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Remember Bukarest

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"C'mon! Don't tell me that wasn't fun?"

Spike shoved past Angel and into the apartment, heading straight towards the liquor cabinet like an alcohol-seeking missile. Angel paused at the door and looked at his own shoes. The brown Armani loafers were covered in greenish-purplish goo that was slowly dribbling down the suede and to a sticky puddle on the hardwood floor. There was already a trail of mud and slime leading from the doorway and all the way across the carpet, ending at Spike's feet.

Oh, fuck it, Angel thought, and stepped in. He would just tell the cleaning staff to come over again in the morning.

Spike was still talking about killing the demon - exaggerating, of course, because it really had been Angel who had killed the thing. Spike had only helped. Not really even that. Angel could have easily have killed the bur'nok demon even without Spike's help. If anything, Spike had only been in the way.

Angel blocked out Spike's voice and began to gingerly unwrap the makeshift bandage from his hand. The bitemarks were already healing, leaving nothing but an angry purple half-moon mark behind.

A muddy boot flew across the room with a wet thud, landing in the middle of the expensive Oriental rug. Angel looked up to see Spike grinning at him from across the room. He tried to glare at Spike but couldn't summon enough energy to even raise an eyebrow. He sighed and toed off his shoes, which came off with a wet 'splurch', and then walked to the couch. He tried to look for something to throw over it to protect the leather, but finally just collapsed on it. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, Spike was still standing by the liquor cabinet, a half-empty bottle of vodka dangling from his right hand, and his left hand busy unbuttoning his jeans. Angel blinked. He could vaguely remember telling Spike to go away and to stop following him, but he was having hard time connecting the dots on how "Fuck off" had somehow transformed into "Please come into my home, drink all my liqueur, and strip naked."

Spike looked up and noticed Angel staring at him. "What? I'm not getting this shit all over my shower." He shoved down his jeans, and stepped out of them. "I don't have lackeys to lick the place clean afterwards like you do."

He emptied the vodka in one swig and then grabbed another bottle before making his naked way across the room. Angel found it too exhausting to even move his head and watched Spike's naked pale ass disappear into the bathroom.

The last time he'd seen Spike's pale ass had been in Bukarest, over a century ago. As much as it ashamed him to admit it, he had many fond memories of that time, several of them involving Spike's naked pale ass. There was a distinct lack of consent in some of them, but hey! Vampires! It wasn't something that he was proud of, but it also wasn't anywhere near the top of the list of things he thought he should feel guilty about. Somewhere in the low 500s at best.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, Spike's pale ass was standing right in front of him, attached to the equally pale, but far more annoying Spike.

"What're you thinking about?"

Angel gave Spike a bleary look, and then followed Spike's gaze downwards to his own lap to find that memories weren't the only thing that the sight of Spike's pale naked ass had stirred.

"Bukarest," he blurted out, and then wished he hadn't.

Spike frowned, the bottle pausing on his lips as realisation dawned on his face.

"Oh." He tilted his head and stared at Angel for the longest time. Finally he shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay w-" Angel started, but was cut short when Spike leaned down and kissed him, and his last coherent thought was that maybe a trip down the memory lane wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.