There ain't much that makes me nervous. After all the havoc and pain and mayhem I've dished out, nothin' makes me shake.
Sunlight, maybe. Sharp wooden objects. Small children.
That, and the faggy penguin suits I found hanging in the bedroom.
The last time I saw the hated things, Angel had literally stuffed me into one and shepherded me into the back of a limousine. Then he made me sit in a crowded theatre among a bunch of four-course meals, watching a whole lotta Micks stomping around on stage.
Culture, he called it.
The arts, he called it.
Bollocks, I called it, and vowed he'd never do it to me again.
Fucker.
*~*~*~*~*
Spike looks as mutinous as I've ever seen him. He's sitting on the couch, filthy Docs propped up on my glass and wrought-iron coffee table, eyes fixed on the television. Without looking in my direction, he slowly raises one hand and gives me the finger.
I assume this means he's discovered the freshly cleaned and pressed tuxedos and has correctly assessed the meaning of them.
I am not going to miss this opportunity.
I love the Pantages Theater, and it's been years - decades, maybe - since
I've been to the ballet. The Nutcracker Suite only comes around at Christmas,
and to see it
performed by the American Ballet
Theater is a chance in a lifetime. I came across the tickets at the last
minute yesterday, when just at closing time a grateful client burst through
the doors and pressed them into my hand.
"Take someone you love to see it," she had said with a small smile.
Eyeing Spike, I ponder that statement.
He's close enough, I guess.
"Do you need to shower?" I ask. No use pretending we aren't going out.
Because we *are*.
*~*~*~*~*
Shower? *Shower?* Is he fucking insane?
Oh, wait. The answer to that is yes. Yes, Angelus is insane.
"Showered a couple days ago," I retort. I wish he would shut up. The Croc Hunter is on the telly, waving some poisonous snake about. I can't hear him because my ponce of a sire is making noises about getting cleaned up.
What the holy *fuck* is he - he's sniffing me! Angel is putting hhis nose in my armpit!
"You stink," he says, matter-of-factly. "Take a shower. Then put on your tuxedo. I will be ready in one hour. I expect you to do the same."
*Whaaaaaat?* "No way, you loon," I say. "No."
"Spike, you don't even know where we're going. Why don't you just trust me? You might like it."
He's looking all superior again, and I don't know how he manages to look down his pre-Jurassic nose at me like that.
"Are we going to a bar?" I ask.
"No," he says.
"Are we going somewhere I can bite someone?"
Big sigh, complete with puffed out cheeks. "No, Spike."
"Can we get in a good shag, wherever it is?"
"Can we -" he stops, not even deigning to repeat the question. "No."
"Then I won't like it. Can you shut yer mouth for a sec? This Steve guy is a right funny bastard."
He places his large hulking ass in front of the set. If he tries, even *tries* to turn it off -
ARRRGH!
*~*~*~*~*
This may be harder than I first thought. He seems rather set on Not Going.
After I turn off the television, he springs up from the couch and darts into the kitchen.
Of course, I doggedly follow.
When I get there, he has settled himself comfortably at the table with the carton of orange juice that I keep in the refrigerator for Cordelia.
"You're drinking orange juice?"
Why do I care what he's drinking? We have 57 minutes until we need to be in the car, driving down Sunset.
"I thought maybe it was a companion to the bottle of vodka you keep under the sink," he shoots back, dealing himself a hand of solitaire with a shabby deck of cards.
All right. Time for the big guns.
56 minutes.
I yank his chair out from under the table, and his cards go flying.
"Hey, watchityoubigstupididiotwecantallbebigdumbmesozoicprehistoriccavemen - ohhh, *yeah*, more o' that, mate."
I figured that dropping to my knees in front of his chair and lowering his zipper would go a long way in convincing him that he would rather do nothing else than go to the ballet with me.
His half-laugh, half-groan is a good sign.
54 minutes.
One tug, and his beautiful thick cock springs free. He's already hard, naturally.
I think he walks around with a semi-erection most of the day. I've never, in all my two hundred-plus years, been with anyone who is as ready to fuck as Spike.
He just loves sex. He exudes it. His pores reek of sensuality, of sexuality. I know he masturbates at least once a day, and he's still raring to go whenever I make the slightest move in his direction.
God, it's a turn-on.
Lower my head, take him in, revel in his hiss of pleasure and his fingers threading themselves through my hair.
"Yeahhhhhh, Angel-"
I love how vocal he is sometimes. It's music when he says my name while his cock is in my mouth.
But I have to focus on my motive behind this little randy romp.
50 minutes.
*~*~*~*~*
Angel wants something. What was it?
I can't remember.
I can't remember because his tongue is wrapped around my dick.
Ooooh- I'll remember in a minute, just as soon as he stops sucking on me for all he's worth, just as soon as his teeth quit scraping the underside of my cock, just as soon as I blow my wad into his stupid poncy mouth-
"You *will* shower," he's mumbling around the head of my dick.
Shower? Together? Yeah, sure. No prob. As long as he takes his soulful time about it.
"You *will* dress."
Dress? You mean throw on a shirt? What the fuck ever. I don't care.
"And you *will* be back in this room in 45 minutes."
"Jesus, Angel, can ya SHUDDUP already?" Fuck, the man doesn't say an effin' word all day, then when he's giving head he wants to start a discussion group.
Priorities, priorities.
"You'll go with me to the theater?" he asks.
Still talking. Will the idiot never learn? It's a cardinal rule. Thou Shalt Not Speak When Your Childe's Dick Is In Your Mouth.
"Christ Almighty! I'll go!"
He gives me a self-satisfied smirk and lowers his head again.
Bastard. Just blow me already.
*~*~*~*~*
44 minutes. I can do it. I've done it in far less time. I've been known to give mind-blowing head in under three minutes.
He's groaning now, which is usually a sign of his impending orgasm, so I kick it up a notch.
Heh, just like that guy on television. Emerald? Emering? Whoever.
Spike's fingers are clenching and unclenching around the edges of his chair, his legs moving restlessly.
Biting just the very tip of his penis, I draw a tiny drop of blood.
And suck.
Congratulations to me, thar he blows.
Thick, bittersweet spurts, accompanied by a giant shudder and a stifled curse.
Then he sighs and slumps in his chair, boneless.
"Spike?" I say, still kneeling before him on the kitchen floor.
"Wha'?"
"You will now shower and dress."
I rise to my feet, ignoring the pulsing in my own crotch, knowing that there will be plenty of time after the theater to convince Spike to return the favor.
This blowjob was for purely practical reasons.
41 minutes.
*~*~*~*~*
"If you're taking me to Riverdance again, that's it. I'm done with you. I'll walk. Is that where we're going? Is it? Fuck, Angel, just tell me already. Huh? Where?"
He sits there in smug, stoic silence, his dark head resting against the plush leather upholstery of yet another rented vehicle.
Angel has more money than God, and he spends it on foofy shit like renting limousines. Go figure.
This is too much. I do not *like* wearing a shirt with little poncy black buttons and matching black things at the sleeves. Cufflinks, he called 'em.
I'll cuff your links, asshole.
I think I'm strangling. I think that the dark blue tie that Angel made me wear and then tied for me is cutting off the air supply that I'll surely need when I scream at the top of my lungs in about five seconds.
Because we're pulling up to the theater, and stupid Angel is actually grinning as he looks out the window, and his big hulking shoulders are blocking my view of the marquee and I can't read what damn stupid thing he's forced me to come see this time.
"Move, ya git," I growl, and shove him out of the way so I can have a clear view of the theater through the window.
Oh, Jesus. Oh no. Nononononononononono.
Noooooooooooooo!
*~*~*~*~*
He is actually shocked into silence.
He hasn't shut up since we left the apartment, bitching and moaning about wearing grown-up clothes instead of a ripped t-shirt and scuffed boots. He snarled at me all the way up the freeway, even sticking his head out the sunroof at one point in full gameface and shouting that he was being held hostage and could someone call the proper authorities?
I yanked him back in when he caused the car next to us to rear-end the truck in front of them.
But now, he's silent, staring in utter horror at the enormous marquee in front of the Pantages Theater.
THE AMERICAN BALLET THEATER PRESENTS PETIPA'S THE NUTCRACKER SUITE
I get out of the car and hold open the door, but he remains inside, still staring.
"Come on, Spike. Quit acting like I'm leading you to your death."
This really is getting annoying. Why do I bother?
Blue eyes and a rakish grin mean nothing.
Reaching into the back seat, I manage to grab hold of his lapels and forcibly yank him to the curb. I slam the door and motion quickly to the driver to get the hell out of here before my idiot childe can scramble his way back into the car.
He is still silent, his eyes wide with terror. He plants his feet on the sidewalk and puts up resistance to my subtle tugging.
If I have to make a scene, I will.
I am *going* to see this performance.
*~*~*~*~*
"Cigarette," I gasp, patting my pockets. "I need a cigarette."
Now Angel is Very Annoyed.
"For chrissakes, William, you're not going before a firing squad!"
That's how much he knows.
The ballet? This is so much worse than I ever imagined.
No wonder he kneeled on the kitchen floor to suck me. I should have known. Angelus, the Scourge of Europe, never kneels on floors.
Especially kitchen floors.
Help!
*~*~*~*~*
I don't know how we get to our seats, but we manage to squeeze past the rows of people without incident. If you want to call me dragging Spike by the elbow and him hissing profanities at me 'without incident'.
I was disappointed to learn that the seats weren't the best, but we still have a nice view of the stage and being off to the side means the less people Spike can disturb with his mutterings.
And Lord, is he muttering.
"Angel what the fuck were you thinking
taking me to see the goddamned Nutcracker I don't think I'll live through
the first fucking act even Tchaikovsky didn't like the damn ballet why
the hell is the drink line
so long and how come they said I
couldn't bring a gin and tonic in here and what time is it I think we've
been here for a bloody hour."
"William," I say firmly, "it's been ten minutes. The first act is starting."
And indeed it is. The lights dim and I settle back to ignore my willful childe.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT PONCE WEARING!"
So goes the ignoring.
"That's Herr Drosselmeyer, Spike. He's wearing the required clothing for a ballet dancer."
"He's wearing tights!"
"Well, yes."
He dissolves again into barely audible mumbling.
Several movements later, he sits up and takes notice. "There's a rat, Angelus."
"That's the Mouse King. He's come to fight the Nutcracker."
"There's fighting? That's cool." Then, a minute later, "What the fuck did that little chit just do?"
He is, of course, referring to Clara, the young heroine. "Well, she hit the Mouse King with her slipper in order to help the Nutcracker."
He rolls his gorgeous blue eyes and snorts. "She ain't no better than the Slayer."
Out of the mouths of babes.
*~*~*~*~*
This thing Angel has taken me to goes on... and on... and on, until if I see one more foofy nonce leap across the stage, I'm going to bite someone, preferably the fat-ass woman next to me who keeps clapping her fat-ass hands and exclaiming, "Marvelous! Just marvelous!"
This is so fucking not marvelous.
This is ridiculous. This is so ridiculous that I'm going to get up right now and stomp out of here and I'll walk home if I have to.
And then I see, out of the corner of my eye, my sire.
He's sitting there, totally entranced. He's got a dumb old dreamy look on his face as he watches the dancers.
He likes this shit.
I always forget that.
Heaving an enormous sigh, I slump back in my seat.
It's gotta be over soon.
I manage to make it through some waltzing snowflakes, some twirling gingerbread men, and some little prancing things that Angel whispers are sugarplum fairies, and then it's finally, blessedly over.
We're leaving. Hurray. I think my eyeballs are bleeding.
Settled again in the back of the limo, I whip out a cig from my coat pocket and take a deep drag.
Ahhhh. Better.
I blow a smoke ring in Angel's direction. How come he's so quiet? I'da thought he'd be raving like a lunatic about the loveliness of it all.
"So did you hate it?" he asks, looking out the window at the darkness.
Did I hate it? Yes, I fucking hated every single stinkin' second of it. The music is still making my stomach queasy. The fat woman next to me squished me for the entire show. I can't even take a decent drag of this cigarette because the fucking tie is choking me.
Speaking of the tie-
I rip it off and toss it onto the floor.
Angel looks at it, then at me, then out the window again.
Did I hate it? YES, I want to scream, I hated it, and why do you insist on dragging me to these things and acting all superior and shit? Why do you have to pull the sire act so often?
I'm gonna tell him. I'm gonna tell him right now that I hated it with every fiber of my demonic being. Vampires don't go to the theater! Vampires don't watch the Nutcracker Suite!
"Angel?"
"Yes, Will?"
"I- lived through it."
"Merry Christmas, Spike."