"you're going to tip that over," and Spike leaned against Angel's desk with glee. "Wouldn't want to ruin those casual dressy pants now. Whatever would you wear to the office tomorrow?"

Angel resisted the urge to throw the cup at Spike's head - first of all, because it was his first cup of coffee for the day, and second because the cup was liable to go right through him and smash on the wall, to spill coffee all over his twelve thousand dollar Persian rug and fifteen thousand dollar leather couch.

"What do you want?"

Spike shrugged. "A body, some more cigarettes. Possibly a supermodel?"

"Get out of my office." Angel sat down. Desk chair, seven thousand. Feet on desk; shoes, two hundred. Headache. God, the headache. "Now."

Spike was staring at his memo pad. Very carefully, he picked it up, then flipped the page, a delighted smile on his face. "Look! I can - oh good god, you're not meeting with--"

Angel snatched the book away, trying not to feel embarrassed. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Instead of being angry, he sounded indulgent. Spike stood up. "Actually, I do." He looked around the office. "Luckily, I'm not there yet."

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