*******
AIM transcript: 11/15/00
Kita0610: ok.so heres my idea
Kita0610: we call it "interludes
of our lives" and we write it and post it NOW while the frenzy is out
Kita0610: dedicated to "all the
slashers (and non slashers) out there whose canon took it up the ass last
night.
Kita0610: and promise real DOOUL
coming out soon!
END TRANSCRIPT
*****
DOOUL: THE ART OF GETTING JOSSED
"Owww," he moans, pulling his hand away from the side of his head and staring glumly at the blood in his palm. "I think my brains are leaking out."
"That's not good, pet, you haven't a lot to spare." I help him to the couch in the living room and get him settled in. "All right. Don't... pass out or anything."
"I'll try," he says weakly.
I pace around the kitchen, looking into cabinets helplessly. Concussion, concussion. What do you do for a concussion? Ace bandage? Bury a potato? No. Bloody hell. Starve a cold, feed a fever. No, starve a fever, feed a cold. Fuck. What do *I* do when I'm injured?
The answer to this, as to most problems in my life, is simple.
Drink.
So I carry a blanket, an icepack, and a double shot of Irish whiskey back into the living room and try my best to make him comfortable.
"If I drink that," he murmurs, staring at the shot in thinly veiled horror, "I'll throw up."
"You'll probably throw up anyhow, and this way it'll be worth it. C'mon, haven't I told you that alcohol is the solution to everything? Drink up."
He grimaces, but obediently downs the shot. "Everything's all wavery." His eyelids flutter slightly.
"Angel, if you pass out, I'm gonna kick your ass."
"You'll kick my ass? Oh, no. Small threat considering you almost made me a gourmet lion treat tonight." He presses the icepack to the side of his head and winces. "What else do you have in store? Mosh pit? Tearing off my fingernails? Ritual staking?"
I settle onto the couch next to him and light a cigarette. "No, but I plan on confiscating your hairgel once you're asleep."
"Fat chance."
"No, it'll work. You'll forget you ever wore hairgel, what with the concussion and all, and you'll never know it's missing." I reach for the glass, pour him another shot, and help myself to one as well.
*~*~*~*~*
"I do *not* have a concussion," I say defensively. The room looks really dark. I'm not sure I like it. And I'm relatively sure I don't need another drink.
I take one anyway.
"Oh, yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?" He waggles his fingers back and forth in front of my eyes. It's rather disconcerting.
"Stop that."
"What year were you born?"
"1727."
"Mother's maiden name?"
"Annabeth Collins."
"Who am I?"
I roll my eyes. "Spike, formerly William the Bloody, the obnoxious little prick I sired two centuries ago, an act I have regretted ever since."
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I'm not bloody two hundred."
"Aren't you?"
"Fuck no. I'm a hundred and twenty-six, remember?"
I scratch my forehead quizzically and accept another shot from Spike's hand.
"What year were you turned?"
"1880, you wanker."
I add some figures quickly in my head. "That would make you a hundred and twenty."
He shrugs and knocks back another shot of whiskey. "Whatever. I don't do the bloody math."
"You're *sure* you're not two hundred?"
"How the hell could I be two hundred when my Sire was turned in 1860?"
I turn to face him, trying to ignore the intense pain in my skull. "Spike... *I* turned you. And I'm two hundred and forty-six."
He tips his head to the side. "Oh, yeah. You did, didn't you?"
I sigh. "Idiot Childe."
"I thought Dru turned me," he muses. "In a barn. Something about poetry." He glances at the bottle and shakes his head. "I gotta lay off this stuff."
"*Poetry?*" I echo incredulously. "You never wrote *poetry.* You were barely literate. You don't even *know* any poetry."
"Do so. There was once was man from Nantucket, whose dick was so-"
"That's enough." I accept another shot in spite of the little voices in the non-bruised half of my head that are saying *oh, no thank you, I believe I've had enough for one evening.*
"I turned you. I was your Yoda. Remember? I taught you to guard your perimeter."
"When the bloody hell did you do that? We didn't even get along. You tried to bloody well stake me."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Prick."
"Moron."
"Poofter."
"Me? You wrote *poetry.*"
He hurls his shotglass into the fireplace with a determined gesture. "I WAS NOT A FUCKING POET! I WAS WILLIAM THE BLOODY, GODDAMNIT! I WAS, AM AND SHALL ALWAYS BE A BADASS AND I NEVER WROTE NO SODDING POETRY!!!"
I think he's slightly drunk.
Funny thing is, I *clearly* remember turning him. In an alley. Alot. And there was sex. Alot.
"Wait a minute. If you were a poet..where the hell did you get that accent?" I ask, rather pointedly.
"What accent?" Or, pointlessly....
"The decidedly lower class one. The one that makes Billy Idol sound intelligent." I'm beginning to get annoyed. This is further proof that I sired him, seeing as I haven't made a decent relationship decision since..well, ever.
"Oi! Talk about accents, mate! You
could never decide if you were from Derry, Dublin or Galway. Or of late,
just a poor speech coach's wet dream, " he
retorts, opening another bottle
of whiskey.
"Yea, well my accent isn't nearly as capricious as your damn hairdos, " I state smugly. At which point he falls off the couch in soundless laughter. I'm not sure if it was the hair reference or the word capricious that did him in.
*~*~*~*~*
We move quickly past the hair issue, seeing as neither of us is bloody likely to win that round. Now he wants to quiz me on geography.
"Christ on a Harley, Angel, if the Powers That What All can't keep track of this shit, why should I have to?"
Bastard is nothing if not persistent.
"Cause I need to know. So you're telling me I came back after I got my soul...and you didn't notice?! You pegged me in Sunnydale, in full game face halfway to snacking on Xander, but you didn't guess I was all-souled during a fucking civil war?"
Paging Mr. Center of the Universe. "Angel. War. Killed a Slayer. Bigger, more important things. 'Sides", I sniff, "your hair looked particularly poofy that night. Kept doing this flowing about behind you thing. I was too stunned by it to make note of much else."
He wisely ignores the hair crack again. Gel he can't ignore, but cracks he apparantly can. Hell, after 247 years with that do, he must be used to 'em by now.
"So DRU didn't notice?" he presses.
"Oh for pity's sake, Angelus! She was probably singing or quoting arcane nursery rhymes or trying to Sire a sheep. I don't bloody well know!"
*~*~*~*~*
I must have a concussion. When did Dru ever try to Sire a sheep?
*~*~*~*~*
It really annoys me that he can't recall me bagging my first Slayer. I mean, Ok, it's probably a sore spot since he shagged one and all. Idiot. I would never be stupid enough to fall for a Slayer. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't whine about it like he did. I'd just shoot her with a 12 gauge.
Strange. That visual seems familiar...and *I* don't have a concussion.
*~*~*~*~*
``So...does any of this mean we can`t have sex anymore?`` I ask him pitifully.
He glares at me. ``NOTHING means we can`t have sex anymore, you big fat ponce.``
I grin, and lean into kiss him, but the room spins and I - -
``Spike, I think I`m going to throw up.``
```Cept that.``
~End