They don’t talk about it. God knows they never talk about anything that matters. It’d go against everything they are, everything they claim to be to talk.
That doesn’t mean they don’t remember.
It’s almost midnight on a dreary February night when Spike enters Angel’s office. Hands in his duster’s pockets, he’s projecting the usual smoothness and swagger. Inside, he’s a mess. He always is, on this night, every year. He has been for a hundred and twenty odd years.
He almost breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the bottle waiting on the conference table, and the two glasses next to it. Angel remembered.
“You’re late,” Angel says gruffly. He doesn’t even look up from the papers he’s reading at his desk. “It’s tomorrow in England already.”
Spike shrugs and doesn’t answer. Walking to the table, he twists the cap off the scotch bottle and pours two generous glasses, spilling a few drops on the expensive wood. He wonders if it’ll stain. He kind of hopes it will.
“Still the right day here,” he says as he picks up both glasses and goes to Angel. He hands him one, then raises the other. “To Dru,” he says, pushing the name past the heavy knot down his throat. “Beautiful, insane, and much too clever for all our sakes.”
To my Sire, he adds silently, and tries not to wonder where she is. Tries not to wonder what he would do if she turned up on his doorstep tomorrow.
“To William,” Angel replies, and their glasses clanking together sound like crystal chimes – like Drusilla’s laugh.
Spike closes his eyes tight and empties his glass in one long swallow.
He’s not sure when, or how, he ends up sitting on Angel’s lap. He just knows nothing could be more perfect than Angel’s fangs sinking into his flesh, reopening decade-old scars. Only minutes later, he realizes he was wrong when Angel’s cock slides inside him. He comes with Angel’s tongue shoved down his throat and that obnoxious birthday song echoing through his mind.