the wet bar.

"Yeah, right," Spike said, slumping down and putting
his boots back on the coffee table.  "Pull the other
one; it plays 'God Save the Queen'."

"Look, Andrew refused to agree until I... finessed the
situation," Angel said, gesturing with the whiskey
bottle. It sloshed in his hand.

"'Finessed'?" he spluttered around the mouth of his
own bottle.  "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I
think it means, 'cause now I've got all these horrible
pictures crowding into my brain."

"No!" Angel said, dropping back down onto the couch
abruptly.  "No.  Just... no."

Spike passed his hand over his eyes in relief.  "All
right, then what *did* you do?"

Angel's answering smile was entirely too pleased.  "I
told him that you were too embarrassed to ask, but if
Andrew would do this for you -- for Buffy -- that it
would really mean a lot."

"You utter bastard," Spike said wonderingly.

"Really, after that, taking Andrew onto the payroll
was just a formality," he continued.  "Especially
after I told him how grateful you'd be."

"Right.  Wonderful.  So you're my pimp now, are you?"

Angel shrugged.  "If that's what it takes."

"Long as I get a cut of the profits," Spike said,
draining the last of the whiskey from his bottle and
letting it thump onto the carpet.  "Give over."

"I just don't get it," Angel said, letting him sneak a
tipple or three from his glass.  "I've got an
apocalypse brewing, a god-king living in my friend's
body, a really tall and annoying liaison guy to deal
with --"

"Not to mention Wesley goin' off his head," he added
helpfully.

"-- and now Buffy's being all *intimate* with my
*nemesis*.  Aren't there rules about that?"

Spike leaned his head back and contemplated the
ceiling.  "Rules about what?"

"Who you can date.  After you're broken up.  Cordy --"
Angel's voice faltered just barely.  "Cordy always
said there were rules."

He kept staring at the ceiling.  "Buffy really never
cared much for rules, mate."

"Yeah," Angel said heavily.  "Believe me, I know."

God, he hated this feeling.  The tightness in his
chest that never made any sense, because it wasn't
like he needed to breathe.  The soul had made it
worse.  Not that he was about to share that with
anyone.  Especially not *Angel*.

He lifted Angel's glass of whiskey.  "To Cordy."

Angel narrowed his eyes.  "What?"

"To Cordy," Spike repeated.  "Because... she was an
extremely gorgeous woman who..."

"Who spoke her mind, and followed her heart," Angel
said, clinking his bottle against the glass tumbler. 
"To Fred."

"The smartest, prettiest, and bloody nicest girl who
ever lived."  Spike gulped the booze on that one, and
it burned a tingle down his throat.  "To Anya.  She
deserved better."

Angel topped off Spike's glass, and said, "To Doyle. 
Because he was my friend."

"For Darla," Spike said, finally looking Angel in the
face.  "She was one of a kind."

"For Darla," Angel nodded.  Under his breath, he
added, "And Connor.  May he be safe always."

Connor? Spike thought.  Oh, right, Connor.  Why the
hell did they have to drink to him?  

Spike magnanimously pretended not to notice Angel's
maudlin look, because he was pretty sure he didn't
want to know what the hell that was all about.  He'd
learned that lesson well over a hundred years ago with
Pedro the stable boy.  "And for Drusilla, the crazy
bitch who dumped me."

Angel drank deeply.  "You know, the last time I saw
Dru, I lit her on fire."

"Literally?" Spike said.  "Because if we're talking
figuratively, I'll have to hurt you on principle."

"Of course I meant literally, you moron."

"Drusilla Jubilee.  Must've been grand."  Spike
laughed.  "I could almost kiss you for that."

Angel grimaced.  "Please don't."

"Back to the toasts, then."  Spike squinted at his
nearly empty glass.  "Y'know, we could be at this all
night, between the two of us."

"Nah, I don't think so," Angel said.

"What?  Why not?"

Angel shrugged.  "Because you're not annoying me, and
that means I must be pretty drunk."

"Flatterer," Spike said.  "Last one, then.  To The
Immortal.  Because I'll never abandon you for the vile
wretch, and that has to count for something."

"That's... almost touching," Angel said, frowning. 
"It's kind of disturbing, actually."

"I'm a warm and fuzzy guy."

Angel snorted.  "No, you're not."

"I have my moments," Spike insisted.

"I'm going to bed," Angel said.  He dropped the empty
whiskey bottle on the carpet and rose slowly, trudging
toward the bathroom.  Spike listened to him splashing
around in there for a bit, then stood up, slithered
out of his coat, and weaved his way over to Angel's
entirely decadent bed.  He flopped onto it face-down,
boots still on his feet, and crawled up until he found
a pillow.

Very comfy.  Sometimes Spike wondered why Angel didn't
stay here all day.

A door clicked open.  Footsteps.  Displacement of air.
 Angel, no doubt looming at the foot of the bed.

"Get off my bed, Spike."

Spike sprawled a little more.  "No.  'S'comfier than
the one I've got."

The mattress dipped, and then Angel's voice was close
to his ear.  "You always did like going after what's
mine."

Denying it would be ridiculous, considering the
company he was keeping. Nothing to do for it but
laugh, so Spike did.  "Yeah, guess I do."

"Why is that, do you think?" Angel said, his tone
calculating.  "Is it because you've never had the real
thing?"

If Angel thought he could intimidate Spike into
finding another place to sleep, he had another think
coming.  "I loved Buffy, and you know it."

"Still, that doesn't explain why you went after her in
the first place," Angel said, shifting around.  "As I
recall, you prefer brunettes."

Spike opened one eye and glared.  "And you like 'em
short and blonde.  What of it?"

Angel stared at him pointedly.  He only wore a pair of
black pajama bottoms.

"The irony does not escape me," Spike said.  "I
repeat: what of it?"

"I think you want me," Angel said smugly.

Spike was *definitely* not moving from this bed.  "Are
you proposing a pity shag?"  He rolled over and
straddled Angel, pinning the git's wrists to the
mattress.  "Very well, I accept."

And Angel's smug grin collapsed into a storm cloud. 
"Get *off* my bed, Spike."

"Finders keepers," Spike said, and chuckled when Angel
bucked underneath him.  "You'll have to do better than
that, hero."

"Like this?" Angel growled, rearing up and tumbling
them over until they teetered on the edge of the bed. 
It was hard to get any kind of purchase on bare skin,
whereas Angel was practically strangling him with his
grip on the neck of his T-shirt.  Spike struggled
underneath Angel's bulk, jerking his knee up to get
him where it hurt, but Angel rolled them again before
he could make contact.

"You... stupid... *tit*," Spike snarled as they
grappled with each other, rucking up the covers every
which way.

Angel elbowed him in the face, the prat.  "Don't...
call me... a tit, *William*."

"Call you... anything I bloody *like*," Spike said,
landing a solid punch to Angel's rather solid middle. 
"Ow.  Damn... nancy... bog-trotter!"

"Damn it, Spike --"

"Would you just --" he said, and then howled when
Angel shifted and Spike's knee bent in the wrong
direction.  "That hurt!"

"Yeah?" Angel said right in his face.  "Good!"

Oh yeah, his blood was up now, and Spike was going to
win this fight if he had to use every dirty trick in
the book.  He pushed off the bed with his elbows and
planted a wet one right on Angel's mouth, and as soon
as Angel flinched back in disgust, Spike would have
the upper hand.  It was a foolproof plan.

Except for the part where Angel kissed him back. 
Kissed him hard like Angelus used to kiss Drusilla
when he knew Spike was watching.  Possessive and
rough, all sloppy tongue and sharp teeth, and exactly
the thing to throw Spike off his game.

He jerked back.  Angel's lips were pink and wet. 
"What --"

"Shut up," Angel growled, and kissed him again.  And
for once, Spike decided to obey.  Possibly because he
suddenly remembered that Darla had taught Angel
everything she knew, and that everything Darla knew
about sex was no small potatoes.  

That was the ready excuse, anyway.  

Angel licked his way inside Spike's mouth, sucked on
his tongue, and then kicked open Spike's legs.

"Done this before, have you?" Spike said when Angel
undid his button fly with one deft tug.

"I thought I told you to shut up," Angel said.  

"And you thought that would work?" Spike asked
curiously, lifting up helpfully as Angel tugged down
his jeans.

"Hope springs eternal," Angel said.  He settled
between Spike's legs and kissed him again.  A dirty,
noisy kiss that made Spike move, yanking at Angel's
pajama bottoms, their cocks sliding against each other
and Angel's hands up his shirt.  Angel's hair felt
soft under his fingers, his shoulders and chest these
smooth slabs of muscle.  Pale skin with purple bruises
in the shape of Spike's knuckles.

Their clothes were half off, legs tangled together. 
Angel smelled like whiskey and tasted like soap. 
Spike bit Angel's neck just under his ear, bit him
hard with flat teeth.  Angel grunted and moved against
Spike harder, hips thrusting in a circle, making the
bed squeak.  Spike groaned when Angel sucked on his
throat and scratched down his chest with his
fingernails, and then he groaned some more as Angel
brought him off fast with one broad hand.  Angel wiped
his hand on Spike's T-shirt and rubbed his cock
against his hip.

It was a quick fuck, messy and loud, and unbearably
hot, Angel panting in his ear even though he didn't
have to breathe, his cock big and hard as he fucked
Spike's fist.  

"Yeah, come on," he said.  Angel grimaced and came,
resting his forehead on Spike's collarbone.  Spike put
his hand on the back of Angel's neck.  "You're heavy."

"You can take it," Angel said.  He squeezed Spike's
balls and then rubbed his thumb over Spike's asshole. 
"I'm going to fuck you later."

Spike pushed back against his thumb helplessly. 
"Yeah, all right."

"I wasn't asking," Angel told him.

"Yeah," Spike said, smacking him hard on the back of
the head.  "All right."

Angel growled but didn't move away.  "You'll have to
get off my bed eventually, Spike."

"So will you, I'd wager," Spike said.  "And I'm not
the one with a company to run."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

This wasn't exactly moving on, but Spike supposed it
was close enough for now.  He was half a moment from
sleep when Angel muttered, "I'm still fucking you
later."



the end.