 |
 |
 |
| Loose Ends, Cont'd |
 |
| "Eat to live, not live to eat, luv" he'd told Drusilla when she'd turned her nose up at the wino he'd subdued in a dark courtyard of an abandoned housing project near the El tracks. Her hunger had finally persuaded her to partake, and they'd shared the meal, though she was really only eating enough to make him quit nagging her. He'd begun to worrying in recent days as she grew even thinner and paler than usual, and her periods of lucidity seemed notably less frequent. Concern for Dru was, however, driven from his mind when he caught sight of the face staring up at him from the pages of a discarded rock'n'roll magazine. "Buggering shithead! Cock-sucking motherfucker!" He carried on in this vein as he snatched the offending periodical from the ground. It had lain through at least one rainstorm, leaving the pages rippled and the edges torn. But there he was...the kid from the Sex Pistols concert, and, from the alley afterwards. And from the top of his bleached head to the steel toes of his combat boots, with all the studded leather and ripped denim and eyeliner and safety pins in-between, he'd completely and utterly ripped off Spike's look of the period. Most of the ranting and swearing that followed was lost on the cold wind that whipped and whined through the empty window frames of the surrounding buildings, and in the clatter of the train that passed just out of sight. After he'd calmed down a bit, Spike had sworn he'd "make drawin' and quart'rin' look like a bloody picnic" and "feed him his own bowels" if he ever got his hands on the boy. Drusilla had giggled wickedly, and predicted that, indeed, "the ravens will dance at the cotillion" on that day. Then she'd begun to whine about going to find a pretty little girl to dress up and eat, and he was forced to divert her from this idea, and attempt to remain incognito. So, he put aside his ire towards the derivative pop star and focused on the matters at hand. ~ / ~ More than twenty years had passed since then; returning to Europe, and then back to America again -- to Sunnydale and, eventually Los Angeles, with plenty of side trips for good measure. On occasion, Spike would hear or read about the "bad boy" rocker, and he would inevitably shake his head and call him a "right bloody wanker". Buffy had finally asked him, at some point in her year of resurrection depression, about the obvious resemblance. He'd regaled her with the tale, glossing over the specifics of his activities in the alley that night, but emphasizing the degree of insult he felt he'd been done. She'd pointed out to him that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, but he'd been far from mollified by that old saw. To Spike's way of thinking, the boy should have looked back on that night in abject terror, wetting himself at the memory and thanking his lucky stars to have survived it. He should not have fancied himself sufficiently equal to Spike's badness to imitate it. Buffy had dismissed this argument, and the subject entirely, with a toss of her head and the roll of her eyes and a bored "whatever!" ~ / ~ As a result of his experiences in recent years, and particularly since the return of soul, sanity, and finally, physical form, Spike had gained a new appreciation for irony. He seemed to be surrounded by it -- sometimes, to embody it. And he'd begun to expect it. So it came as very little surprise the evening he turned up at the rave-o-teque and discovered that the now over-the-hill performer was headlining that night. While it was hardly the opportunity he'd looked for two decades before, it was still one not to be passed upon. Though Spike usually stuck to patrolling the outside of the building during the events he worked, this time he arranged to switch off at the final intermission with a pair of semi-professional wrestlers who were employed as general crowd control. It had been The Animal who had suggested that he offer his services to the nightclub (Hacksaw Houlighan hadn't said much of anything beyond a grunt and a nod), after they happened upon him dusting a vampire near the loading docks. They had both been surprisingly unphased at the sight, so, by way of showing his gratitude that they would put in a good word with the management, Spike had offered them some suggestions should they encounter the undead on their own. Now, he figured they could handle themselves and mind the back alleys for the final couple of hours until the show ended and the crowd disbursed. Spike took up post on the somewhat worn sofa in the empty dressing room and waited. With about 15 minutes to the end of the show, two giggling young women crept through the door, stopping short when they realized the room wasn't vacant as they'd expected. Spike raised an eyebrow at them, causing them to blurt their excuses at the same time. "Oh, like, we just want to wait for an autograph --" "One of the, uhhh, crew guys told us we could party with -- " "I mean, ummm, they told us we could, you know, come here to ask for an autograph...." Spike's dubious silence seemed to rob them of a bit of their brazenness, and the second girl was tugging her skin-tight mini skirt further down on her legs. He sighed. I hope Dawn's smarter'n these birds.... He wasn't entirely convinced that she was. "Sorry girls, strict instructions that 'e wants 'is privacy after th' show...and," he stood up and advanced towards them a bit menacingly, "you should both be a bit careful 'bout presentin' yerselves to bad men..." he leaned in and took a loud and pointed whiff of the excessive perfume that emanated off of girl number one. "They might just get the wrong idea...," the last was offered sotto voce, his lips just inches from her ear. They scrambled towards the door, girl number two falling off of her much-too-high heel and turning her ankle over in her hurry. The sound of their accelerated heart rates seemed to echo behind them as they exited the room, and Spike was satisfied that they'd been scared back home to their mothers, where they belonged, at least for tonight. It was a curse, really, the way he now identified girls of a certain age with Joyce Summers' daughters. He shook his head at the follies of the young and (relatively) defenseless, as he made himself comfortable once more on the sofa, arms stretched along the back, and boots propped on the coffee table in front of him. When the music ended, it was only a few moments before the sound of the star and his entourage approached down the corridor. Spike hadn't actually lied to the girls who'd tried to crash the dressing room -- apparently, these days, His Rebelliousness did expect a bit of solitude at the end of a show. Prob'ly has to take 'is Viagra 'fore he can let the groupies in.... So, Spike knew he'd be able to savor the moment mano-y-mano. It was almost as good as he'd hoped. The voices had grown louder, and the doorknob had turned, though the door did not open right away. Finally, the door opened slowly, and he entered backwards, still in the midst of an animated conversation with someone, presumably the tour manager, in the hallway. " -- you maybe book a venue that's not such a shitehole? Fuckin' Christ!" He shut the door and leaned his forehead to it, before turning around. He froze when he realized that someone was waiting for him, and when he realized who was waiting for him, the distinction between the skin of his face where it met the peroxide work atop his head faded to nothing as the blood drained away. Spike grinned up at him from his reclined pose on the sofa, and chuckled low when he began to reach behind him to find the doorknob again. "Relax, Rocker-Boy. If I'd been 'ere to kill you, you'd be dead a'ready." Garnering no response from the still-stunned celebrity, Spike took the opportunity to examine him closely for the first time. "Phht...1981 called, mate, wantin' their leather trews back!" "You 'ere just to mock me, then?" "Wot, it speaks? Not a statuary after all...no, not just to mock you. Wanted a look at the wee baby punker all growed up, I s'ppose." "Never thought to see you 'gain...." The voice was modulated, but very tense, and he was easing himself sideways, clearly attempting to work himself into a position to bolt. "Yeh, likewise. 'Course, I've been seein' you all over for years, remindin' me I let one get away...." With that, Spike rose, and sauntered in the direction of the mini refrigerator that lived in the corner of the dressing room. "Yer standin' there all twitchy; sit down and we'll have us a chat." He perused the contents of the refrigerator, a bit taken aback by the tameness of the contents. Reality not keeping up with the legend, here.... Finally, he extracted two Red Bulls and turned to see his "host" unmoved from his spot near the door. |
|
|
|
| This story nominated at: |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |