Indigo Overture – Chapter One

Rating:  Eventually NC17 – for this chapter – PG13

 

 

Spike kicked the stage in front of him and twirled his drumstick through his fingers.  His gaze tipped up to his drum set then over to the wall across from it, where the clock dangling from a string of plastic beads read 6:53.  As in 53 minutes after Angel had insisted they all be here. 

 

“So, any chance of practicing at this practice?” Willow asked, reading his mind.

 

Spike smirked up at the redhead who was seated behind her keyboard, fiddling with one of the many stickers on her boyfriend’s case.   The tall windows in the warehouse let in just enough light to reflect the sparkle of her nail polish. 

 

“Well, dear friends, that depends on Mr. American Idol gracing us with his presence,” Xander snuffled from somewhere behind the drums, where he was running wires and taping cords, “He’s darned lucky we get to use this place for free.  What if I wasn’t such a stellar carpenter, huh?  Then what?”  

 

“We’d be back in your basement,” Willow said.

 

“Less light; better snacks,” Oz said.

 

“Snacks would give us something to do since practicing is out,” Willow said.

 

“He’ll be here,” Spike supplied, resting his elbows on the stage and his chin in his hands.  He stared at the scuffed leather on Willow’s shoes, “Hair like that takes time.” 

 

“And gel,” Oz added from the right, plugging in his bass and winking at Willow when a burst of feedback sent Xander yelping like a bitten puppy and crashing head-first into a cymbal. 

 

“Oi!  Watch my set, boy!” Spike shouted, glaring at Xander who was still rubbing his tender scalp.  Willow circled in front of her keyboards to join her boyfriend, slipping her thin arm around his waist. 

 

“If you’re looking for someone to yell at, I vote for the guy who thrives on making me scream like a girl,” Xander defended.

 

“Or alternately we could settle for mocking you for sounding so girly,” Willow offered.

 

Oz looked down at Spike and the two exchanged a glance with raised brows. “I love that woman,” Oz said.

 

Spike smirked and nodded at the redhead who blushed prettily under the compliment, “No harm in that.”

 

“I can find some harm!  Lots of harm, even.” Xander said, pointing at his head for emphasis until Willow marched to her keyboards and produced her ever present Tupperware container of Home-made Cookie Goodness .  Xander’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas as she passed him a snickerdoodle over the snare drum. 

 

“Fine,” he grumbled through chewing, “But don’t think your cookies can get you out of everything.”

 

“Well, they have since we were nine,” she said, and in response the brunette could only chew thoughtfully and nod.

 

Their friendship was the kind that populated smarmy after-school television specials.  It was almost too much to be believed, all comfortable banter and inside jokes.  If he hadn’t known about their strange little fling in high school, Spike would have been convinced they were secretly shagging.  But it was just one of those friendships; the ones everyone wishes they had.  They kind he had once with Dru. 

 

But there was no sense in thinking about that.  Or her.

 

Spike shook his head and dropped his drumsticks on the floor in front of the stage before turning away from the band.

 

“I need a smoke,” he called over his shoulder.

 

After a quick stroll across the battered wooden floor, he pushed open the rusting door and blinked in the sickly gray of a stormy day.  Within seconds, he was exhaling a slim trail of smoke into the mist, watching the pale wisp curl in the rain.  He hated the rain.  It reminded him of home.  No, not home.  Just London.  It wasn’t home anymore.

 

A flick of his fingers sent his fag to the sodden ground where it hissed its final breath.  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Spike gazed down the alley.  Angel should have been here by now.  Even by his standards, this was late, but then, Angel wasn’t fickle about timelines.  At least when it came to himself.  It didn’t matter that he controlled the time and the place and everything else about their practices.  He was the star.  And he bloody well knew it. 

 

They had taken a month break for the holidays, but so far it didn’t look like the new year was bringing much change to the King of Forehead.  Spike pressed his lips together pensively, feeling a brief tug of guilt when Angel’s gold sedan rounded the corner, its wipers swishing great arcs across the rain spattered windshield.  He should remember his place, should remember what Angel had done for him.  No matter how much brooding and glory mongering he shoveled out, Spike still owed him everything.

 

Spike raised a two fingered salute at the driver and tossed his patented smirk to the murky interior of the vehicle.  That’s when he saw her. Looks like Angel’s been practicing afterall. 

 

“Bloody, buggering hell,” Spike said with quiet resignation, craning his head until his neck gave a satisfying pop.  “Here we go again.” 

 

The doors opened and out they came, Angel shaking his hair and flexing his arms as he closed the door.  He caught Spike’s eyes and spread his lips in a sanguine smile.  Then she emerged, wrapping her pretty manicured fingers around a pink umbrella handle and her other hand around Angel’s bicep. Her enormous green eyes peered out from beneath her golden hair, all sweetness and innocence, and love.  Yes, of course, love.

 

“Oh, there’s one of them now,” Angel said, looking up at Spike.  The drummer leaned  his back against the landing and looked down the short steps to the street, where the couple waited.  Then Angel cracked a wide smile, striding up the stairs with the little blonde in tow.  They paused under the tattered awning, the two of them so close that Spike could smell them, rain and perfumes mingling in the damp air. 

 

“You’re late,” Spike said through gritted teeth, taking in the chit's low slung corduroy pants and white shirt that was a single umbrella away from X-rated.  Angel shrugged and Spike exhaled irritably in the little blonde's general direction, without letting his eyes grace her face. 

 

“I had reasons,” Angel leered at Spike, lifting his chin to indicate he knew damn well that Spike had checked out his “reason”.

 

Mystery girl stood there patiently, her lips trembling in the chill while the boys eyed each other like moody bulls.  When she cleared her throat, Spike finally looked her in the eyes, prompting a quick, wide smile.  She extended a hand politely in that cramped space they were sharing and he met her handshake automatically, deciding she had the softest skin and the cutest nose he’d ever encountered. 

 

“Hi, I’m Buffy.”

 

Spike threw back his head and laughed, because he couldn’t process such a perfect girl having such a ridiculous name.  So, he assumed it was a joke and kept nodding at her ridiculously until it dawned on him that neither Angel nor she were laughing.  Angel was glowering and his adorable girl was biting her lip in an expression that teetered somewhere between humiliation and irritation.  In that instant, her kittenish features sharpened into something more closely resembling a hellcat. 

 

“My God,” Spike blinked, “You’re serious.  That’s really your name?”

 

“Don’t be an ass,” Angel hissed, clapping his hand against Spike’s shoulder with enough force to make the rickety staircase beneath them groan. 

 

“Gee, I can’t wait to meet the rest,” Buffy spat, tightening her grip on Angel’s arm and shoving herself between the two men.  Spike felt her tiny hip push against him and his tongue curled instinctively behind his teeth.  He stepped back, pressing his back into the metal railing so the golden couple could pass. 

 

He followed them in and grinned when Willow called out cheerfully, “Oh, Angel, our punctuality-impaired lead singer!  That’s helpful to have at a practice.  At this practice, even.  The one that started an hour ago.”  Her eyes went wide as she noticed the drippy, blonde on Angel’s arm, “Oh. Oh!  A girl!  Hello, I’m Willow,” she said with a more genuine smile.

 

The redhead bounded down the steps, still smiling at Buffy.  Her expression faltered when Buffy narrowed her eyes at the drummer clomping past her.  Willow eyed Angel,  then Spike, then rolled her eyes sympathetically to Buffy, “You can probably already imagine how happy I am to meet a girl around here!”

 

Xander popped up from behind two front speakers, “Girl?”

 

Spike watched him gulp after a stealthy visual survey of the newcomer’s appeal.  Spike didn’t blame him, for once.  Buffy had more than a bit of appeal to take in, dreadful name or not. 

 

“Hello, Aloha, Welcome, all that warm stuff,” he called merrily, “I’m Xander.”

 

“She’s Buffy!” Spike supplied with a snappy bob of his head and a tight-lipped smile. 

 

Buffy shot him a sharp look then beamed at the rest of the group, “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Willow shook her hand heartily, “It’s good to meet you too.”

 

“I’m Oz,” the bass player added, nodding down.

 

“And she’s Bu-ffy!” Spike said again, and this time they got it.  Well, they turned around and frowned at him, so he at least had the confidence that there was something to be gotten.  Too bad they didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. 

 

Buffy was even less impressed than the rest of them.  She spun on the heel of her boot, flipping her hair and clamping her small hands on her hips, “Alright,” she hissed, “We know my name.  What’s yours, bleach boy?”

 

He took no offence.  He knew he was being an ass.  Besides, how could someone named Buffy be offensive?  Just didn’t sit right.  He just cocked an eyebrow and replied, “Spike.”

 

“Oh, I see,” she said softly, stepping towards him until she was so close that he could see the flecks of gold dancing in her eyes.  “And I suppose that little nickname wasn’t created to…” her eyes flicked meaningfully at his zipper and to his extreme irritation, parts that shouldn’t care jumped to attention, “…compensate any shortcomings?”

 

He smirked more deeply, ignoring the snickers from the stage, and leaned in until she pulled back, “Want to check for yourself, luv?”

 

Angel barked a warning, and Willow rushed to the rescue, clucking apologetically at Buffy and smacking Spike’s arm. 

 

“You’re a pig,” Buffy snapped, but a blush warmed her cheeks as she turned away.

 

“Better a pig than a Buffy,” he muttered, approaching the stage.  He lost his smirk when  Angel leveled him with a glare that he had seen enough times to respect. 

 

“Alright,” Angel said smoothly, “that jerk aside, this is my amazing band I’ve told you so much about.”  He stood behind her and turned her to the stage, his wide hands spanning her waist, “Xander’s our manager and sound guy and a bit of everything else.  Oz is our master bassist,”

 

“Hence the bass?” Buffy quipped and Angel’s mouth curved in that charismatic way that only lead singers and movie stars can manage.

 

“Yeah,” he winked.  “Will handles our keyboards and makes a mean peanut-butter cookie.  And of course, there is Spike who plays-“

 

“-Supreme asshole?” she interrupted with a cheerful blink.  Angel chuckled, narrowing a look at him over her shoulder.  Spike grinned.  She was a little spitfire, wasn’t she?

 

“Usually, yeah,” Angel agreed, “But he also plays the drums.”

 

“And you’ve all met my girl, Buffy,” Angel said, pulling her close and gazing into her eyes, “From the moment I met her, I knew there was something different, something special about this girl.  And then he kissed her.  Neither the speech nor the kiss were new; they’d all seen both more than once.  Willow held back a little sigh and tried to look optimistic.  Xander tore open a Twinkie and blinked, and Oz just shook his head before turning to tune his bass. 

 

Spike, however, did not blow it off and hop onto the stage like he had planned to.  He watched them.  He was damn near studying them.  The way her fingers slid under the cuffs of his coat, the way her eyes fluttered shut.  When Angel pulled away, he forced himself to spin to the stage, tossing his drumsticks towards his set.   

 

“That’s my girl,” Angel said behind him.

 

“Fantastic,” Spike said, turning back to them even though he knew he was playing with fire, “We haven’t had one of those in a few weeks.”

 

He was expecting the punch from Angel.  It was worth it.  He was expecting the sighs and snappy comments from the others.  They were worth it, too.  He wasn’t expecting the little shadow of fear that lurked in Buffy’s eyes before she looked away.  And he sure the hell wasn’t expecting the prick of regret that welled up in him as a result of it. 

 

***

 

It had been three weeks since she’d stepped into that warehouse.  Eight practice sessions and three shows she’d survived, learning how Live Bait put it all together.  And they did put it together.  In fact, they wailed.  They were wailing right now.

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  Wailed.  A word she had not learned in her three arduous years at Sunnydale University.  No, she picked that one up from Oz. He was quiet but funny, and he ripped a mean line on the bass.  At least that’s what Xander said.  He was also completely in love with Willow, and that was the best thing of all about him.

 

Willow was fantastic.  Everyone else had treated her with kid gloves at first, as if she was going to disappear at any given moment; but not Willow.  Buffy had clicked with the sweet redhead from day one.  By day three Buffy was helping her with make-up in the dingy bathroom of a nightclub that reeked of smoke and throbbed of rock and roll. By two weeks, Willow had surprised her with a “band-warming” basket filled with demo CDs, t-shirts of their more regular venues, and even an extra headset walkie talkie thing so she could listen and talk to the band during the show.  Well, Willow and Xander and Spike anyways.  Oz and Angel both sang, so they couldn’t wear them.

 

The headsets were Xander’s idea originally.  He was almost as great as Will, taking her under his wing as if she had been there for months, if not years.  Xander gave her things to do, kept her busy helping with band business.  Sometimes she’d help with set-up and tear-down, but usually he kept her on sales duty.  Xander always gushed that sales had tripled now that fans didn’t have to face his ugly mug to get a CD. 

 

He was pretty good at making her feel important.  They all were.  For the first time since she could remember, Buffy really liked what she was doing.  Loved it, even.  She was excellent at working the crowd, and silly or not, she felt a world of hip when she had to respond to a crackly message through her headset.  It felt good to be a part of something.

 

Buffy’s eyes drifted to the tall brunette of her thoughts.  Her heart swelled like it had every time she’d seen him in the last three months.  As if connected by an invisible cord, he lifted his eyes from the microphone and caught her stare across the crowded bar.  He winked her way, raising a single pinkie from his microphone. 

 

God, he was the right choice.  Maybe leaving college only two semesters before graduating was a mistake.  Her first experience with beer and the embarrassing streaking incident that followed?  Big oops.  Slimey Parker on the beach?  Not of the wise.  But, moving to the big city with a rock star named Angel?  It sounded crazy, but it was right.  It was meant to be.

 

Her fingers twisted the Claddagh ring on her finger he had given her last week and she tapped her foot to the beat of the music.  Angel was good.  Live Bait was good.  Generally, life was good. 

 

“Shit!”

 

The voice that crackled through the speaker mid-chorus was not good. 

 

Spike.  The one irritation in an otherwise perfect life.  He was the thorn in her side.  The fly in her soup.  The drummer currently missing a stick.

 

“Oi, Xan, where are you?  I need a stick.”

 

Buffy’s eyes scanned the crowd.  Why did it have to be now?  Why couldn’t he break the damn stick earlier or better yet, why couldn’t he keep more spares on stage with him?  It’s not like this was the first time.  He should be prepared!  But, no….Spike had to be difficult and horrible.  He didn’t know how to be anything but the obnoxious, British, 80’s reject drummer with a penchant for breaking sticks mid-set when Xander was in the bathroom. 

 

“He’s in the john,” she said.

 

“A little help, luv?”

 

And she did have to help him.  Not because she cared about how embarrassed he must have been by the pitiful one-armed drumming attempt he was making.  That was rather enjoyable, actually.  But Spike’s humiliation was not going to be suffered alone.  The whole band sounded bad.  And Angel looked unhappy.  Ergo, good girlfriend Buffy went flying through the crowd, ignoring both the snickers of the fans who noticed the problem and the leers of the ones who noticed her ass. 

 

She yanked a spare from Xander’s stash and leapt carefully up the back of the stage.

 

Angel ended the song early, just as she hoisted herself  up the back of the stage.  Her boyfriend bought a little time to tune his guitar and sling back some water, drenching his hair and a group of screaming bar bunnies in the process.  Buffy hardly noticed.  It was nothing she hadn’t seen and brushed off a thousand times.  They could drool all they wanted…he’d be going home with her.

 

Spike was chugging his own water, nodding to her as she approached.  She frowned at his black jeans, thanking the powers that were that he was mostly hidden by the drumset.  Everyone else looked great in an assortment of vintage t-shirts and denim of the blue variety.

 

A snarky remark was biting at her tongue, begging to be unleashed as usual, “Destructive and talentless,” she said as she handed the stick over, “You are a rare breed.”

 

In reply, the blonde nodded, voice wistful, “If only I could be one of the manicured and fake-baked like yourself, then I’d be someone worthwhile.”

 

“I loathe you, you know” she said half-heartedly as Angel introduced his next song.

 

“I know,” Spike chuckled, “Fun, innit?”

 

He waggled his tongue at her and rolled his eyes like a lunatic as he launched the rhythm of the new song with a flourish that made it very clear he had both sticks properly functioning.  Buffy laughed in spite of herself and returned to her post by the door.

 

Angel’s voice dripped with lust as his hands caressed the neck of his guitar in a way that screamed more of sex than music.  Girls swooned and screamed for more.  Guys sipped their beers and envied from afar.  And Buffy loved every minute of it all.  Because each time a line would end, tall, dark and handsome would rest his gaze on her.  Plain old Sunnydale Buffy.  Now the girlfriend of a rock star.

 

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