Counting to Ten “Lay off, Spike,” he growled, ready to knock him across the room.

“Or what? The great soulful one might lose his temper?”

One. Angel clenched his jaw, head ready to explode from anger. How was it Spike always knew exactly which buttons to push to drive him completely nuts? There was no one else who annoyed him half so easily as Spike did, no one else who could get under his skin and just be so… there were not words to describe him.

Two. Sexy. Cute. Hot. No, smug, rash, annoying! Just look at him, standing there with that smirk he had, so sure he was right, or at least not caring, as long as he was antagonizing somebody.

Three. Except that the smirk wasn’t complete, and even though Spike tried to hide it, and Angel didn’t really want to see it, he could see the barest hint of uncertainty, of doubt or hurt, or the potential for hurt, or something, hiding behind the smirk and at the bottom of his eyes.

Four. Anger again. Dammit, he didn’t want to feel sorry for him! He was the one being provocative, and if Angel said something sharp in reply, well then… You know how he is, he chided himself. Always too sensitive, scared you’re really mad at him. He’s always been like that, even when he hides it.

Five. Yes, but then he would stand there and deny being hurt, even knowing that Angel would find him later. Later, when he would come in, just before dawn, to avoid more conversation, to turn to the opposite side of the bed, and pretend the tear tracks on his face had gone unnoticed, and his silence was deafening in its pain.

Six. So why did he have to be so difficult? If he was going to let Angel’s scathing replies hurt him, why didn’t he simply not start the fights in the first place? It didn’t matter to Angel, this time. He’d simply end it, calmly, before it got too out of hand…

Seven. “Bastard,” Spike muttered, and Angel exploded again, literally seeing red for an instant. There was no end to the immaturity! He caught himself from snapping back only just in time, and something like a strangled growl escaped his throat as he glared daggers at Spike. Uncertainty flickered in the younger vampire’s eyes again when no response was forthcoming.

Eight. He was a poof. Whatever the hell that meant. Spike annoyed the heck out of him, so he snapped back or ignored him, and then felt sorry for him? Saw the hurt in his eyes and wanted to kiss it away, wanted to hug him so hard he’d be grateful he didn’t have to breathe?

Nine. And why wasn’t he doing that already? Right. Because he was boiling mad at Spike… wasn’t he? He looked at the cocky stance, the smirk still there, a little twisted now, the stupid hair that was sexy anyway, the eyes that betrayed his uncertain inner self, scared that he’d pushed too hard, somehow; that Angel really was mad at him. Bickering was a part of the normal interactions, but Spike always got scared when real anger intruded, as if they might not make up afterwards. Which Angel didn’t understand, because if he didn’t get mad when they fought, if he simply brushed him off, Spike got upset then, too, as if there was something wrong if the anger wasn’t there. Like now, when Spike was looking at him, nervous at the lack of any reply, that maybe there would never be one; that he would never say anything to him, and that they were done, for some reason. That they had gone too far, and there was no coming back.

Ten. So why was he standing here, counting, reinforcing Spike’s fears instead of allaying them? Even immortal creatures’ lives would end sometime, with the lives they lead, and he was wasting it trying not to get mad at his loved? There were better ways of making the troublesome words stop.

He closed the space between them, and wrapped his arms around the younger vampire, gratified to feel the arms tighten around him in response with surprising force, even before he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Spike just had time to choke back in relief before Angel kissed him, hard, and dragged him down to the bed where words had no meaning anyway.



*~Fin~*