TITLE: "Up a Penguin's Arse" 1/3 (cut for length) - A/S Humor, Smut
AUTHOR: Ducks, The Angel Ho. ;)
EMAIL: slayinsage@buffymail.com
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah, they're mine.  Thus the fact that I'm typing this while slacking at my $US 7/hour secretarial job.  Which, honestly, is a pretty sweet deal, if you think about it... but I'm still dirt poor.  And if I owned them, I have to assume I wouldn't be... although, I guess you can accumulate a lot of debt if you're rich... so that's not really certain proof.  ANYWAY.  I don't own them.
PAIRING: A/S
TIMELINE: AU - Roughly three years in the future, depending on whether Joss has his calculator with him or not.
SPOILERS: Nothing important, really, unless you count the fact that I took Liam's year of death from the episode "The Prodigal".
SYNOPSIS: Angel's depressed (NO, not ANGEL! He's usually so PERKY!), so his Most Favoured makes it his mission to cheer him up.
DISTRIBUTION: My honeys Darcy and Av at EN -- HAPPY B-DAY, AVARICE!; any and all who house my filthy little ditties, list archives, my site: http://www.geocities.com/ducksfanfic.  Everybody else, just ask.  I don't bite... hard. *grin*
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Response to EN's "Av is a Crusty Old Bag" Birthday Challenge!  Requirements: "Premise - In a bid to lighten Angel up, Spike takes to celebrating his (Liam's) Death Day.  Must include: Spike and Angel, Slash gets you far.  A bottle of red nail polish. Something happening to Angel's leather chair.  Swedish Chef type cooking (and possibly singing) in
the kitchen.  A reference to, or the actual singing of, "Happy Death Day to You".  The line, "Yes, but does it bounce?" Optional Extras: Some wild Scottish accent work.  The line "William the Bloody: Not Gay." Pulp Fiction dancing.  A penguin puppet (which may or may not be named Mr. Flibble)."
FEEDBACK: Tell me how wonderfully witty I am... or how bad I suck.  I'm cool with all of it.  *grin*  Actually, you know what? Scratch that last part.
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT:  Slash, Angel-Pouting, Spike Attitude, more evidence of the Angel School of Really Bad Planning, Gamers swinging broadswords, and lots of references to Cordelia's boobs.
DEDICATION: To Avarice, 'cause she's <.sarcasm>SOOOoooo Olllllld<./sarcasm>. Hell, I don't even REMEMBER my twenties.  But have a happy anyway, babe. You rock! And may I just say: Your hair is so spiky today, sugar. Further notes: Thank you to to Saber for the Strat (*sigh*), and THANK BLOODY YOU to whoever the GODDESS was who posted those Maxim shots of DB. *drool*
Warning:  Everybody was too swamped with RL stuff this weekend to beta, and since I'm a poster child for Ritalin, I did it myself, after a quick once over from Donna, who said, "FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T POST THIS WITHOUT A BETA!"
*grin*


"Up a Penguin's Arse"
by Ducks

I can hear his feet shuffling from all the way up here.  He's a damn superhero, out saving souls 24/7, making the world a safer place for cattle, strippers and brewmeisters everywhere, and the bugger's still so unhappy that he can't pick up his damn boat feet when he walks.

Now, Angel ain't the most chipper bloke, as a rule.  In fact, he really oughta get "MOROSE" tattooed on his enormous forehead, just so people won't be scared totally shitless by the fact that he *never* smiles.  Okay... maybe not *never*, but... at least rarely... and then, it's mostly when he's naked, so I'm pretty much the only one who gets to see his teeth on a
regular basis.

Anyway, point is, he's never very cheery, but lately, he's been downright depressing, even for him.  Hardly ever opens his mouth, which is a sure sign that something's wrong, as he's usually constantly running that monster effin' yap.  He hasn't yelled at me in a week, which is even worse, because I've done everything in my rather impressive power to piss him off.  Wake
him up a little, you know?  Just to keep his damn Bell Jar brain from jelling.  Done some good stuff, too.  Spilled Cordelia's red nail polish inside his new boots.  Let the coffee maker run with no water in it.  Threw the cap for his toothpaste away.  Put shoe polish in his hair gel.  Lots of really clever shit guaranteed to get me at least a dangerous growl, and more than likely, some fairly major shouting under normal circumstances. But the best I got was a hangdog look, and a little sigh.  So I escalated things a bit.  I took an afternoon and rearranged every book in his precious damn library so they were in order by jacket color -- you know, all the red books, then green, blue, black... like that -- instead of his bloody beloved "Subject matter, then alphabetized by author" system.  I thought for sure that would set him off, but he didn't say a word.  He just put them back the way he liked 'em again.

I started getting damn worried when I set his favorite bloody pansy-ass bedspread on fire, and then put it out with the bottle of 1938 Moet that I stole from the cellar.  He came tearing upstairs when the fire alarm went off, and then just stared at the disaster area I'd made of the bed and the empty bottle on the floor like he was looking at a corpse or something.  And me, I stood all smug, waiting for him to finally blow a gasket and snap out of this damn funk.  Call me some names... maybe kick my ass a bit.

Nothin'.  He just rolled it up and threw the whole shebang in the dumpster out back, without a whimper in protest.  An hour later, there was a new bedspread, like nothing ever happened.

What the *fuck* is going on?  I know Angel's all remorse-boy, and not exactly a shining beacon of self-esteem and good cheer anyway, but... he didn't even cuff me upside the head for ruining his fruity ass satin coverlet? That thing is his pride and damn joy! He always goes on and on about what a great find it was, and how lucky he was that he'd been chasing a Varkat through Chinatown that night when the market was open late...

Point is, he should've busted something coming after me for that one, and he didn't.

So, I hear him come shuffling through the lobby, dragging his ass up the damn stairs like he's just too tired to carry his own weight--not that this isn't a valid possibility, considering his bulk. He comes into the suite without even a "Hello" or "Get your feet off the table, Spike," sheds his clothes, and heads straight for the bathroom.

Okay.  I'm obviously gonna have to try a different route.  I strip and follow him.

Fucker's standing stone still, staring into the shower like the steam's whispering the secrets of the universe to him or something.  I take a good, long look at that body (okay, so... it's more of a leer.)... all 6'2" of him is flawless... and damned yummy, actually.  There's no extra special injuries... just a bruise on his left hip and that stupid tattoo that creases and rolls with the bulging muscles of his shoulder.

Fuck me, he's hot.

I walk over and press myself against his back, nestling my insta-boner between this thick, hard thighs.  Damn, but I love the way we fit together. People who think two guys knocking boots is unnatural have obviously never seen how perfectly the cuts of our bodies match.

I love touching him.  He's cool and hard, with all these interesting crests and falls all over his body... I run my hands softly over the front of him, barely tickling the surface of his skin, just the way he likes it.  I tickle his nipples hard, caress his little Buddha belly, and finally slide my way down to the slow, gentle stroking of his cock.

He's as turgid as I am in a second, and I hear his breath hitch a little, but other than that, he doesn't respond at all.  No moan... no leaning his big body back against me... Nothing.

"Why don't we both get in the shower?" I whisper in his ear, trailing a few little kisses down the side of his neck.  "I can wash your back for ya."

Angel sighs and steps away.  "I'm not in the mood tonight, Spike."

Now... this particular revelation stops me dead... so to speak.  I take a step away from him.  'Not in the mood'?  I've known Angel for a century and change, at least 40 damn years of which, we've spent scroggin' the Hell out of each other.  And I know for a fact that he could have an arm half ripped off, and still be in the mood for a nice shower shag.

"*What*?" I yip.  I mean, there's no *way* I heard that right!

He drags his gaze over his shoulder like it's the hardest damn task he's ever performed.

"I'm sorry.  I just... I'd like to be alone for a while, okay?"

His voice is so soft and hurt, I'd probably cry if I wasn't so damned horny.

"Oh.  Uh... whatever," I mumble.  He must be able to hear the shock (and frankly, disappointment) in my voice, because he turns all the way around and takes a step toward me, putting his hands on my shoulders.

"I've got a lot on my mind, Will, that's all.  It has nothing to do with you," he says, caressing my face with the pad of his thumb.

At which I snort.  He's *always* got a lot on his mind.  What the Hell could be so damn new and soddin' important that he suddenly doesn't even want a poke at *me*?

"Fine," I snap, turn around, and walk out, leaving him standing there, staring after me.

No, I am *not* pouting.  Just freaks me out, is all.  I don't think I can recall a single time when he's turned me down like that.  Guess my right hand'll have to do me for another night.  It has been for the past couple of weeks anyway.

I lie down and just sort of scowl at the ceiling.  Angel takes his shower, and comes out, all wet and clean, smelling like ivory soap and misery, crawls into bed, and goes right to sleep with his back to me.

Okay.  This won't do *at all*.  I'm not living with him like this... not if I'm not getting any ass out of the deal.

Guess it's time to call in the cavalry.

***

There ain't too many people I know more glass-half-full than Miss "I'm 5'8", and 5' of that is leg" Cordelia Chase.  She's a damn perky ass positive thinking bitch, and she knows Angel fairly well, in a human sort of way.  So the next afternoon, I corner her in the office and invite her up to my room for a pouf pow-wow.

She looks at me like she thinks I've gone chipless, and she has absolutely no intention of going anywhere with me that doesn't have at least three clear, well-marked emergency exits that don't involve plunging four stories to her gruesome death.

"Why?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

Gee, and I thought it was a patented Peaches habit to question my every damn simple request.

"Because I want to rip your throat out and drain you dry, of course," I tell her.

Her eyes go wide.  Heh.

"I bloody need to talk to you, that's all," I explain, trying not to sound like I think she's a bleedin' moron... which I do.

"About what?"

Oh, Christ.  You know, I coulda shagged my Sire thirty times by...

Scratch that last bit.

"About your boss, Princess Brain Trust.  I need your advice on something."

She screws up her pretty face like I just asked her to sample a tasty bit of dog shit... or wear Designer Imposters perfume.

"You are *so* not going to ask me for icky perverted vampire sex advice, are you?"

I sigh.  That is, by far, the stupidest question anybody's ever asked me. No, really.  And I'm including my loopy Dru in that estimation.

"Why the bleedin' Christ would I ask you..." Okay, Spike.  Let's not have a meltdown, now.  You're on a mission.  And whether you like it or not, your tactics aren't wearing the old sod down, so you need Boobs' help.  Besides, if you can watch an entire episode of "Seventh Heaven" without yakking, certainly you can talk to this vacant-skulled vision machine.  "No.  Not sex. Something you actually *know* about."

Her eyes narrow again... that's her 'Just *give* me an excuse to stake you' look.

"I wanna cheer him up.  He's been down, lately," I expound.

This lightens her facial expression considerably.  "Oh! Okay.  But... why can't we talk about it right here?"

JESUS H, WOMAN!  No... okay.  I'm not going to scream.  I'm not gonna rip her damn head off.  I'm not gonna glut myself on the blood shooting out of her severed neck, and laugh with demonic glee as she expires.

"'Cause the Grand Poufter could walk in here any bleedin' second, and I want it to be a surprise," I force out through teeth clenched so hard, it hurts my jaw. I kindly leave off the 'you stupid, vacuous cow' I was thinking at the end.

She nods.  "Riiight.  Okay.  Fine.  Upstairs, then." She follows me out of the office and up, like a chipper (ouch, bad choice of words) puppy.

Now, truth be told, in earlier times, I really *would* be leading her to her horrible and highly satisfying death.  Her blood smells like muffins, and I bet it tastes just as sweet.

But these are later times, aren't they?  So I focus.  We have a seat in my suite, and I tell her about Fluffy's little depressive episode.  She vows that she'll figure out what's going on, and do something about it.

Cordelia may not be the sharpest tack in the box, but she's got a real knack for finding useless information on the computer.   She's no Red, mind you, but... Less than an hour after I told her about Angel's ultra-brooding, she comes charging back into my room, swinging a piece of paper around like it's a check for a million dollars or something.

"I've got it!" she hollers, "I figured out what's wrong with Angel!"

If you ask me, information like that should take a whole Hell of a lot more than one sheet of paper.  But... this is my sex life we're talking about, so I listen as she plops down on the couch and starts to yammer.

"I was surfing around... you know, like, trying to find him a present or something, and I found this," she says, and hands me the piece of paper.

It's a printout.  Burial records from some genealogy database on one of those, "I'm so proud to be a stupid, drunken mick" websites.  I glance over it.  Just a list of names and dates, really.  Nothing exciting -- which poor bastards got creamed and buried in Galway, Ireland, 1753.  Don't know what this Hell this has to...

Wait.

"Huh," I say.  I spot a familiar name -- 'Liam O'Connor, February 24, 1753. Animal Attack.' That's Angel... and definitely Darla, if you added "salivating psychopath bitch of a" before the "animal", but... so it's the date the stupid bint ripped his throat out.  Big whoop.

She rolls her eyes at me.  "Don't you *get* it? Friday is the 250th anniversary of Angel's death!"

Again -- who the fuck cares?  I mean, he's been dead a good, long time, hasn't he?  You'd figure he'd be over it by now.

"So?"

"So! So he's probably having the equivalent of what we mere mortals call 'the birthday blues'! Only... I guess they're Death Day blues."

I just sort of stare at her.  Hell, as far as I'm concerned, the day bloody farmhick Liam snuffed it is one of the best days of my life... seeing as how I wouldn't be sitting here now if he hadn't.

You know... now that I take a mo to think about it... Peaches probably doesn't see it that way.  He's not so crazy about being a vampire, after all. Hell, he fucking *hates* it.  So I guess I can see how coming up on a quarter of a millennium as one might get him a little down.

But... down enough to turn away a Grade A Spikejob?  Seems a bit much, to me.

"We gotta do something," I inform her.  Another few days of celibacy, and I might just say fuck the chip and go on a random slaughter spree, brain-melting pain be damned.

Cordelia's thinking hard... looks like it hurts.

"Well... I know when I'm bummed about getting old and wrinkly, a party always cheers me up."

I give her a look.  A *party*? Is she talking about the same brooding, guilt-ridden, dark-cloud-hanging-over-his-froofy-head vampire that I am? I'm thinking throwing him a damn party would get the same sort of reaction as strapping him down and forcing him to watch home movies of the Slayer banging her cornbread soldierboy might.

Besides... the last time we tried celebrating a Death Day just about turned into an angst fest.   I'm already sufferin' from a good bloody case of blue balls.  I don't need any of that weepy sniffly shit on top of it.

"A party," I repeat.

"Yeah, you know? Cake and ice cream.  Booze and dancing... little hats... noisemakers..."

"Oh, right.  And we could sing Happy Death Day to you," I suggest sardonically.

She ignores me.  "You could cook him dinner, and..."
"Wait, wait.  *Me* cook?  I don't think so." That sounds like a domestic task, to me, and I'm no damn houseywife.  I don't do chores for any-damn-body.  Not for all the Angel-ass on the planet.

"Well *I'm* sure not going to!" she says, like I asked her to go rifle through the dumpster and find my favorite toothpick for me.

Ah, but... a stroke of Spike-Genius hits.  "What about Pussley?"

"Perfect! He *loves* that "Better Homes and Gardens" crap!  We can invite the Host to sing, and Gunn and his crew..."

Do I need to tell you how funny it is to hear Cordelia say "crew"?  She's probably one of the whitest white girls on the damn planet.

She goes on about all the people she's going to invite and how she's gonna decorate the Hyperion, while I let my mind wander to the best part -- the post-party.  How I'm gonna show Angel once and for goddamn all that I'm bloody *glad* he died.  Thought I made that clear on my own Death Day, but...

Hey... maybe a trip to Harry's is in order for this occasion, too.

***
Part 2