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by shalott

The little bottles weren't really worth the effort of drinking them; by the time you got one open the buzz from the one before was gone. Spike tossed them off like, well, like shots in glasses with really narrow necks. Angel mostly took sips; he figured if he wasn't going to get drunk he might as well prolong the illusion that he was working on it.

He stared out the window, not really seeing anything, until after about ten minutes he realized he was looking right out at sunlight, broad day, and he hadn't even been noticing. He was starting to get used to flying and filtered windows. "Give me another three," he said, unscrewed them and drank them all down at once.

"Ooo, manly," Spike said, mockingly, and did five, because of course that was what Spike did, wasn't it, just had to outdo him every single fucking time, couldn't let things alone. Had to be more evil, had to be a slayer-killer, a slayer-lover, had to go get a soul of his very own, because if Angel did it, so would he, except better, faster, and more fucking annoying, and why exactly had he let Spike come along anyway? Angel grabbed a second handful and started working on the caps.

"The worst of it is," Spike said.

After about five minutes of Spike frowning into a succession of bottles, Angel snapped. "Well?"

"Oh, bugger it, there is no one worst thing," Spike said. "It's all the worst. The Immortal bagging Buffy, this stupid fucking gang war about to happen in our backyards when we're trying to get ready for the apocalypse, and oh, hey, let's not forget about the apocalypse." He drank another couple of bottles. "Not to mention being stuck on a plane with you."

"Feeling's mutual," Angel shot back, and grabbed the last Absolut out of Spike's hand.

"Hey, give that here, there's Stoli right in front of you," Spike said, grabbing for it. Angel held him off with one hand and twisted the cap off between his teeth. "Son of a bitch!" Spike ducked and got under his arm, tackled him to the floor.

The plane wobbled with the impact and they both froze. Angel had what was left of the bottle held up over his head, still out of Spike's reach. "Okay, no fighting on the plane," Angel said, coughing, most of the vodka spilled over his face and shirt.

"Right there with you, mate," Spike said. "Reckon we broke anything?"

"What's this 'we' stuff?" Angel said. "You're the one who started it." Okay, so he was maybe being a little petty. It felt good. All these months, day in and out with the sneaking suspicion that it was all wrong, every minute of it; Cordy gone, Fred gone, Connor gone, his whole constructed family crumbling and coming apart at the seams. Squabbling with Spike and fretting over Buffy was easy, simple, the most natural thing in the world. Like old times, and even if it was sick to be feeling something a little too much like nostalgia for being Angelus, at this point he didn't care.

"Excuse me, I wasn't the one as started stealing other people's drinks," Spike said, grabbing after the Absolut again. "Here—hey—bastard!"

"What's the matter, Spike, can't reach?" Angel waved the bottle around, holding Spike's belt to keep him from scrambling up and grabbing it.

"Fuck this," Spike said, and bent down.

Angel had time to think if he kisses me I'll—, and to open his mouth just enough, and then Spike was licking vodka up off his face, not going anywhere near his lips. He was pissed and pissed about being pissed, all at the same time. "Get off me!" he said, shoving. Spike just grabbed onto his shoulders and dived right back in, and the rounded edge of a tooth scraped Angel's neck.

"Oh, great," Angel said, and broke Spike's belt to get his pants off.

And yeah, pretty much just like old times, except maybe Spike had gotten a little smarter and decided to quit fighting to top, because he didn't even wait to argue, just slid himself down and went for it, teeth smooth on either side of Angel's cock. "Here, give," Spike said, coming up for air.

"Roll over," Angel panted; he straddled Spike's neck and poured what was left of the vodka over his dick, fed it to Spike hard and fast, not thinking about anything except how fucking good it was, simple, hot, dirty, and Spike's mouth. "Don't even think about it," he said, and grabbed Spike's head, held it in place and came for something this side of forever, kept his cock deep until he felt Spike swallowing around him—yeah. Yeah.

"You're still a right bastard," Spike said, getting some Jim Beam.

"Uh huh," Angel said, drowsily; the sun was still coming in, and he felt it, warm and heavy and tired. It had been a long time since he'd slept through a day.

"Know something, though?"

"Mm," Angel said.

"So am I."

He woke up about a second too late to keep Spike from getting him lined up. "Remember now, no fighting on the plane," Spike said, grinning at him from between his bent-back legs, and shoved in.

"Spike, goddamnit," Angel said, except apparently in the hundred years or whatever since the last time he'd let Spike do this to him, Spike had picked up a little bit of finesse to go along with the really insane levels of enthusiasm, and oh hell, he was going to get off again.

The Wolfram & Hart jet had a shower, of course, and fresh clothes, which was just as well. Angel toweled his head dry and dropped back into his seat, grabbed another bottle. It had gotten dark outside.

"Really can't get drunk off these things," he said.

= End =

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