Page 71 of Matteo
Eleanor's eyes nearly pop out of her skull, and I can see the wheels turning in her head, adding up two and two to get a five she never saw coming. "You do not."
Angel chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, Eleanor, the last thing you want is to be out hanging the washing in the morning and looking up at my balcony." That grin hasn't left his face, not even for a second.
"Ooh, my God!" The words explode from her, and she slaps her hands over Niko's ears as if it'll scrub clean what he's already heard. "You dirty, dirty man," she accuses, but the laughter bubbling up from her belly tells another story.
"Dirty" doesn't even start to cover it. In our line of work, filth clings to your skin and seeps into your soul. Angel knows it, revels in it, and makes it his own brand of art.
"Look at this," Angel says, motioning toward the window with a dramatic sweep of his hand. "I think the view of the bay is all you need."
Eleanor turns, looking at the endless blue water, calm as a lie. A soft smile ghosts her lips. "I think you’re right aboutthat one." She looks over at me; cheeks tinged pink like the sky at dawn after a night spent spilling secrets and blood.
"I don't mind buying the neighbor’s houses," I throw in with a wink. You might as well stir the pot; keep things simmering.
She hurls the pen she's been fidgeting with straight at me. "Oh, shut up." It bounces off my chest, harmless as a moth. "You’re all a bunch of dirty men."
I can't argue with that. Not when we've built empires on dirt and graft. Every one of us here, bound by sinew and secrecy, knows just how filthy we are.
And not a damn one of us is looking to get clean.
The door swingsopen with that familiar creak, the one I've meant to oil for weeks now. Spike strides in, the scent of soap clinging to him like a badge of cleanliness in an otherwise stained world. He's all crisp lines and fresh fabric, starkly contrasting the grit and grime of our daily dealings.
"What took you so long?" Eleanor's voice cuts through the room, sharp as a blade. She's perched on her usual throne of cushions, a queen in her own right, not having budged since the sun first clawed its way into the sky.
"Had to go home and clean up," Spike says with a nonchalant shrug, but there's something tight about his shoulders, a coil ready to spring.
"That's a long fucking shower!" Eleanor’s glare could start fires. "Where do you live? Fucking Campbelltown?"
"No, I have an apartment in Paddington," he shoots back, his frown mirroring hers. "What's with the interrogation?"
"She wants to buy the neighbor’s houses and have us move in," Angel announces. He saunters in, popcorn in hand, like we're here to binge some daytime drama, not unravel the knots of the city's seedy underbelly.
"She does know you’re into voyeurism, right?" Spike's gaze lands on Eleanor, a mix of amusement and challenge dancing in his eyes.
"She does now," Angel chuckles, tossing a kernel into his mouth, crunching the tension between bites.
“So, not keen to buy the neighbor’s pads anymore?" Spike arches an eyebrow, his grin spreading wide across his face.
"Nah, yeah, I changed my mind," Eleanor's laughter is a light flicker in the dark canvas of our world. It's rare and beautiful, even if it's laced with sarcasm. "But seriously, what took you so long? I was a bit worried."
"I usually like to blow off some steam after I’ve spent some time doing what I did," Spike explains, his fingers sketching quotes in the air, painting invisible words that we all can read loud and clear.
"Oh," Eleanor's cheeks bloom with a flush of red, a rare show of embarrassment from a woman who's seen the darkest corners of our lives. "Sorry," she mumbles, and it's almost comical how this single word seems to struggle out of her mouth like it's foreign to her tongue.
I lean back, watching the exchange, a smirk on my lips. We're a fucked-up family, sure.
Spike strides across the room, a predator in his own right. He leans down over Eleanor, his lips brushing the crown of her head in a tender gesture that clashes with thedarkness clinging to our souls. "Thank you for caring, but..." His voice drops to a whisper meant only for her ears.
I watch, something like warmth flickering in my chest. These moments are rare. They're the tiny sparks in an endless night. The Buffy clan's got its hooks in Eleanor, and she's one of us now—claws, fangs, and all. This is family.
"So, what did you find out?" I ask, my voice slicing through the softness of Spike's moment. He slides into a seat next to Eleanor, his eyes meeting mine with that look that says shit's about to get real.
"A lot, actually," Spike starts, his gaze shifting to Angel. "And I'm sure Angel has done some digging while he got the information, too."
"Yep!" Angel punctuates the air with that sound like he's having the time of his life. The bastard loves this game, even when it's soaked in blood and secrets.
"Umm, are we gonna talk with mini-me in the room?" Angel jerks his thumb toward Niko, sitting there as quietly as the grave, soaking everything in.
Eleanor lets out a sigh that sounds like defeat wrapped in resignation. "Even though I would love to say no, I think it's time for Niko to understand the issues; he is a Ricci, after all."
