Sunnydale doesn't have a music scene to speak of. There's that stupid teen club they call the Bronze, which has a decent playlist and occasionally a good show. The fluffy werewolf's band wasn't even that bad, although I'd never admit as much to the sodding Scoobies. But local bands don't last long in Sunnyhell. Drummers are eaten by zombies, lead singers are vamped, guitarists can't make it to practice three nights out of the month. It doesn't bode well for local talent.
As for punk rock... it's practically nonexistent. The demon populace makes your average Sunnydale mosh pit a dangerous place for mortals.
But here I am, in L.A. The epicenter of the SoCal punk rock scene. Birthplace of all that is good and true. Green Day... Offspring... Eve 6... oh, the music, the madness, the mayhem that have passed through the bars and clubs and stages of this city. I look around me in awe. This is beautiful. Lanky young men in plaid bondage pants and ripped denim jackets covered in logos and patches. Their girlfriends, adorned in Catholic-schoolgirl skirts and fishnet hose. Spiked bracelets, chain wallets, forty-hole Docs. And the pit's already formed. The band's only tuning up and the pit's already formed.
I'm in fucking heaven.
My Sire, on the other hand, looks terrified.
"What the hell is that?" he asks, staring in alarm.
I glance around. "What?"
He nods towards the assembled throng in front of the stage. "The very large and unruly group of young people who appear to be running into one another for no apparent reason."
"Oh. That's the mosh pit."
He goes into Facial Expression #2: Baffled Confusion. "The... pardon?"
"Mosh pit. It's like a dance." I tilt my head to one side, considering. "Well, not quite like a dance."
"It looks like orchestrated chaos," he says flatly.
I shrug. "Well, yeah."
"And there's no actual pit."
"Well, no, not exactly. The pit is... the crowd. When they're... moshing."
"Running into one another."
"Yeah. And when they stop moshing, they cease to be a pit."
He lets out a brief sigh and assumes Facial Expression #3, the one I like to call the I'm Older and Wiser You Idiot Childe. "That doesn't make any *sense.*"
I sigh and ignore him. The band is launching into their first song. I don't have time to explain everything. The crowd starts to shout and I join them, one fist raised in the air. "Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!"
"*What* are you saying?" he asks.
"Oi."
"Yeah, I caught that. What does it *mean*?"
"It means... it's..." I give an exasperated sigh. "It's just *oi,* Angel."
"Yes, but what-"
I interrupt him before he can ask me another stupid question. "It's just something you shout at shows like this, all right?"
He shrugs. "Whatever you say, Spike."
"Damn straight." I peel off my duster and thrust it into his hands. "Take my leather, mate. I'm going in."
"In?"
I nod in the direction of the crowd. "The pit."
"Spike, no," he says hastily.
I quirk an eyebrow at him. "Why the hell not?"
"Because it's- they're- for God's sake, Spike, it's insane! They're all running into each other and people keep getting knocked over and you're going to get hurt!"
I smile at his concern even as his fathering annoys me. "Angel, I've been crowdsurfing since Woodstock. I'll be fine."
"But-"
"No buts. Preternatural vampire strength, remember?"
He sighs. "All right."
"You could go in there yourself, you know. Give it a go."
The look he gives me speaks volumes.
So I jump in. God, it's been ages since I've been in a decent pit. Careful to keep my arms over my face, I get away with minimal bruising, and soon I'm being tossed into the air like a bloody beach ball. It's fucking fantastic.
The only thing that could make this more fun would be to have Angel in here with me.
Truth is, this isn't just about revenge. Okay, it's partially about revenge. Mostly, even. I had to sit through three sodding hours of watching giddy Micks prance about on a stage. And I had to wear a tux. Revenge won't even *begin* to make up for that.
But part of it was... nice. Not the Riverdance part, by any means. But the sitting next to him part, his hand affectionately placed on my knee. The being with him part, an evening with no demons to fight, no Cordelia, no Wesley, no Angel Investigations to interfere. And the limo part. Dear heavenly Christ, *that* part kicked ass.
I wanna do that for him. I want to take him out and show him *my* idea of a fun evening. And I want him to have a good time.
I wonder if he's having a good time?
I peer through a latticework of elbows and knees as I am hurled up into the air again and see a Rude Girl with lots of facial piercings spill her beer all over his shirt. I watch in amusement as his game face surfaces briefly in rage. Only my Sire would go demonic over the prospect of another trip to the dry cleaner's.
Oh, my. I'm upside down. How did that happen?
*~*~*~*~*
I'm starting to get worried about him.
I mean, yeah, he's immortal, he's preternaturally strong, and he's been in that sort of... pit...before. But I still don't like it. It's dangerous and those people don't look normal. And why would anyone run into someone for fun? How the hell is that fun?
A young lady with fuschia hair and a face that's every airport metal-detector's nightmare bumps into me and spills some sort of liquid that only my nitwit Childe would drink all over my shirt.
My *three hundred dollar* *silk* shirt.
It's difficult to keep one's vampiric cool around humans at all times, even with a soul. Certain things are always going to set my demon off. Arousal. The smell of fresh blood. A heated fight. Or the anger I feel at having beer spilt all over my $300 silk shirt. I grit my teeth, clench my fists, and will the ridges in my forehead to smooth and soften before I get us both into trouble.
She murmurs something vaguely akin to "sorry" and she's off in the crowd again. I, meanwhile, am left with a dripping shirt and the stench of cheap beer. I raise my head and I can see him, tangled in a twisted knot of drunken youth. He's staring back at me, and he's laughing.
I say nothing; my face retains its characteristic stoicism. But my eyes burn into his with a strength and fierceness only he can understand. I am trying to communicate to him, through the eternal blood bond, that the only way he's going to be able to make up for *this* one is with the mother of all fucking blowjobs.
His eyes sparkle and I know he understands.
*~*~*~*~*
I land on someone's elbow the wrong way and feel the bridge of my nose shatter. Yeah, okay, it hurts, in fact, it hurts like hell, but that sort of thing happens at shows like these. You take it for granted. It'll heal soon. You shoulda seen the time at the Sex Pistol's Anarchy in the UK tour when I dislocated both shoulders-
And suddenly there's a strong hand at the back of my neck and I'm being forcibly dragged out of the mosh pit like a disobedient puppy.
"What the fuck-" I glance up, peering around my swollen nose, and I see my Sire, looking either very annoyed or very concerned.
"Angel, what the bloody fucking hell do you think-"
"You're not going back in there."
"The hell I'm-"
"Spike, you're hurt."
"Angel, don't be a ponce. It'll heal by tomorrow."
"Spike, it's dangerous. They've got chains and metal studs and-" He gestures towards a wild young man with ambitiously tall Liberty Spikes. "If his head hits you in the chest, you'll turn to dust."
"Hey! Fuck off!" I snap. "Just 'cause you don't know how to loosen up doesn't mean I should have to bleedin' suffer."
"Spike-"
"No. I don't wanna hear it. Go. Have a drink." I push away from him and go back into the crowd. He stands there, fuming. I don't care. I don't bloody care. I swear, this is the *last* time I steal his hard-earned money and try to show him a nice time.
I don't care how mad he is. I came here to mosh. I'm bloody well gonna mosh.
He looks really pissed off.
I don't care!
I wonder if this means he's gonna sulk?
Oh, hell, the bleedin' song's over anyway.
A ska song starts and the throng breaks apart. I untangle myself and find him on the edge of the crowd, trying like hell to blot beer off his shirt with a paper napkin. I tug on his sleeve. "Come on."
"What? No, Spike, I already told you, I'm not going in that... pit."
"There is no pit. Remember? There has to be moshing for there to be a mosh pit. This is ska. We skank."
"It's *what?* We *who*?"
"Skank. Come on. I'll show you." I pull him back onto the floor. "You remember the thirties, mate?"
"Vaguely."
"Ever do the Charleston?"
"Once or twice," he said suspiciously.
"Same damn thing. Just kick your legs out... like this." I demonstrate.
"No. No way."
I move up very close to him, grab his crotch, and growl in his ear. "I. Went. To. Sodding. *Riverdance.*" I move away. "You will skank."
He sighs and kicks halfheartedly for a couple of beats.
"Angel, no. This is ska. The note's on the upbeat. God, you're hopeless."
"I'm trying," he says impatiently. The sad thing is,it's true. Stupid pillock really is trying. But he's got the coordination of a mortal and his rhythm's even worse.
"Come here." I put my arm around his shoulders- no mean feat with the height difference between us. "Do what I do. Kick. Kick. Kick." It's like a fucked-up punkrock undead version of *Dirty Dancing.*
"Like this?"
"Yeah." I move away from him and watch his lumbering six-foot-two form attempt some semblance of skanking. "Now swing your arms." He gives me that you've-got-to-be-fucking-with-me look. "Angel, it's *music,* for fuck's sake. This isn't rocket science. Close your eyes, listen to the music, and *move.*"
"I look stupid," he mutters, stopping.
"Mate," I snap, "look around you. You're in good company."
He can't argue with that kind of logic.
"You wanted me to have culture," I continue impatiently. "So, right, I went to the theater, and I watched the Irishmen stomp about for a couple of hours, and I got my fucking lion's share of bleedin' culture. Now it's *your* turn. I want you to loosen up. Have a drink. Do a little dance, make a little love..."
He groans. "Spike, don't."
"Sorry. It's just... I want you to
have a fun evening, you know? You go out every day, and you fight evil,
and that gives you some sort of half-assed sense of purpose, and that's
fine. And you go to the sodding opera or whatever, and you have your artistic
experience, and that's all well and good. But when's the last time you
had any *fun*? You do remember fun,
don't you? Cause we used to have
loads of it, back in the day."
"Yeah, Spike, I remember our particular brand of 'fun'."
"No one's asking you to drain the
still-beating heart of a virgin," I say tiredly. "For one thing, I doubt
there's any virgins here, and for another, we'd get kicked out of the club.
I just want you to have a good time, Angel." My voice softens slightly
on the
last line and I wince. I sound like
a fucking nonce. I straighten my shoulders and affect my usual badass demeanor.
"If that wouldn't burden your precious little soul too much."
He gives me that smile again. That little smirk.
"Okay, Spike."
Ten minutes later he emerges from the mosh pit, his shirt in tatters, one eye blackened, his face dark with fury.
"You fight evil battle demons professionally," I chuckle, "but you can't dodge the elbows of a sixteen-year-old punk rocker."
"I didn't see him coming," he growls.
"Yeah, well, you were probably too busy worrying about your precious shirt."
"This is my favorite shirt!"
"*Was* your favorite shirt, mate."
Oh, look. Gameface.
"Angelus, calm down, it's just a bleedin' shirt, you've got dozens-"
"Shut up, Spike!" he snarls viciously.
*~*~*~*~*
Soon we're screaming at each other.
I can't believe we're arguing about this. I can't believe he'd put me through this. I can't believe we're still *here.*
"I must be an *idiot* to go along with anything you say!" I shout. "Are you deliberately trying to piss me off, Spike? What the hell are you trying to *do*?"
And something snaps. I can see it, a brief glare of flame and fury in his blue eyes. "I am *trying* to show you a good time!" he shouts furiously. "I am trying to take you out on a fucking *date,* that's what the bloody fucking hell I'm trying to do!"
Spike has never used the word "date" in conjuction with anything he and I have ever done. Ever.
I can't believe Spike just said "date."
I look into his eyes and realize my fatal mistake. You wouldn't know it from the amount of impatience and annoyance he shows in my presence, but it really takes a lot to get Spike angry. If you do something that pisses him off, he'll simply kick your ass and get over it. But if you hurt his feelings, terrible tragedies occur. He glances away from me, struggling to retain his composure.
I'm an idiot. I'm such a stupid, senseless, unfeeling idiot. This night wasn't just about revenge. He was trying to show me part of himself, his life, his idea of fun. Trying to give me that experience. Christ, it's not his fault that I'm an old, brooding vamp with a guilt complex who can't relate.
"Spike," I begin hesitantly, "I'm sor-"
"If you tell me you're sorry one more bloody time, Angelus, I'll rip your throat out."
I fall silent, overcome with remorse. He stares into the crowd with blazing eyes. He won't look at me.
I hate it when he does that. Spike isn't one to avoid your gaze. Not unless he's really upset. Please, God, just make him look at me. I'd give up my soul again for just a glance.
He tosses his cigarette down with an angry gesture and looks up at me.
"That's it," he snaps. "I'm gonna show you a good time once and for all."
And without another word, he grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me out of the room. Out the back. Into the dimly lit storage area. Where he shoves me up against the wall.
"Spike, what the hell are you-"
He clamps one hand over my mouth. "Shut the fuck up," he snarls, more impatient than angry. "*I'm* the only one here whose mouth's gonna be occupied, mate." He reaches up with the other hand, unzips my pants, and reaches inside.
Spike's hands have the most amazing talent of applying just enough pressure to walk that fine line between pleasure and pain. I'm not sure where he picked up the ability; I blame Drusilla. It is that careful force which he exerts now as he seizes my balls with one determined hand.
I am his Master. I am his Sire. I am the Scourge of Europe.
"All right," I squeak. "Whatever you say."
He chuckles deep in his throat and presses his mouth against mine in a bruising kiss, his insistent hands stripping me bare from the waist down. I clutch a piece of stereo equipment behind me in a death grip, already going weak in the knees. Spike doesn't try to romance me. Spike doesn't seduce. Spike doesn't waste any time.
This is not about love. This is about him trying to prove that he can please me in spite of myself. Which is, I suppose, in its own sick, twisted, Spikish way, about love.
He drops to his knees before me, pulling my pants and boxers to my ankles with one final tug. I am given no time to prepare myself; not a moment is wasted on foreplay. He takes me into his mouth, suddenly, entirely, completely, utterly, and I cry out softly in joy and surprise.
I've had a lot of lovers.
Anna, the shy housemaid who started
like a nervous deer at the sound of my father's footsteps in the hall.
Darla, with her overwhelming self-assurance and impassioned need. Buffy,
with her clear eyes, hesitant fingers and lips. Penn, pathetically
eager to please. Doyle, who screamed
in Gaelic when he came. Faith, whose angry eyes and mouth demanded more
than I was willing to give, more than even Angelus could have given.
And countless others. Hands and tongues without faces. Vampires and mortals. Victims and Childer.
The sensation of a skilled or unskilled mouth, cool or warm, clamped around me, is not an unfamiliar one.
But gods, no one in this dimension or the next can give a blowjob like my Favored Childe.
Maybe it's the tongue that wraps tightly around me like a cool snake. Maybe it's the merciless rhythm of his lips or the crushing grip of his arms around my waist. Maybe it's the way he doesn't seem to have a gag reflex.
Maybe it's the... oh, *God.*
The casing of the amplifier that he shoved me up against bends and cracks beneath my fingers. I bite down on my lower lip, fighting like hell not to call out "William" in husky tones. He doesn't want to hear that name. Not right now. This is not the time for nostalgia; now is not the time to play Sire and Childe.
We both know who's in charge here.
So I whisper something else instead, because it is someone else who pleasures me now. Not William, the suspicious, ruthless, often moody street-child and accomplished thief I turned in a dark alleyway sixscore years ago. Not Will, the Favored Childe, the fledgling who grew to hate me for the sake of a girl with dark curls and a laugh like broken silver bells. The name I call out now is the name of the fearless punk who kneels before me now, the former Master of the Sunnydale Hellmouth, the Slayer of Slayers, the badass clad in leather whose mouth knows the secrets of the ages. My lover. My nemesis. My partner in crime.
I throw my head back and moan. "Spiiiike..."
And he laughs. He laughs because he knows he's won. He laughs because he knows I'm about to come any moment now.
He laughs because he knows that he's shown me a good time. Dear God, has he ever.
He laughs. But that doesn't prevent his mouth from doing what it does so well. Not in the least.
And then the room is spinning around me. Stars explode against the backs of my eyelids. I can't hear the screeching of guitars in the next room; I can't feel my arms or my legs. But I can feel myself climax inside his lovely mouth. I can feel him swallow.
And I can feel him smile.
He manages to get my pants pulled up and fastened before my knees give way and I sink to the floor. He rises to his feet and stands over me, grinning.
"Say it," he says.
I smile weakly.
"Say it." We're not going anywhere until I say it.
I sigh. "I had a good time tonight, Spike."
"Damn straight," he replies.