Days of Our Unlives
Auld Lang Syne
Chapter 41 - Antediluvian
You know that when *I* think something is ostentatious and overdone, the universe is askew. There's garlands garnishing every nook, cranberry strands clinging to every cranny, and if I have to look at one more blinking light, I'm going to have a seizure. It smells like a liquor store in here. Liquor, eggnog, pine needles, and some stinky kind of cheese that Wesley claims witches wear in their bras to ward off evil. I don't know which kind of evil we're supposed to be warding with cheese whiz, and I don't *wanna* know whose bra Wesley found it in.
What the hell is the point anyway? Does she need this kind of gaudy attention lavished on her? I'm saying no.
I mean, I don't think she looks a day over 25. Ok, maybe 27. Seriously.
The hotel was built in the decade of excess, created solely to please the eye, and it has stubbornly refused to fall to ruins even in the age of monsters and madness. That's saying something, isn't it? Sure, even though she's well tended to now, the roof still sometimes leaks and the attic doesn't support the weight of furniture- or vampire wrestling- but her foundation is solid. And the bloodstains on the walls have all been covered over, and at night, if there are noises in the halls, it's usually just the wind banging the shutters.
The Hyperion certainly does not look 85.
Of course, no one ever asked the Hyperion how old it *feels*. If they did you can bet she'd have said she didn't want a goddamn birthday party on New Year's Eve. That she hates smelling like dairy products, and she looks stupid in funny hats, and she didn't want tinsel and she didn't want streamers and and she sure as hell didn't want a new desk in the front office.
She'd have said, hey, let's just spend a quiet night alone and- all right, fine. I'm old, and I'm grumpy and I fucking hate New Year's, and I have an irrational tendency to overidentify with large, inanimate objects. But at least I don't paint my goddamn fingernails.
And it's not like I don't have a clue about what's going on in the real world. 'Cause I do. You don't have to be Mr. Pop Culture Reference to know the important stuff.
*~*~*~*~*
Wesley stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, smiling shyly. His hand snakes up to brush an invisible speck of lint on Gunn's shoulder. Gunn cuts his eyes upwards, to the sprig of mistletoe suspended above their heads, gives a sly smile. He leans forward and whispers in Wesley's ear; Wes grins widely and grabs Gunn's hand. Their fingers entwine.
Angel leans towards me conspiratorially. "Hey," he whispers, "do you think something is- you know... going on... between those two?"
I stare at him in alarm. "You are almost *terminally* stupid, mate."
"What?" he asks defensively as I walk away, shaking my head sadly. "*What?*"
Ten minutes later he has followed me to the punch bowl. Which I have spiked with enough Southern Comfort to remove wallpaper. He takes a sip and winces. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you?"
"Usually. Is this in reference to any particular idiocy, or just generally speaking?"
He glares at me. Ooooh, scary. "I was talking about me not knowing about Wes and Gunn."
I shrug. "Well, yeah. That does rate kind of high on the cluelessness meter, mate."
He sighs. "I think I do, but in reality, I never know what's going on."
"I've generally found that to be true, yeah." Which seems like my cue to wander off in search of finger foods and popcorn balls. Nothing goes with Southern Comfort spiked punch like popcorn balls.
Of course, Angel has to follow me, cause it's not like the socially retarded lummox is gonna mingle or anything. Also, he has no idea how fucking good popcorn balls are. It's really a damn shame.
*~*~*~*~*
I watch Spike effortlessly make his way through the crowd of humans, demons and assorted other mostly bipedal creatures. He's in game face and grinning, nodding his platinum head in time to the beat of something which sounds suspiciously like cats wrestling in a metal garbage can. He's also juggling multi-colored popcorn balls, biting the head off a Gingerbread Man, and sporting a blood moustache. I scan the crowd; no one appears dead or mortally wounded, so I suppose I should be grateful. But the entire image is just... really disturbing.
By the time he makes his way over to me, however, he is scowling. "This party isn't as fun as last years','" he grumbles.
"Why, because there aren't any killer ornaments, excreting reindeer, psychotic chickens, or Christmas tree accidents?"
He shrugs. "I'm just sayin.'"
"Yeah, well, just pretend you're having a good time."
He quirks an eyebrow at my sour tone. "I *am* having a good time. There's alcohol, which decrees that a good time will be had by Spike. You, on the other hand, are a sad, pathetic wanker who, it seems, would not know a good time if it bit you on your fat ass."
He tugs on my sleeve. "Come on. Let's dance or something."
*~*~*~*~*~*
You'd have thought I just asked him to drain his Sainted Grandmother in front of the Nativity. Which compared to last year's Creche Adventure would actually rate fairly low on the blasphemy meter.
"Fine," I tell him with a roll of the baby blues. "I'll dance with Gunn." Stupid name that guy has, but excellent taste in music.
Five minutes later we're bloody well - hell, I dunno what he's doing. I'm moshing though, and he's drunk enough already not to mind being moshed at by a vampire.
So, whatever.
Damn, there's gotta be at least a hundred people here. Out of whom Angel probably knows five, including me, which is his own fault anyway for being stuck up and boring. When this song is over, I think I'll drag him around and *make* him mingle a bit. Teach the ponce to brood on New Years Eve.
Hell's got nothing on me. I've got popcorn balls.
When the music stops I stalk over to him, determined to slap him upside his triangle shaped head. But he looks so goddamn pitiful and I have that whole love's bitch thing working. So I run my hand along his lower back and move in close, "Come on, Angelus. Let's go shag in the hot tub."
"Don't wanna," he mumbles, leaning into my hand nevertheless. 'Cause you know, hundred years of celibacy and he's got the whole sex's bitch thing working.
"God, you're always in such a crappy mood," I murmur, leaning in to nibble his shoulder slightly. What? Yea, he's a pain the ass, but he's wearing that Angel-the-kicked-doggie look (TM). I defy you to resist that look. No one can resist that look. No one who's me anyway.
"Oh, so that's what you think of me," he snaps, pulling away. "That I'm just some boring old guy that can't have fun and whines and broods all the time."
I nod slowly. "I've always thought that. I tell you so at least twice a day." Why do I always feel like I need a set of flash cards to help him get the sodding point? "And it's suddenly a big deal?"
I will not let him ruin New Year's. I will not let him ruin New Year's. I will not...
"Yes, it's a big deal!" he fumes. "I'm just- fodder for your amusement! And I've decided that I'm sick of it! And- and-" he appears to be floundering for words. "It was then, staring into the dark places," he concludes morosely, "that my bitter existence was truly born."
I roll my eyes. "You been getting into the Goth Quote Generator again, mate? We've talked about this."
He narrows his eyes and growls at me. "Go dance, Spike." He then proceeds to drag his great brooding ass into the office and slams the door behind him.
Fucker!
Fine, then. Didn't wanna spend New Year's Eve with him anyway.
Ponce. *Fucking* ponce. Fucking poncey old stupid boring guy! Shit. I'm running short on expletives.
Ten minutes pass (ten minutes of
me standing by the door, bouncing on the soles of my feet and uttering
"notgonnaknockonthedoordon'tcarewankerwankerwankerfucking*ponce*" under
my breath) and I rap on the door.
"You okay in there, mate?"
"My dear, you need only look into your own obtenebrated desires to find out," he yells back.
"Whatever."
"The agony in my purpose mirrors the moonlight of my tortured fears!"
"Sure it does." I need a drink.
Problem is the open bar is located in the kitchen, where Weasley and Phallic Symbol are busily approaching the third phase of foreplay (clothing unbuttoned but not yet removed) on the expansive dining table. For God's sake, they're about to spill the contents of the punch bowl. I put thirty dollars worth of alcohol into that punch bowl. Angel's thirty dollars, but that's hardly the point.
"Ahem."
They start guiltily. Well, Gunn has the decency to look guilty. Wes just looks kind of giddy.
"Whiskey? The good stuff."
"Behind the vodka," Wes replies with a very firm take-it-and-get-the-hell-out tone to his voice, his fingers pausing momentarily in their assault on Gunn's belt buckle.
"Happy bloody New Year too you, too," I growl.
Me and the whiskey wander desolately into the abandoned lobby. I've no idea where Cordelia and Fred are and, frankly, contemplating the subject only depresses me. I am becoming annoyed on an epic scale. What the hell is wrong with him? Shouting goth quotes at me behind a closed door on the greatest drinking holiday of the year? Did I do something to piss him off again? 'Cause, you know, he's usually really fucking good at telling me when I have. Is he getting tired of me? Jesus Christ, now I sound like a ponce. Who cares if he is? I don't need him anyway. I don't. I could leave, you know. I could go back to Sunny- wait, no. I could... go... someplace else. That's not here. Sure I could.
I am *not* going in there, I think angrily, pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the office door. This is *his* problem, *his* neuroses, *his* goddamned phobia of every shade of happiness on this side of Perfect and I am *not* making this easy for him. I'm not going in there to cater to his infinitely refined skill for being the most fucked-up creature in the room. I don't go in for patience and understanding and all that other Relationship Bollocks and I. don't. care. about-
Goddamnit, I wonder what's wrong with him?
This is stupid. This is... it's New Year's Eve, for fuck's sake! I never get laid when he's broody and I will *not* ring in 2002 with him pouting in that goddamned office. I'm going in, and either I'm gonna get him blind drunk, or I'm gonna jerk a knot in his ass and make him stop pouting, but either way, I'm getting some action tonight, goddamnit. I'm nearly at his office door when I hear the sound of drunken giggling emitting from the broom closet.
I pull the door open to reveal one snotty vision-girl, one psycho physicist and a nearly empty bottle of cheap champagne.
The moonlight of my tortured fears, indeed.
"Fuck off, peroxide-boy," Cordelia slurs, her hands disappearing under Fred's skirt again. Fred giggles, hiccups, and scrubs Cordy's lipstick off her face with the back of one hand.
I briefly consider asking them if I can join in, but who wants to start off the New Year with a severe head injury? "Fine," I sigh, swinging the door closed.
Instead, I stand at the threshold of his office and shout. "Hey! McSoulful! You comin' out of that room anytime soon?"
A single grunt from behind the huge friggin' door. Well, at least he's communicating.
"Hey! Don't make me break the huge friggin' door down!" I raise my booted foot and rest it on the wood with a muted thud.
And that works. Threaten Angel with anything except destruction of his property. He's been a mite sensitive to that kinda thing since Wolfram and Hart blew up his last office. All right, my idea of redecorating probably doesn't help this particular phobia any either.
He throws open said door in gameface, with a bottle of whiskey in his right fist. Only my Sire can look maudlin while bearing his fangs and clutching alcoholic beverages. I peek over his shoulder.
"Ah shit, Peaches, you *have* been reading the goddamn Goth Poetry Generator on EN again, haven't you?"
Apparently on Angel, guilt and gameface are also not mutually exclusive. "No... no I haven't."
"Yea, and I don't own a valet parking pass to Harry's AAA. What the hell *are* you doing in here?" I shove my way inside entirely before he can barricade the door one more time.
"Getting drunk. I was in the mood."
"You have far too many moods, mate, you know that? Angelus never had this many moods. It was one of his finer points."
Angel snorts at me. But it's true. Angelus had three modes. One: Indifferent. Two: Someone's gonna get their ass kicked. Three: Spike's gonna get his ass kicked... All right, so maybe moodiness is underrated. But at least I knew what was gonna happen. I knew what to expect, what to do in response. This version is unfathomable to me on the best of days, and now he's drunk to boot. Which means, any minute now, bad Irish poetry or worse Irish music.
Ayup. Right on cue. Bagpipes on the CD player. The crisp, clear, melodic tones of some O' Fuckwad blowing into a vacuum cleaner, just loud enough to drown out the decent music playing just outside. And aren't bagpipes Scottish anyway? For fuckssake the moron can't even get his mood music right.
"In the name of everything unholy, turn that shit *off*!"
But he just sits there pouting at me (he's the only person I know who can pout *at* someone, actually throw the sulk in a specific direction), so I kill the stereo myself . He's perched on his desk like some big poncey gargoyle, staring at Cordy's laptop. "What is it about the moonlight that draws my heart in?" he murmurs. "The poetry? The dormant suffering? I would give up my isolated purpose to know..."
"No, you really wouldn't."
"So pain-filled, like the agony. So Stygian, like the somber-"
"*Stygian?* Christ. Turn *away* from the computer, mate."
"Just one more," he whimpers, reaching for the mouse.
"Hit "refresh" again and I'll kick your ass." I reach over and snap the laptop closed.
"What's wrong, pet?" I almost ask him.
"You wanna tell me what's going on?" I don't say.
"Did I do something wrong again?" my voice fails to articulate.
"I don't know what your problem is, Angel. I think this whole damn night is cool. The cheerleader went hell bent for leather over this hotel-birthday business, we're havin' a huge friggin party, and neither one of us had to do any goddamn work. The old place looks awesome for a change, we got tinsel, mistletoe, a caterer, copious amounts of alcohol, and loud, obnoxious music awaiting. There's effin' party hats, man. But you're sittin' there on your lame arse like someone just nailed your new puppy to a door," is what comes out instead.
He blinks at me. Twice. Then turns away again. Which is some clearly some twisted Angelus morse code for 'thanks for bringing up the puppy incident', as well as probably his not so subtle way of reminding me that actually, *he* did do some work for this party. He grumbled, but he did it. Whatever. I don't get paid enough to work. I don't get paid. Which may be why Cordelia refers to me as Angel's "kept man-pire", but since I traditionally refer to her as the "brainless bag of breasts", I figure we're all even.
I strike a match on his cherry wood doorframe. You know, now that I think of it, this place has an awful lotta kindling for two very flammable creatures of the night. He turns again and stares at me, unmoving as I drop ash on his carpet. I can almost hear his aneurysm.
"All right, all right," I sigh. "Sorry 'bout the evil puppy reference."
One long blink and a snort. And goddamnit, I know what he's really annoyed about, but -
"Angel, it was an old, decrepit, falling down piece of shit desk and it deserved to die!!!"
"Well, it's nice to know what you think of me!" he snaps finally. Somewhere here I missed a segueway. 'Cause no one thought to send me a memo that Angel became a woman.
Or, apparently, a desk.