At first, there’s only silence. Even if he could find Angelus, he wouldn’t bother. When Darla leaves, when Drusilla falls ill, he’s not willing to go crawling. Why should he? He’s a badass on the make, the Slayer of Slayers and he can handle anything.
Later, he doesn’t call because it’s too embarrassing. Dru’s gone again, the Slayer’s still not dead, and he’s drunk more often than not. Not likely he’ll call on Angel for assistance – not after all the casual remarks about how much he’s lacking. Ponce can talk all he wants about how the soul makes him different. Souled or not, he hasn’t had any kind words for Spike.
Even when he really needs help, he doesn’t call Angel. He can’t be sure Angel’d even answer. He’s been around since The Initiative chipped him like a damn dog. Spike’s scented him, even if he hasn’t seen him. Angel doesn’t have anything to say to him? That’s bloody fine with him – nothing to say to that ponce, either.
But that doesn’t stop Spike from thinking about it.
Late nights in the crypt, alone with his books and his memories – his fantasies – and he thinks about it. Pick up the phone and…what? Bare what passes for his soul to Angel? Talk about his mistakes and his fears and the bone-deep ache for bloody slaughter that haunts him?
Spike snorts. Bugger that. He can’t imagine Angel listening to anyone long enough to really be any help. Might not have time left to do his hair.
Once the world ends (again) and he’s left on Angel’s doorstep (again), floundering and fighting for a few scraps (again), the need to talk only gets stronger. His voice is all that’s left. But he can’t figure out what to say and once he does, he’s too busy to say it.
When the threat of hell recedes, he’s left to his own devices – Angel’s done the Big Damn Hero bit and moved on. He could call, of course. Figured out how to interact with the world a bit and he could push a few buttons. Get Angel’s attention. It’s more fun just to pop up in his suite, though.
Either way, they don’t really talk.
They keep not talking. They talk around each other, over each other, at cross-purposes and to keep from noticing how big the abyss underneath them has gotten. But they don’t ever talk about anything that matters.
The world ends (again) and he leaves Angel behind (again), floundering and fighting for a few scraps (again); he thinks that maybe there was never anything they could have said. How do you start that conversation? There’s just too much they’ve kept not saying for a phone call to cover it.
The first time his phone rings, he almost doesn’t answer it. It’s Angel’s number, the one he programmed in for a laugh. The tinny ring continues and the name flashes at him again: Forehead Captain calling.
He presses the button to connect the call. “Yeah?”