Angel figures he just should have thrown the shirts at Spike, muttered some curse words, threatened him with physical violence. Then he would have worn them. Or set them on fire. But at least Angel wouldn't have to spend every morning wondering if Spike was going to wear one of Angel's white tshirts (Angel wears them under button down dress shirts, they hang better that way. Spike wears them with sleeves rolled up, tucked into his jeans because they're at least four sizes too big, and a look on his face that dares Angel to say one bloody word) or nothing at all that day. Angel likes the nothing at all days. Spike sprawled out on the couch, hand in that stupid box of stupid cereal, dirty boots on, feet up on the coffee table, blue jeans undone, and that fucking smile.