(Title from Edwin McCain's Jesters, Dreamers, & Thieves.)
Special thanks to Selene for the gorgeous artwork for this story.
Spike looked up from his glass when he heard the heavy tap of a full bottle being placed on the table. Following the hand holding the bottle up to its owner, he met the amused eyes of Gunn, who shrugged off his jacket before sitting down across from Spike in the booth.
“Charlie boy!” The tone was welcoming, if a bit slurred, and Gunn was glad he’d made it. Yeah, his head was hurting, but… company was good.
“Decided to pack my toys and candy back away and take you up on that drink. Not every day the new vamp in town gets corporeal.”
“True enough,” Spike chuckled in response, filling the empty glass the man had brought to the table and meeting Gunn’s celebratory toast with his own glass.
“To you having a body to go with your soul.”
“Hear, hear,” Spike grinned, and silence descended over the table as they both sipped at the warming amber.
“So…” Gunn started, only to realize he didn’t really know what to say to the vampire in front of him.
“Yeah,” Spike answered, equally ill at ease. The silence was affable, but it was still silence. “You look like you’re recovering from the whole… bleedin’ eyes thing… pretty well.”
“Oh yeah. All cleaned up… head’s getting better. Side effect of life at the ambiguously evil law firm, I guess.”
“Hmm.” The noise was friendly enough, but clearly skeptical to anyone who knew—or had been haunted by—Spike.
Gunn picked up on the undertone. “What?”
“Just sayin’… seems like there’s more side effects than benefits to your ‘ambiguously evil’ law firm… an’ I really think you need to plumb that brain upgrade for the definition of ambiguous. That place? The evil is FAR from unclear.” Spike’s mini-tirade had come complete with sarcastic air quotes, and would have infuriated Gunn had the concern behind the words not been evident.
“We’re makin’ a difference,” Gunn responded, tone making it clear that he would brook no discussion on it. Oh, he had questions—some days, they came pretty much non-stop—but for the most part he really did think they were making a change. “We’re beating the system one game at a time.”
“Might wanna make certain that you keep your soul outta your games. Seein’ as I just played this one, gotta tell you—can be a bitch to get it back,” Spike answered, refilling both glasses.
“Got somethin’ to say?”
“Sayin’ it. Wouldn’t be if I didn’t like you. That place… you may think you’re makin’ a difference, but it’s still there—just ‘cause it hides better when you lot are around doesn’t mean anything’s changed. Look at what happened today.” Spike held Gunn’s gaze, expression deadly serious as he tried to get through. “Don’ know how deep you’re in, Charlie, but…”
“We agreed to take it over. All of us. I gotta figure that puts us right in the middle.”
“You signed anythin’? Thrown in any further than whatever mojo they did with your brain?”
“No. But I’m not ready to get out just yet… I still believe we can do more good from where we are than where we were,” Gunn countered, predicting Spike’s next question before it could be posed.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Pollyanna,” came the answer just before Spike knocked back his shot, savoring the burn. He snorted a bit at the offended look on Gunn’s face before moving to mollify him. “’s not an insult, just a statement. Hero types have all got a bit of that in them… ‘s what keeps you lot fighting.”
“You don’t count yourself as a hero?” Gunn asked, a bit incredulously.
“Some days. Most days I’m a cynical bastard. Do what I need to do to get by; it’s just that makin’ the world better got mixed up in there somehow.”
“Hmm.” It was Gunn’s turn to wordlessly deride what his companion had said, and Spike raised a brow before chuckling at the response.
“Whatever I am… ‘m not a Pollyanna,” he finally granted.
“Think we can agree on that.”
Again, affable silence reigned, but this time its duration was much shorter.
“So… two good-lookin’ blokes, City of Angels… gotta be more to do than just sit around gettin’ plastered.”
“Oh, hell yeah. You lookin’ to fight or to party?”
“Who’s to say we can’t do both? Night’s young, so are we… well, relatively speaking. See where the night takes us?”" Spike mused, standing and throwing a couple of the bills he’d lifted from Angel’s wallet onto the table.
“Is that Angel’s money?” Gunn asked as he stood and shrugged back into his jacket.
“Well, yeah.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Hard to bank dosh when there’s no there there, you know? ‘Sides, this is the least he could do.”
“Wait a minute. You kicked his ass and stole his money?”
“Again—well, yeah. Took one of his cars, too. ‘s expected. One could almost say I earned it.”
“So the party’s on Angel.”
“Yep.”
A moment’s pause, and two wicked grins shaped handsome faces.
“‘bout damn time he paid up for somethin’… you know, I gave him money back in the day for Mata Hari tickets—an’ he took us to the damn ballet. Never did give my money back.”
“And you were surprised? Captain Broodypants is nothin’ if not cheap. And he listens to Manilow. ‘s not hard to believe he’d shanghai you lot into the tutus and tights review.”
Gunn nodded ruefully, still mourning his long-lost night of rock ‘n roll fun. “How much did you lift?”
“Not enough to compensate your pain, Charlie boy… but we can numb it right solid.”
Gunn grinned again, tugging the door open. “After you.”