Water and Whine
Author: Kantayra
Disclaimer: I don't own Spike, Illyria, or any of the
other AtS characters. They're all Joss'. I'm just amusing myself with them. ~_^
Summary: A fed-up Spike turns to liquor for guidance. Only he didn't expect
his demonic troubles to follow him. Or for certain stimuli to make Illyria feel
playful in an entirely different way... Humorous Spike/Illyria smut. *WIP, begun
June 2004* NC17
Author's Note: The whole story is Mirax' idea. She's the genius behind it.
I'm just her trained typing monkey. ~_^ Set after 'Origin' but before 'Time
Bomb'. So Spike and Illyria are doing the sparring thing, but she hasn't lost
her powers yet. And, yeah, it's...goofy. Just so you know. ~_^
Chapter One - Slumming
Spike entered the bar with a bang, the door slamming against the wall with the force of his shove. His duster would've swirled about him dramatically, had he been wearing it. Hands still clenched to fists, he stalked his way up to the bar, kicked out a stool, and plopped himself down. "The strongest whiskey you've got," he demanded, voice tight and trying to restrain his demon's growl of frustration and anger.
His companion entered the bar with only half as much fanfare and turned twice as many heads. Because pissed Spike was a regular occurrence; it wasn't every day that a beautiful woman, decked out in the tightest costume any of them had ever seen and sporting bright blue hair, walked into this dive.
Amused smile on her face, Illyria walked leisurely over to where Spike was sitting, the black leather covering she'd `skinned' from her newest plaything tucked under one arm.
Spike looked up at her, snatched up the bottle, and downed half the liquor in one long gulp. He looked up at her again. Nope, still not enough to make this guard duty palatable. He took another swig.
Illyria sniffed the air curiously, and her nose scrunched up in distaste at the foul odor. "You are imbibing poison," she stated, cocking her head to one side curiously. "Wesley did much the same. Why?"
His jaw muscle ticked, and he took another long drag. "Must be the delightful pleasure of your company," he retorted sarcastically.
She looked at him blankly, blinking slowly.
Spike sighed. Damn. She really wanted an answer. "Makes us hurt less," he elaborated.
"Ingesting toxins reduces your pain?" Illyria repeated skeptically. "How?"
"It just does!" he exclaimed in exasperation. He tried to drink from the bottle again, found it empty, and signaled to the barkeep for another.
Most bartenders would've been surprised by Spike's speed and stamina. But Harold had been watching him come in for months now. He was starting to suspect that Spike had some physiological condition that let him drink more. That would also explain why he could get hit over the head with a barstool and not flinch, and throw off ten drunken brawlers. Harold wondered whether Spike did stunt-work for a living, but the other man was always so surly when he came in that Harold had never bothered to ask. He placed another bottle on the table.
Spike drank deep and sighed. The alcohol was beginning to go to his brain now, and talking with Illyria was slightly less unpleasant than it had been a few minutes before.
"That is not an acceptable answer," she informed him.
Okay, so maybe she was as unpleasant as ever...
"Tough luck, princess," he retorted, turning his back on her to face the bar once more.
Illyria's expression hardened. "Your function is to keep me entertained," she said petulantly. "If I wished to watch a mortal get drunk, I would seek out Wesley."
Spike growled at her over the rim of the bottle. "Go do that, then," he retorted.
Inhuman eyes looked around the room, blue lip curling in disgust at the dregs of humanity before her. "You drink yourselves to death when already your existence is so brief, so insignificant..."
"Yup," Spike agreed proudly, "now go along and play with someone else."
Illyria frowned at that. The truth was that she'd been rather bored since returning to this world. There was little death, destruction, or pain. It was really a horribly dull place. At least with Spike around, she could amuse herself by hitting him.
"I do not wish to," she said simply, as if the entire world revolved around what she wanted and didn't want. Which, admittedly, had been the case for most of her existence.
Spike sighed wearily and banged his forehead against the edge of the bar. Harold subtly slipped a coaster between Spike's forehead and the pristine counter in between bangs.
"I do not even have to lift a hand to hit you anymore," Illyria announced, a small satisfied smile curving her lips.
That did stop Spike. He glared up at her. "Why are you tormentin' me?" he demanded, taking another long sip of whiskey. Oh yeah, he was definitely starting to get snookered.
"Because you whine so well," she retorted smugly.
Spike grumbled into his bottle. "Haughty strumpet."
Illyria ignored him and returned to her study of their surroundings. Half a dozen of the humans were studying her with utmost scrutiny. Lust scented the air and caused her to shudder. Vile, limited creatures...
"I wish to leave," she informed Spike.
"Really?" he perked. "Tha's just grand. Have yourself a ball, kitten."
"You will accompany me," she added matter-of-factly.
The liquor gave him bravado he wouldn't have dared sober. Oh, who was he kidding? He'd probably have done just the same thing without the whiskey. "Bugger. That," he retorted snidely, waving the bartender to bring him a beer. Maybe mixing alcohol would solve the Illyria-problem...
She frowned. "This place is not suitable," she repeated. "We will return to the lab."
"Good luck with that, then," he shot over his shoulder.
She stomped her foot of the ground petulantly and grabbed his shoulder, preparing to spin him around and punish him for his insolence.
She was disrupted, however, by a tap on the shoulder.
Turning in shocked surprise, she discovered that one of the barflies had just gotten drunk enough to make a pass at her. "They're playing our song, baby," he slurred, his foul breath causing her to scrunch up her nose in disgust.
The rest of the bar patrons watched, curious to see what the babe would do.
Spike winced in anticipation.
Illyria fixed the man with a cold, vacant expression. "You presume to address me?" she demanded, outraged.
"Presume?" he blinked at her confusedly, hiccuping. Then he grinned as if suddenly remembering what the word meant. Aw, yeah, baby. Night's made for lovers." He gave her a playful pat on the butt.
"Try not to kill him," Spike whispered in a wild hope of keeping the carnage down.
Illyria's blue eyes flashed. The human got one look of enraged demoness that made his eyes wide in fear, and then he abruptly found himself flying through the air, only to land hard atop a table nearly twenty feet away. He made a little groaning sound and passed out.
"Still alive," Illyria informed Spike. "...Regrettably."
"Amen to that," he agreed, taking a fortifying sip of beer.
The rest of the patrons watched the downed man, turned back to where Illyria was still raging, and applauded. Illyria blinked in surprise. The clapping stopped, and everyone turned back to their drinks, completely ignoring her now.
"Now, may we leave?" she demanded. The very thought of negotiating with Spike was distasteful, but she tried it nonetheless. "I will return this coat you value so much." She held out the duster in offering.
Oh, now that was tempting. But Illyria in a bar was starting to turn into something more entertaining than he'd ever suspected. Dangerous, too, of course, but he was just drunk enough by then that he didn't care about that part.
"Why bother leavin'?" he retorted, gesturing to where everyone in the bar was pointedly ignoring her for fear of their manhood. "Got `em all wrapped around your finger now, luv. Won't bother you again."
Illyria cocked her head to once side at that, considered it for a moment, and was pleased. "Humans are such fragile creatures," she informed him. "So weak and easy to control."
"Tasty, too," he agreed. Oh yes, he was completely gone now. "Have a seat, bluebell," he patted the stool beside him. "No point standin' about for hours."
"Unlike your feeble species, I do not weary," she informed him smugly.
"You just don't wanna sit on the nasty stool," he accused.
She paused for a second. "That, too," she agreed. And, then, simply because she knew it would annoy him, she set his duster down on the Stool Of Questionable Sanitation and sat upon it. She gave him a taunting smile.
His eyes narrowed. "I really, truly hate you," he informed her with a growl.
"I would respond in kind, were it not for the fact that you are no more significant to me than the dust upon my boots," Illyria retorted proudly.
"You talk to the dust on your boots often, then?" he retorted with a grin.
Her expression hardened, and she pointedly turned away.
"So, what'll your girl be having?" Harold asked politely when it looked like the couple would be staying. He kept one eye on the back of the room where two of Ed's friends were helping him to his feet. Looked like the damn fool was all right. Although he was claiming that the punch had knocked him literally back through time into last week. Pshaw. Drunks.
Spike coughed at that, spitting out his Sam Adams all over the counter. He began hacking in horrified disbelief, desperate to get his message out. "Not. My. Girl!"
Harold quickly moved to wipe up the counter and replaced Spike's beer. "This isn't the one you complain about all the time that hits you in the nose?"
"I hit him in the nose often," Illyria informed the bartender proudly. "He complains and whimpers."
Harold just nodded slowly. A friend of Spike's from the stunt business, perhaps?
"That's another nose-hittin' bint you're thinking of, mate," Spike quickly straightened out the misconception. "This one's just..."
"His job is to let me hit him," Illyria teased.
Spike's eyes narrowed.
Hey! Right about the stunt thing, after all... Harold put another beer on the counter. "On me," he announced. "And...my condolences," he grinned at Spike.
Spike chuckled at that.
Illyria, thankfully, didn't get the joke.
"So what'll the lady have?" he addressed Illyria politely.
Spike snickered at the term `lady'.
"I do not ingest toxins," she informed Harold haughtily.
Harold scratched his head. "No booze? Er...I can get you some water..."
"Water is for pond scum and other inferior creatures from the primordial ooze," Illyria insisted.
"Uh..." Harold wondered if this doll had been hit one too many times in the head.
"Just get her a glass of water," Spike rushed to the rescue. "Not wastin' my dollar on a bird with no taste whatsoever."
"I do not want water," Illyria informed him matter-of-factly even as Harold sent the glass down in front of her, complete with little coaster underneath.
"Fine, then don't drink it," Spike retorted petulantly, "if you're so bloody afraid that it'll make your holiness look like one of us slobs." He finished his beer and took up the free bottle Harold had given him.
"Afraid?" Illyria repeated, outraged. "You honestly think that anything in your puny world could..."
"Wimp," Spike cut her off, grinning.
Illyria's hands clenched into fists, and before she could think about it, she'd downed the entire glass with one long gulp. "Uninteresting," she informed him, testing the taste in her mouth.
Spike gave her a look like she was an idiot. "Well, yeah. It's water. Try some of the good stuff if you want somethin' to pique your interest..."
"Absurd," she insisted.
Harold just shook his head at the strange pair and refilled the water glass. This lady was going to need a lot if she was going to wait for Spike to finish getting drunk for the evening...
* * *
About thirty minutes later, when Spike had turned to downing shots and Illyria was slowly sipping at water glass number four, Spike began to realize that something was terribly, horribly wrong. The realization came slowly to his alcohol-fogged brain. There was a bit of confusion at first, before he figured out what exactly it was that was wrong, then a very difficult process of trying to figure out why certain things seemed awry, and belatedly a conclusion that this is could be very, very bad.
Frowning, he slumped forward onto the bar, resting on one cheek so that he could look at Illyria. "What'd you say again?" he demanded, unsure if he was just going crazy from alcohol poisoning.
A small smile, and another sip from her water glass. "I said," she informed him, leaning in close so that long blue locks of hair caressed the bar counter, "that when I take over the world again, I will be assured to make you minister of f..." Her brow creased for a second, as if she couldn't think of the right word or couldn't quite get her tongue around it. "Fun!" she finally proclaimed in delight, smacking him lightly on the shoulder in victory. She tilted her head to one side and smiled at him lazily. "You are so much fun," she informed him, her tone happy and sappy all at once.
He gulped, sobering almost instantly. God, how he wished it were alcohol poisoning. He's kill for alcohol poisoning right about now. Because something or other - heaven only knew what - was making Illyria act as though...
She giggled. "You know..." she commented, head lying against the bar now as she looked up at him. She paused then, frowning, before crooking one finger at him to come closer in. "It's a secret," she said, sounding horribly serious.
Warily Spike leaned in so that she could whisper in his ear.
"You are `cute' - I believe your word is? - when you're confused," she breathed against his flesh before her lips pressed against his earlobe in an obvious - and very intentional - kiss.
He instantly leapt back in horror, falling off his stool in the process - damn thing had been moving around on him all night - and landing on his ass on the floor. He gulped, throat suddenly dry as she giggled again and batted her eyelashes at him. Oh dear god, she was...
"Drunk," he rasped with wide-eyed horror. Quickly, he turned to Harold. "What'd you put in her glass?" he demanded, outraged.
Harold looked just as puzzled as Spike did. "It's just water," he insisted.
"Water," Illyria agreed, finishing her glass with a flourish. She looked down at where Spike was still sitting on the floor in shock and giggled again. "You amuse me," she informed him.
Spike cringed instinctively at that giggle. There was so much of Fred in it, yet a distinctive haughty wickedness that was all too clearly purely Illyria. "How did you...?" he began in disbelief, scrambling to his wobbly feet. "How did she...?" he turned to Harold instead. Got a shrug in response.
"Whasyur problem?" Illyria wondered, speech slurring. She frowned for a second, baffled by her jumbled words. The natural solution came from Fred's stored memories. "I require more water." She held up her empty glass imperiously.
Spike stared at it blankly for a second before his drunken mind finally connected the dots. "No more water!" he yelled to Harold hastily.
The barkeep just froze, pitcher still poised to pour more. Quickly deciding that both of them were completely out of their minds, he slowly backed away. At least his other customers required actual alcohol to get drunk.
Illyria pouted when he left, jutting out her blue lower lip. "You made him go away," she complained, poking Spike pointedly in the chest when he collapsed on the stool beside her once more. "And I'm thirsty," she whined.
"How can you be thirsty?" he demanded. "You said you never...drinkted? Drinked? Dranked? Drunkened?" He frowned and tried to concentrate really hard on what the right word was.
Apparently, Illyria had no difficulty deciphering his drunken ramblings. "I do not know," she agreed. "It is...fun. It makes my head feel...warm."
"Warm in the head's bad," Spike insisted, waving his hands in warning. "Need you to be the cold, insensitive bitch again, luv."
She sulked. "I do not wish to."
He gulped. "I need a phone," he decided quickly. "We need a SWAT team and a...SWAT team in here right now." He looked up and down the bar as if expecting to find the phone there. "And my clipboard... Where's my clipboard?"
Illyria caught him when he turned to search, catching him by the back of the head and pulling him back toward her until his lips were only inches from hers. "You love that clipboard more than you love me," she accused, sounding terribly hurt.
"No no, luv, tha's not true," he instinctively tried to placate her.
"No?" she inquired, head cocked to one side.
Belatedly, he realized that he'd rather have the clipboard than her anyway. Too drunk to start with the truth now, though. "Love you way more," he assured her.
She gave him a soft smile, blue eyes twinkling. "Demonstrate," she requested, leaning in close so that their lips were almost brushing.
Spike licked his lips. All too clear what the lady wanted. He just wasn't sure he was going to give. "Don't think `m quite drunk enough for this," he sighed.
"Your tab's still good," Harold informed him casually from across the bar.
Spike gulped...and pulled away. "Not a good idea there." He gestured for more liquor nonetheless before turning back to Illyria. "That water's makin' you a bit loopy, and `d prefer to survive well into my two-hundreds, y'know?"
"I do not desire to hurt you now," she frowned, obviously disappointed that she hadn't gotten what she wanted. "I do not even do so usually."
He snorted at that. "Yeah, right. You find the violence ever so distasteful," he retorted sarcastically.
"You are so insolent," she sighed wistfully. "No one has ever treated me so irreverently before. It is...exciting..." The last word was almost a purr, and somehow her hand had found it's way into the back pocket of his jeans. "Do you not find me exciting as well?" she asked innocently, blue hair brushing against his forearm enticingly.
He gulped. Spike Junior was having thoughts right about now that he never, ever should even consider if he wanted to live a long, happy existence. Shifting slightly so that the press of his jeans was less painful, Spike desperately searched for a way to counteract the overly-amorous demoness.
"Look, luv, `s not that `m not flattered but..."
"We will," Illyria suddenly decided, grip tightening on him until he winced in pain, "proceed to...your place?" She lost the order halfway through, noticing belatedly that this shell's previous occupant's words were coming through uncharacteristically strongly in her speech. It was no matter, however. Other portions of the old Winifred Burkle persona told her exactly what she did want right now. "I desire to `slum' with you."
"Hey!" Spike protested, offended by the slur. "'ll have you know `m..." His protest stopped abruptly when her hand cupped his hardness through the front of his jeans, squeezed ever so gently. "Oh god..."
"Yes, I am," Illyria agreed. She leaned in close, a licked a slow line over his now silent pulse-point.
Maybe it was the liquor, or the loneliness, or the fact that he just never had been very good at refusing Junior. But, in any case, the words were tumbling through Spike's mouth before he could think straight. "Right then. Let's go."
Harold watched the oddly hair-dyed couple stagger from the bar, leaning on each other for support, and shook his head. The things he saw in this place...
Yes, this fic is just a blatant excuse for me to use the line “You love that clipboard more than you love me.” ~_^ Smut and such to come soon. ^_^