Six more blocks to go.

It'd been a hard night and visions of a soft bed danced in Spike's head. He lit another cigarette and willed his weary legs to continue east, toward the false dawn that cast its feeble, fleeting light on the quiet, dirty streets and the other quiet, dirty people as they slowly made their way toward wherever they called home.

Spike didn't call Angel's tiny basement efficiency 'home.' He called it convenient. And Angel's bed wasn't the bed of his visions, but he called it good enough. He stripped down to his boxers in the dark, leaving his clothing where it fell.

"Shove over, git," Spike muttered, elbowing Angel over to one side of the bed. Angel groaned but didn't wake. Spike was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Spike came to to the smell of grease. He smiled. "Xander?"

"'Fraid not."

Spike rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. "Angel."

Angel reached into a grease-spotted bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped hamburger and tossed it to Spike.

"Thought you could use some lunch. Or breakfast. Whatever you want to call it."

"Ta, mate. Didn't fancy having to dig out that pizza from last week."

Angel grimaced. "I ate that this morning. Be glad it wasn't you. I think it was actually from the week before last."

Spike shuddered. He looked around at the empty pizza boxes, beer bottles and beer cans, the crumpled to-go bags, the dirty towels and tee shirts and underwear. He shuddered again. "We're living in squalor."

"We're men."

"Look a little lower on the evolutionary chart, mate."

"Apes?"

"Lower."

"Unless you're going to whip out a high school biology textbook, this conversation is over. No - no. This conversation is over." Angel threw himself into the apartment's one easy chair and pulled a battered sketch book from between the cushion and the arm, flipped it to a blank page and patted down the cushions for a pencil.

Spike aimed one between Angel's eyes and threw it. He made a sound of disgust when Angel caught it easily. "We're blokes," Spike clarified because Angel didn't look likely to follow up the line of conversation. God but Spike missed the daily banter at home. *No. Not home. William and Xander's place. Not home.* Not even if it felt like home and if right then he'd pay a week's wages to be there, curled up in that cheap bed and warm because there was always someone looking for a cuddle.

Spike realized Angel had stopped sketching. "That's not a happy look," Angel said. He rubbed his thumb over the paper, smudging the pencil - putting shadows under Spike's eyes this time, not under his cheekbones. "It's an interesting look - but not happy."

Not in the mood for artistic honesty, Spike lifted two fingers to Angel and rolled over in bed. Let the wanker sketch his arse instead. "Sod off."

Angel didn't answer, but Spike heard the page flip and the scratching sound of pencil over paper continued.

"Bloody hell, you're not sketching my arse, are you?"

Spike didn't turn, but he could hear the shrug that went with: "What can I say? You've got a nice ass."

"What would you know about it, bottom boy?"

Again, Angel refused to rise to the bait. He sketched for another minute before calmly inquiring:

"So, wanna tell me what crawled up that nice ass and died today?"

"Hard night at work, that's all."

"Well, if you want to give up heavy lifting for... well, lifting, just say the word."

"Perhaps it's failing to penetrate all the hair gel, but I told you, from now on - "

"You're strictly legit. Got it. I got you the job on the docks, didn't I? I'm a sensitive twenty-first century...bloke. I can do supportive."

Spike groaned and rolled off the bed. "You're right," he said as he passed Angel on the way to the shower and glanced down at the sketch. "I do have a nice arse."

The advantage - or the disadvantage - of efficiency apartments was that there was nowhere to go that was too far away to continue a conversation. So as Spike waited for the water to warm, he was treated to Angel's ongoing discussion. "Know why I got you the job on the docks?"

"Yeah. 'Cause they'll hire anyone who can lift eighty pounds, no questions asked. What is this? Twenty sodding questions?" Spike tested the lukewarm water and grimaced, dug his fingertips into the aching muscles to either side of his neck and rolled his head with a groan. *Anyone who can lift a hundred and eighty bloody pounds tonight.*

"No. Because it's day labor. You want a night off? You take a night off. This is an invitation to a night of fun."

Spike gave up on waiting for the ancient pipes to give him the scalding hot water he craved and stepped into the shower stall. "One more time, wanker. I've given up that kind of fun for Lent. Only permanently."

"It's not permanent if it's for Lent." A draft of cold air around the shower curtain and Angel's louder voice told Spike Angel was in the bathroom with him. He took the opportunity to stick his head around the shower curtain and glare. Angel leaned against the sink and held up his hands. "Fine. This is completely legal fun - nothing more dangerous than alcohol."

"That right? Hardly seems like your kind of scene."

"There might be an actress involved," Angel admitted.

Spike snorted and poured shampoo into his hand. "She's out of your league, mate. What happened to Wesley?"

"You didn't hear about him and Gunn?"

Spike stuck his head out the curtain again, shampoo suds and all. "You're fucking joking!"

Angel shrugged.

"Good on him!"

"Hey! Whose side are you on?"

"Wesley's."

"We were partners, man. You and me. Where's the loyalty?"

"You? In a relationship? Bloody recipe for disaster, that is."

"It wasn't a relationship."

"You stopped fucking other people."

"I stopped fucking you."

"I'm other people, ain't I? Look, my point is: Wes made you happy. You turned into a bastard. Happiness doesn't work for you. That's why you're shite in relationships."

"What are you, my fucking psychoanalyst now? 'Cause don't get me started on you and this Xander-Will thing."

"One more word and I'll shove this bar of soap down your throat."

"Uh huh."

"Angel..."

"Look, bottom line? It's been a while and my social circle is shrinking fast. We go to this party, you can be my wingman with Cordelia and maybe you find yourself a little somethin'."

"Okay. A - I refuse to be your wingman for this actress. Not only can I already tell she's out of our league, but the only thing worse than you in a relationship with a guy is you in a relationship with a girl. And B - the only little somethin' I need is the dosh I'll get at the docks."

"Uh huh."

"Soap. Mouth," Spike warned and ducked his head under the water to rinse. "Where'd you meet the bint anyway?"

"She lives in the building."

"Better flat than this dump, I'll wager."

"If you mean she actually has windows and gets hot water, then yeah - it's a better apartment." Angel put a towel into Spike's hand once he'd turned off the water.

"How'd a starving actress manage that? And don't tell me she's a success. Not if she lives in this part of town."

Angel shrugged. "It's a rent controlled building. She moved in before the old lady tenant died."

Spike stopped toweling and peered at Angel beneath cheap terry cloth. "That right?"

"That's right."

"The bint's got a pair, then."

"I seem to be attracted to small, aggressive people." Angel gave Spike a fond smile and ignored his dismissive snort as he left the bathroom, dropping the towel to the floor.

"How d'you explain Wes?"

"He's persuasive."

"Here I thought it was the blowjobs."

"The blowjobs were very persuasive. C'mon, Spike. The party will be fun. Remember fun?"

Spike's thoughts were making a beeline to his non-dates with Xander and Spike hurried to put up a roadblock. "You hate fun."

"I don't hate fun."

"And you hate dancing. There's sure to be dancing and if anything's gonna scare the bint off it will be the sight of you gettin' jiggy with it."

That brought Angel up short. "Uh, just so you know - 'gettin' jiggy with it' is not slang that works for you."

"And it's not an activity that works for you, mate."

"Spike, I need you at this party."

"To keep you from dancing? Because in that case you definitely have a humanitarian argument."

"To keep me from doing anything stupid. In case you haven't noticed - social situations? Not my forte."

"Got that right." Spike shook out his jeans, sniffed them and grimaced. He shook them out again and put them on. "So who invited us to this bash?"

"Well...that's the thing..."