Nightwing To His Batman

by Saber ShadowKitten
I Hated You Because... 14

Spike quietly crept into the bedroom, his eyes focused on the prone figure laying in the bed. From what he could tell, Angel hadn't moved a single inch. Poor sod, Spike thought, sneaking to the wardrobe closet. It must bite to have a headache.

The blond winced at the creak the wardrobe door made as he pulled it open. He glanced back at Angel and let out a relieved sigh that the blighter hadn't been bothered. Without further hesitation, Spike grabbed his duffle bag from the floor of the closet and left the bedroom. Angel would probably scowl at him for leaving the closet door open -- his Sire was anal-retentive to the hyphenate -- but Spike would rather get the annoyed look and lecture about being neater than disturb the "I-have-a-headache-so-leave-me-the-hell-alone" poof.

Back in the safety of the living room, Spike dropped the bag on the couch, opened it and dug out some clothing. Wandering around in his skivvies was fine and dandy in the apartment but despite his striking figure, he didn't want the world to see what belonged to Angel.

Spike shook his head. He was turning into such a sap. If he hadn't killed some human bloke attacking a woman the other night, he'd be wondering if he'd caught the soul bug that had been inflicted upon his nancyboy Sire.

The blond glanced at the time after he finished putting on his Docs. He'd managed to keep himself entertained for a few hours by watching television, practicing the Tai Chi Angel had taught him, and tossing off while "reading" the stash of adult magazine's he'd found hidden on the bookshelf inside the oversized book: The Complete Works Of Shakespeare.

Spike had filed away his knowledge of the secretive cache, which included titles such as: Men, Jock, Numbers, Dude and, of course, Playguy, and he planned to use that knowledge at a later date to tease his Sire mercilessly. After all, how often was it that someone as sexy and virile as Angel turned out to be a great steamin' shirtlifter? It would ruin Angel's whole 'Knight in Black Billowy Trenchcoat' persona that the damsels in distress pictured as they masturbated long after being rescued by the handsome Batman-wannabe.

With a slap to his thighs, Spike stood, slid his Nightwing wallet into the front pocket of his jeans, put his coat on, and headed for the grate into the tunnels that ran beneath L.A.

As he walked, he fingered the ever-present stake in the pocket of his beloved duster. The tunnels were more dangerous during the day -- for obvious reasons -- and Spike had learned early on that he could never be too careful when using them. Once, he'd been on his way to get a carton of smokes and he'd been attacked by three Necrovores -- eaters of the dead. He'd been weaponless and managed to kill one of them before he'd decided running wasn't always a cowardly thing to do.

Twenty minutes later, Spike poked his head outside the sewer grate that led to his destination. When he saw no one in the loading dock, he climbed up from the tunnels, brushed himself off and headed in the back entrance of the supermarket.

It was just after three on a Saturday afternoon, and the store was packed. Kids screamed, babies cried, mothers yelled and shopping cart wheels squeaked noisily as they were pushed down tightly cramped aisles. The scents of food, human sweat and floor cleaner wafted through the air.

Spike grimaced. If his Sire didn't have a headache, he wouldn't have set foot near the store. But Angel was laid up, Spike was bored, and tomorrow was their second anniversary. Since the blond knew Angel was a sucker for all that romantic shit, he was going to bake the lovable prick an anniversary cake.

Spike stepped around a puddle of unidentifiable orange stuff on the floor and walked down the length of the store, reading the aisle signs as he went. Aisle seven proclaimed that it had the cake mixes, and the vampire narrowly avoided being squashed between two grumpy looking women trying to get their carts through the same space.

"Bugger," Spike breathed when he saw all the cake mixes on the shelf. The selections he could chose from lined one side of the entire aisle.

Why the bloody hell were there so many?, he wondered, reaching out to pluck one off the shelf at random. Rainbow-Fudge Swirl, the label read. Spike made a face and quickly put the mix back.

"Excuse me," someone to his left said. Spike glanced over and saw a teenager who's face was covered with more metal piercings than skin. The vampire moved out of the way and the girl grabbed a box of Zebra-Chunk White Chocolate cake mix from the shelf.

"Er, do you know where the normal cake mixes are?" Spike dared to ask the mutant female. "Like chocolate and yellow?"

"Man, no one eats just chocolate any more," Metal-face said. She shook her box of zebra parts. "It's all about the heavenly mixes Pillsbury created."

"Right," Spike said. Airport Security Hazard Chick smiled at him then walked away. The blond vampire shivered. "I need a shower."

Moving further along the aisle, Spike saw stranger and stranger titles of cake mixes that he wouldn't feed to his worst enemy. Of course, his worst enemy was now his best friend, but he still wouldn't feed it to Buffy. Xander, however...

"Aha!" Spike exclaimed, earning odd looks from the other patrons in the aisle. The blond felt his face heat up with embarrassment, and he scowled. He grabbed the cake mix from the shelf and focused on it rather than on the desire to rip the peoples' amused grins from their faces. Angel frowned upon unnecessary bloodshed in the supermarket.

The vampire was happy to find that almost everything else he needed to bake the cake was in the same aisle as the mix, including the cake pans. He didn't think Angel had any of those at the apartment, and there was no way in hell Spike was returning to the store a second time.

After picking up a half-carton of eggs, Spike headed for the check-out lanes. Naturally, the "Fifteen Items or Less" lane was the longest, and he'd bet half the people in line had at least sixteen items in their carts. Humans could be such jackasses at times.

"Hi," the check-out clerk said with no infection in his voice. The pimply-faced geek didn't even glance at Spike as he began to scan the vampire's items. The bag person seemed to be more interested in flirting with the bagger working the next lane over than doing his job.

"Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel, Angel," Spike chanted quietly to himself as a reminder not to go postal-worker on the market employees.

"That'll be $21.87," Zit-head declared in his prepubescent voice.

Spike barely stopped his mouth from dropping open. "$21.87?! For cake mix stuff?!"

Geeker stared dully at the vampire. "Yes, $21.87."

Spike pulled out his wallet and opened it, swearing that he was going to fuck his Sire until the older man couldn't walk. $21.87 for cake stuff!

"Cool, is that a Nightwing wallet?" Pimplenerd asked. The vampire nodded. "Way cool! Dick Grayson is the best. Way better than Jason Todd was as Robin, although Tim Drake is doing a good job so far. But Dick's the man. I'm glad that when he hung up his Robin outfit he chose to still play superhero and took up the Nightwing mantle in Blüdhaven. Where'd you get the wallet?"

"Er... gift," Spike replied, handing over his money. He was somewhat stunned by the kid's abrupt and rapid-fire conversation. "My boyfriend picked it up at a convention as a joke."

My boyfriend?!

Holy hell!, Spike thought. He'd actually called Angel his boyfriend!... out loud!... in public!... to a teenager, no less! And the twit didn't make a face when he'd said it, either. Which meant that geekboy was a queer, too!

Too? TOO?!! Spike couldn't believe he'd just thought that. He was a vampire, not a bloody queer! There was a difference!

"Does your boyfriend think he's Batman or somethin'?" Check-out Geek asked.

"Yeah," Spike mumbled, taking his change and shoving it in the wallet. He had to get out of the store. "He's like a broke Bruce Wayne."

"Cool," Breakout Boy said with an enthusiastic nod. He handed Spike his receipt. "Have a good one."

"Right." Spike took his bag from the bagger, who'd stopped yakking long enough to pack it, and quickly walked away.

The entire trip back to the apartment was spent thinking of different ways to torture his Sire. Somehow it had to be the nonce's fault that Spike referred to him as "boyfriend." Ugh. It was disgusting.

It was a pain to enter the apartment from the tunnels when carrying something, but Spike managed. He set the bag down on the kitchen table, took off his coat and went to check on Angel.

The dark-haired vampire was curled on his side, facing the door, asleep... and his thumb was in his mouth. Well, not really, but close enough that it made Spike grin like a fool. The blond silently left the bedroom again and the shut door firmly behind him.

Returning to the kitchen, Spike lit up a fag, unpacked the cake mix stuff, and got down to work. It didn't take long for him to realize he was never meant to be a cook, or chef, or whatever cake-making people were called.

It wasn't as if he couldn't read the directions. They were simple, precise and numbered one through four. But how the hell does one "preheat" an oven? He thought the purpose of an oven was to heat things, not preheat them. And how the fuck did he separate egg-whites?

"Boyfriend, my lily white- damn it!" Spike growled as one of the eggs dropped on his boot. "I hate you, Angel."

He shook his foot and watched as the egg splattered over the floor. He'd have to clean it and everything else up before the anal-gelhead returned to the land of the headache-free. They really needed to hire a maid.

Twenty minutes later, Spike stuck the batter-filled cake pan in the oven and set the timer. If all went well, when the little bell dinged, he'd have an anniversary cake. If things didn't go well, he'd dump the mess on Angel's head and tell him to go fuck himself.

After cleaning up, Spike wandered into the living room and plopped down onto the couch. He was bored again already. There just wasn't anything to do at Angel's, other then shag the dark-haired plonk and help out during fights. The rest of the time was spent waiting for one of the first two things to happen.

Well, Spike had to admit, that wasn't totally true. He and his -- oh, sod it all -- boyfriend did things together that kept them vertical for more than a few hours. They went to the pictures and clubs. They did the group-thing with the L.A. or Sunnydale crew. They had quiet nights where all they did was watch television while sitting together on the couch, or both of them read.

Spike lit another cigarette, laid back on the couch with his feet propped up on the arm, and closed his eyes. Loved sucked. He'd changed from a demon to a nancyboy all because of four little words that always managed to make him feel like a jar of Marshmallow Fluff. And he hated Marshmallow Fluff.


Spike looked over towards the bedroom and saw Angel standing in the doorway, rubbing one of his eyes, his dark hair flattened to his head, looking for all the world like a very large ten-year-old who'd just woken up.

Spike's insides melted. Oh yeah, he was nancyboy. A love-struck queer. A Nightwing to Angel's Batman. A bleached-blond poof who was baking a cake for his second anniversary just to make his boyfriend happy.

"How are you feelin', mate?" Spike asked, sitting up to make room on the couch.

Angel walked over and sat down beside him. "My head still hurts."

"Then what're you doin' up?" Spike said as he stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the end table.

"Don't know," Angel mumbled. "Just am."

Spike patted his lap. "Come 'ere, luv."

Angel curled up beside Spike and rested his head in the blond's lap. Spike began to gently run his fingers through his Sire's dark hair. The older man snuggled against Spike's thigh and Spike smiled tenderly.

Angel sighed, "Love you."

"Go back to sleep, you poof," Spike said.

Angel fell silent and, a few minutes later, Spike knew his Sire was asleep. It was going to be a bugger to get up when the timer went off, but he didn't mind. He was love's bitch -- still -- and that was fine with him.

Every Bruce Wayne needed a Dick Grayson.