It's hardly fitting, you know.
You'd think they'd leave me a note or some such thing, but oh no. I go out to buy a pack of smokes; I'm gone ten bloody minutes and when I get back, the whole bleeding troupe of them has vanished.
If anyone could see me now, I'd have to kill them if only to protect my reputation. I know I'm pouting, and I can't help it. We were having a perfectly nice evening at home, there was wrestling on the tube and the Pouf was in the kitchen, damn near prancing around while he made eggnog. From scratch. I don't wanna say he's obsessive or anything - oh the hell with it, he's fucking obsessive compulsive over every detail of every little thing.
Christmas makes it worse; Angelus was never as obsessed with the Slayer as Angel is with decorating the bloody hotel. The garland is fresh blue spruce. The holly looks like it was made of wax, it's so bleeding perfect. There's fucking ivy everywhere and he put white lights on anything that stood still long enough to get wrapped and plugged in.
And Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the tree. It makes me want to heave. The revolt of the first set of decorations didn't throw the wanker off a bit; he bought a new set and went to reapplying ornaments with unconstrained vigor. In fact, before I go back down to the lobby, which looks like it raped Macy's and made off with the goods, I'm gonna head to the kitchen and try the eggnog. Make sure he got it right. He spent long enough beating the eggs and folding the cream and all sorts of other fouffy shit before he finally poured in the booze. Wouldn't let me help when I offered, either.
The smell of the alcohol hits me when I open the fridge door and I can't help grinning. There's enough in there to make a mortal's eyes water. It's a wonder the eggs didn't curdle.
It definitely needs more booze.
I take out the huge crystal pitcher and set it on the counter while I rummage around in the cabinets, looking for the full bottle of Jack I just set in there yesterday. The Watcher and the Princess both managed to look morally offended when I brought it in, but I know for sure I'm not the only one sipping out of the other bottle. And Angel never touches the stuff. Oh no, nothing but fine Irish whiskey for my Sire. Never seems to complain when he tastes it in my mouth, though.
OK, there's the stuff, although no longer full, and I'll bet that old Wes has been in for some bottled courage now and again in the last 24 hours. Sneaky little ponce. He can bloody well buy the next one himself.
I'll just add a few cups of my friend Jack here to the nog and it'll be perfect. And if Peaches has anything to say about me starting without him, then too fucking bad. He owes me for not leaving a note.
I take a sip and the back of my throat catches on fire as the eggnog hits it. I cough a little and then exhale in pleasure.
Perfect.
Time to go up and see the vision of Christmas Hell that is the lobby. Add my own fine touches to the decor. I'll just bring the pitcher along for company.
*~*~*~*~*
Cordelia's vision hit just as I was putting the pitcher of eggnog into the fridge. It just needed to sit for a few hours. Everything had mixed in like a dream. The Irish whiskey I used was single malt and aged to perfection. It was going to be a little drop of heaven on earth to drink. Even if Spike couldn't appreciate it. Anyone who drinks Jack Daniels and Kool Aid in equal measure has no palette left.
But anyway, the vision. A nest of vampires over by Gunn's apartment building. Some nasty ritual involving human sacrifice. We forced some aspirin down Cordelia's throat, Wes shoved the cell phone in her hand with Gunn's number already dialed and ringing, and I gathered up the weapons.
Smoothly oiled machine, that's us.
Of course, the vision was a little obscure, and neglected to mention that the beast they were raising was about the size of the Hollywood sign and twice as hideous. It had half of its pustule covered head out of the portal when we arrived and things just got uglier from there. I'm sure it didn't appreciate Cordelia's commentary any more than she would have appreciated its orders to toss her worthless skin and bones on the refuse heap. Good thing she doesn't speak Oogalthlian.
Needless to say, they were all exhausted when we were through, and I had had enough of Cordelia's whining to last me several eternities. I dropped them off at their respective apartments and headed home, visions of drinking my perfectly blended and chilled eggnog and then taking Spike to bed for the rest of the night dancing in my head.
Why do I even bother to think those thoughts? It's like begging for something bad to happen. I should know better.
When I open the lobby door, the smell of alcohol is overwhelming. And everything in the lobby is just...off somehow. The tree is still decorated, every branch glittering with a red or gold bauble, tiny lights shimmering in the dark green depths of the trunk. It took me hours to wrap the lights just right and make sure everything was where it belonged. It is beautiful; it is gorgeous; it is worthy of the cover of Martha Stewart's "Living."
I will kill that boy if he's fucked with it.
Two more steps into the lobby and I see the crystal eggnog pitcher in the desk. Empty. Little red spots begin to flash before my eyes as I pick it up just to verify what my eyes have already seen and my brain refuses to believe. That bastard drank my entire gallon of eggnog!
There's a whisper soft click behind me and I whirl around and then stop, staring in amazement at the sight before my eyes. Spike is laid out on the sofa, one leg up on the arm rest, the other planted on the floor, explaining the noise of a few moments ago. Left arm flung casually above his head, right hand curled just the slightest bit as it rests on his belly.
He's naked, except for his boots, and a Santa hat. And there's also the matter of the mistletoe. The little sprig of green and white is tied with a bit of red ribbon and is dangling jauntily from his raging hard on.
I'm torn between the need to smack him in the head with the pitcher and the desire to leap on the marble perfection of his body and fuck him through the cushions where he lies.
I'm spared the decision making process when the pitcher slips from my hand and shatters on the floor. Great. Wonderful. Perfect. First the eggnog and now the God damned Waterford crystal pitcher. And Spike doesn't move one muscle, not even a twitch. That's a dead give away - he's awake. He couldn't have that much control if he was asleep.
Well, that's that, then. There's nothing left to do but shrug off the duster, drape it over the chair and start getting busy with Choice B: Fucking Spike.
The mistletoe has got to go first.
*~*~*~*~*
I'm watching him through barely open eyelids, and he's royally pissed. Even though my vision is a little blurred by my eyelashes - not to mention all the damn eggnog - I can smell the simmering anger over the fumes of Jack Daniels.
But I can smell his arousal, too. And it's stronger than anything else. It's hard not to grin, really. He's so easy to manipulate, my Sire is. When I realized I'd drank his whole batch of the nog, I knew I was going to be in serious shit. And how else does one distract an angry vampire denied his creamy goodness?
One offers him a better treat of course.
I even gift wrapped it. Put the damn mistletoe on so he'd be sure not to forget where things needed to be attended to. It looks right saucy if I do say so myself. Of course, the Santa hat might have been overkill, but since I'd rooted around and hadn't found anything else worth getting into, I figured it couldn't hurt.
Oh I've got him now, he's dropped the bleedin' pitcher and tossed off the coat. He's crunching his way towards me on the shards of glass, and his shirt is coming off. His eyes are dark and his mouth is open, tongue licking those lush lips of his, and he looks like he's going to eat me alive.
Then he's on me, cool heavy weight pressing me into the cushions as his tongue slips in and tastes me. One hand is pushing the hat off my head so he can grab my hair and hold me still.
He can kiss like no one else, Angel can. He tastes every centimeter of my mouth, tongue smooth and slow and seeking, lips sliding over mine like silk, forcing a response from me every damn time. One leg slips between my thighs and the rough fabric of his pants rasps against me, and it's all I can do not to grind myself into him until my bones bruise and shatter and melt into his.
Then suddenly he stops kissing me, stops everything and just looks at me. He has the oddest look on his face, somewhere between Lust and Confusion, and you'll have to look up the statement numbers on your own for those because my brain is occupied with just how to get him kissing again so we can move on to better things.
The Brow furrows even further, his nostrils flare - how the fuck can he look sexy when he's only sniffing the air, for Christ's sake? - and he says in a completely calm tonee of voice, "Spike, do you smell smoke?"
*~*~*~*~*
Well, I got to taste the eggnog in a fashion after all, licking it from the inside of Spike's mouth while he growled and sighed beneath me. Kissing him is like falling into a whirlpool of smoke, and salt, and whatever he might have eaten that day. In this case it was what he drank, namely the concoction I'd slaved over and babied to its final embodiment of frothy, creamy wonder. Tasting it with his essence added only made it that much more satisfying, that much more delicious.
I could have licked the roof of his mouth and sucked on his bottom lip for hours. But suddenly I smell something. Under the fumes of alcohol, the sharp bite of the pine boughs decking the halls, and the heady aroma of Spike in full on lust mode, there is a whiff of...
"Spike, do you smell smoke?"
I glance over at the coffee table and before I can begin to berate him for leaving the glass on the tabletop to ruin the lacquered finish, I see the flames shoot from the base of the Christmas tree and begin to crackle madly as they travel lighting quick to engulf the entire thing.
I leap to my feet, feeling the heat blast me in the face, hearing the tiny explosions as the red and gold balls shattered and melted. The smoke is filling the lobby, and all I can think is to get it out before someone calls the fire department and I have to explain the Evil Naked Pornographic Santa in the lobby, complete with mistletoe on his still-hard dick.
"Bloody Hell!" Spike is standing behind me, squinting at the inferno over my shoulder. I spare him a glance and mentally kick myself for noticing that the damn greenery is bouncing merrily from the head of his cock. I lose precious seconds watching it sway. It's hypnotizing, really...
But then self-preservation overrides lust and I dash for the kitchen, grab a pan and turn on the faucets. I'm pretty sure it's a lost cause, but I hope to save the hotel from going up in flames, not to mention my own ass and the tight little backside of my Childe as well.
*~*~*~*~*
Between the two of us, we manage to wet down the rest of the lobby before it does more than smoke a bit. The tree burns itself out and with a few dozen buckets of water it now lays in a sooty sodden heap on the floor. Melted plastic from the damn twinkling lights lays in gobs here and there. A few slivers of red and gold glass are sprinkled around the perimeter of the disaster area formerly known as Angel's Christmas tree. They pick up the reflections of the lights that haven't been destroyed in the melee and sparkle prettily.
I open my mouth to mention this to him, but I think better of it once I get a glimpse of the look on his face. I swear there are tears in his eyes. He's clenching the bucket so hard that the thing is warped under the pressure of his fingers. I consider my options and find that there are none. So I do what I do best.
I pout.
I get right in front of him, catch his eye, let my lower lip slide out, and peer up at him through my lashes. I do everything short of actually batting my eyes at him. With a sigh he turns away from his contemplation of the disaster before him and instead concentrates on me. And rightly so.
It doesn't hurt that I'm still naked. And that I'm also wet besides. Then again, so is he. Within a few moments, I've gotten him well away from the tree and up to his room, peeling the wet clothes from his body and warming him with my mouth. I trace every inch of skin I can reach, licking and nibbling the contours of muscle and bone until I have him hard and quivering and growling for release. I take a minute to look at him: head back, body arched up, cock glistening inches from my mouth. When I finally take him between my lips and slide all of him down my throat, hearing him moan my name is sweeter than anything I could ever imagine.
Later, after I've shagged him into the bed, and he's returned the favor, and he's all passed out from saving the world, saving the hotel and satisfying me beyond my capability to express it, I'll tie the friggin' mistletoe to his dick, and wait for the Princess and the Watcher to come strolling in downstairs. When their shrieks of horror reach him, I'll be sure to put the little green weed to good use before I let him go down there.
I want him in a great mood when they excavate that mess and he finds out it was me who set the bloody tree on fire. I was never very good with alcohol and lit cigarettes. You can't blame me for forgetting where I set the damn things down.
Somehow I'll blame Cordelia for not watering the tree well enough.