With A Spoon
The Angel Chronicles #5
by the BuffyOtaku
Disclaimer: The characters Angel, Doyle, Cordelia, and Kate are owned by the actors and writers and owners of the TV series Angel, and no copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred. I own nothing. Don’t sue.
Summary: Spike said something about “building up lots of sexual tension.” Here’s my evil little take.
I am also still looking for a good therapist.
We’d planned a six pack of Heineken, a box of Marlboro reds, and a joint I’d “liberated” from Doyle.
So at 9:30 I rolled out of bed, and ran out to the all-night liquor store across the street from Moxie’s. I bought the sixer and the smokes with my shiny new fake ID, then ran over to the video place and picked up the new anime DVDs (Angel has a thing for those dove-eyed Japanese chicks -- wonder if Buffy knew?). I went home after that, feeling unsafe on the darkened streets. And me without my crossbow, I thought ruefully as I sprinted back into my building. I struggled with the keys, and finally, after several nervous glances over my shoulders, entered the apartment complex.
I lumbered up the stairs with my packages, swearing at them quietly, and dropped them just as Angel was opening the door. He smiled at me and said something about talking to my self. I rolled my eyes at him and dragged my sorry ass into our home.
The apartment is swanky; you walk in the door and into the kitchen, which has an aluminum sink and wide black Formica countertops. The house opens out into a massive 20’ by 15’ living area, complete with sunken-in fireplace seating. My room is off to the right of the fireplace, and it’s about the size of my crappy five-minute apartment on the east side...you know, the one whose super gave up his health insurance card and $1150 for.
It’s got a bathroom of its very own. Thank goodness, too; I mean, you should see all the health and beauty aids I own. Angel probably has as much as I do. Think of the storage problems we’d have if we had to share a space.
Every time I come in here, I think about how lucky I am to have a friend like Angel. He didn’t have to take me in, let me live with him. He certainly didn’t have to give me a job in his little office, and he sure as shit doesn’t have to risk his neck out there every night saving me from all the trouble I get into.
He was still smiling at me while I put the beer in the fridge. “What?” I asked.
“You bought the beer. And the cigarettes. And paid for my videos. You didn’t have to.” He came around the counter into the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he was barechested, only wearing silk pajama bottoms. His muscles moved beneath his skin as he stretched his arms up over his head. “Thanks.”
My mouth was dry. “No problem,” I forced myself to say. He picked up the movies and walked into the living room, and left me gripping the counter, knuckles whitening with the stress of my physical attraction to him. I was grateful he’d left. I had, in the last few weeks, observed the keenness of his senses. Was his nose strong enough to pick up the pheromones I knew I was giving off?
I sighed and pulled two beers back out of the fridge, shutting off the kitchen lights and joining him in the indentation in our floor that we referred to as the ‘pit.’
It was a square cut out in the northern part of the floor, fully cushioned and upholstered entirely in soft tweeds that matched the tan carpeting. It was comfy as all get out, and I prepared for a night of lounging by removing my shoes and opening a Heineken, them snuggling into my favorite corner.
I was about halfway through my first beer when we lit the J. I took a small puff to make sure it was lit, then passed it over to Angel. “Can vampires get high?” I asked.
“Sure.” He answered, taking a hit. “Takes about twice as much as a normal person, though. High tolerance. Dead flesh and all.”
“I just wanna know if I’m wasting Doyle’s pot.”
“Nope.” He hit it again, harder this time, and passed it back.
I took in, savoring the feel of the smoke in my mouth, then pulled the cloud down into my lungs. The smoke tickled my ribs and my throat, and I exhaled roughly, expelling a huge mist through my nose.
Angel whacked me on the back when I started coughing. “You okay?”
“Just great. Thanks.” I forced a smile and passed the hooch over.
He picked up the remote and pressed PLAY. A fast-paced preview of six other anime titles flashed before us, and I was mesmerized by the acid house music and the flashing colors. The marijuana was hitting me harder than usual, and pretty soon I was all zoned out.
The next thing I remember is the really, really frustrating theme song of the video playing over and over again, and Angel sitting gleefully next to me hitting REWIND. His brown eyes were twinkling as he sang along in a really, really off-key and high-pitched voice.
I grumbled at his sneering gorgeous face and the phone rang. I reached over to my right and picked up the cordless, which was sitting on the floor next to my it-wasn’t-empty-before bottle of lager. “Hello.”
“Cordelia?” A slurred voice asked.
“Doyle? You have another vision?” The sounds of pulsing dance music pierced the backgound of his end of the conversation, and he had to shout to be heard over the noise.
“No. Where are you guys?”
“Where do you think we are, retard?” I found myself shouting back. Angel glared at me and hit REWIND again.
“Obviously you’re at home. Weren’t we all supposed to go out tonight? For fun?” Doyle sounded mildly annoyed. We had made plans to meet him at D’Oblique later that night, and he was obviously wasted already. “Kate’s here, mooning about some guy and buying me shots.”
“So have fun. I don’t think we’re leaving here. It’s roommate bonding night.” Angel sang along again, even louder this time. “We were supposed to meet you tomorrow.”
Doyle finally made sense of what Angel was singing and groaned. “Oh, God, you didn’t rent Ranma again, did you?”
“Unfortunately.” I sighed, exasperated.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” He said, hanging up quickly.
REWIND. “Ya-pa-pa, ya-pa-pa....”
I shrieked and lunged for the remote, getting a firm handhold on it an then pushing STOP while he still held it in his hand. He grabbed my arm with his other hand and pushed PLAY. “Ya-pa-pa...”
“AAAAGH!” I lunged for him, throwing my full weight (what there is of it, if I do somewhat vainly say so) against him and knocking his high as a kite undead ass from the couch. His grip on the remote loosened, and I scrambled over him to push EJECT. The tape popped out, and I felt a grip on my ankle as MTV came back on.
I shrieked when he pulled me back towards the cushioned seats, and kicked and flailed until he grabbed my other ankle. “What are you going to do now?”
“This,” I said, reaching up to the remote, which was now by my head, and hitting POWER, then shoving it down my shirt into my bra.
“Oh yeah?” Angel wiggled his eyebrows at me and slipped off one of my socks. “You ticklish?”
“Angel, I swear, you tickle me and I’ll stake you.” I gasped, desperately trying to pull away.
I shrieked again when his finger grazed the arch of my foot. “You know,” he said, “In my ‘bad vamp days’ as you so succinctly put it, I was quite gifted at torture.”
A wave of panic traveled up into my throat. “Angel...”
“Cordelia, I wouldn’t hurt you.”
I sighed, relieved.
“Tickle you into submission, maybe.” He grinned and tickled me in earnest.
I couldn’t help it; I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. I wriggled and squirmed, and his hands traveled up my legs to the backs of my knees. I laughed harder still when he made it to my ribs.
About five minutes of his holding me down and tickling me passed, until I finally managed to gasp, “Angel...need...breathe...” and he stopped.
And then we both noticed that he was holding me down using his whole body. We were pressed together like lovers, face to face. I was panting heavily and he was almost drinking in my breath. I looked him in the eye. “Angel. Movie.”
“Yeah.” he said, appraising me. “Movie.”
He burrowed his face in my neck and I stiffened. “You can get up now.”
“Yeah.” He said. “Getting up now.” Angel pushed himself up, sitting back on his heels and still straddling my knees. “Where’s the remote?”
“Oh, crap.” I said. The remote had managed to lodge itself in the back of my bra. I sat up and reached for it, but couldn’t get a handhold on it. “It’s stuck.”
“I’ll get it,” he said, reaching his arms around me.
“No!” I said, too sharply -- too late -- and the remote fell to the floor, where he picked it up.
He got off my legs and sat back in the pile of pillows I’d kicked to the floor. I scooched away from him and climbed back onto the sofa, trying to ignore the tension in the room. You could have cut it with a spoon.
He turned on the VCR and pushed PLAY, and neither of us spoke again.
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