Everyone has their fair share of messing things up and everybody has a bloody awful story they'd rather not tell. Now, I know you wouldn't think this of me. I have brilliant stories from all around the world. My favorite stories used to be about the two Slayers I killed. But here I am, confessing to you lot, that not all my stories end how I would like them to, even if you would have expected me to glorify it in one way or another. However, due to certain events I was forced to recall the events that occurred in August, 1969. A certain demon, who will remain anonymous for the sake of his safety, told me how he had once bumped off a Slayer and the funny thing is, you see, is that he got into her mind and he saw things that he wasn't supposed to see.
I have always been ashamed of Woodstock and how things turned out. It's not every day you hang out with a Slayer and find out the next day, especially if you're a soulless, vicious, Slayer-killing vampire like I was. I would have killed the girl when I first met her if I hadn't been high as a kite when she forced me to spend the night in her van.
Woodstock, 1969
16th August, evening
This was brilliant, just brilliant. Ayla had set out to Woodstock to enjoy herself, let loose a little bit and yet she found herself battling vampires left and right and when she wasn't doing that she was getting the easy targets (high as kites) into their tents or vans. It wasn't like it was a complete drag for her, Ayla had always enjoyed the violence and helping others made her feel accomplished and like an important part of the society. Her Watcher, a stuffy English woman in her early thirties, disliked Ayla's enjoyment in slaying. It was her job, not her hobby and she had to do it dutifully and not with pleasure. Yet she had allowed Ayla to go to Woodstock because "it was the perfect opportunity for slaying."
"Off you go to bed there," Ayla mumbled as she pushed a blazed flower-lover into a tent. It was already dark and Ayla had a feeling that the vampires weren't going to stop feeding just because it was pouring from above. But Ayla was fixing to cut loose for a little while. After all, she had already staked at least double-digits of Vampires and probably rescued countless innocent hippies from being sucked dry. She had planned this to be her weekend, her only break. But duty called and Ayla was never one to ignore duty, or at least the easier kind of duty. She was just going to try to not see her duty.
But then she had to lay her eyes upon him and that's what brought them together in the first place. He looked like he was "rough around the edges", with bleach blond hair and dressed like he belonged in some sort of underground punk movement rather than at Woodstock. He stood so badly out that Ayla ignored all the other drugged up adolescents. It had only taken her a moment to plump herself down by his side and studied the man closer. He looked older than her by perhaps ten, twelve years and far wiser but he did look a little… Distraught. For some reason, Ayla spent a few minutes by his side, simply staring at him and not daring to move. it wasn't like she feared him and they definitely weren't having any moment of bliss. He was just staring at his hands intensely. Before Ayla managed to convince herself to speak, he beat her to it.
"Do my hands look funny to you too?" For a moment, Ayla just stared at the man, her dark silver eyes wide with surprise. Then she realized that he was being serious and she couldn't help but let out a single titter. "They look normal to me," she commented with an earnest smile on her face, holding down the laugh that was waiting to burst out. Whatever everyone was on, it made them seem ridiculous to Ayla. The man looked back towards his hands and shrugged. "They look weird to me," he mumbled. "Mate," Ayla said, trying to match his accent. "I think that that's the drugs talking. They look fine," she suggested.
"Drugs," he echoed, as if he had had a sudden revelation. "Bloody hell, that git was drugged!" He looked at the girl next to him, who had a rather confused look on her face, and looked for a moment rather sheepish. "I mean, he must have drugged my drink!" Ayla nodded slowly, thinking more about the man's accent than how he had come across the drugs. "England?" she asked after a moment. The man looked at her, seeming rather disinterested. "London. Where are you from? You don't look like you belong here in Woodstock," he asked dryly. It was funny how people on drugs seemed to waver between seeming out of it and seeming fine.
"New York," Ayla answered quickly before her cheeks turned red. "Well, Dublin originally, but I've been in New York since I was a baby," she explained. "Explains the hair," the man replied, touching Ayla's hair while leaning in to look at it more closely. Ayla cleared her throat, obviously disturbed by the man's closeness. "I think we should get you to your tent or van or whatever," she suggested with a wry smile. He looked away from the lock of hair that he clenched in his fist and for the first time in their conversation, their eyes locked. The nice blue color drew Ayla in. The color felt like it was completely new. There was something different about this one, and that was all the more reason for Ayla to protect him.
"I don't got one. I stay with anyone who will have me," he replied. Or whoever I suck dry. He thought with a loopy grin on his face. "Stay in mine," Ayla offered quickly, slightly weirded out by the look on his face. But it was her duty to take care of him, at least until she found some vampires to slay. "I have a nice van and the back is pretty snazzy," she promised.
Something she said had apparently been funny, because the man began laughing rather loudly. "Didn't your mummy teach you not to invite a stranger into your van?" the man asked tauntingly, causing Ayla to laugh too, confusing him momentarily. He had no idea about what she had been taught regarding inviting people somewhere. Well, things, in. Most people would never understand and this guy, looking edgy and slightly mischievous, would probably never even consider not inviting someone in.
"Ayla," she introduced herself with an extended hand towards the man. It took him a while to notice because he had resumed staring at his hands in amazement. Eventually he paid her attention long enough to shake her hand. "Name's Spike," he mumbled. For a while he sat there, moving his lips a few times as if he was repeating his name, but Ayla wasn't skilled enough at reading lips to know for sure. "Spike," he finally repeated out loud with a dumbfound expression on his face. "Doesn't seem like a proper name right now… You can call me William."
Ayla, rather tired of the rambling of Spike, stood up and pulled him up with her in a rather violent manner. "Bloody hell, you don't have to yank me up so hard," Spiked whined as he rubbed his arm gently. "Women… Sick… Sadistic creatures…" He was mumbling to himself and Ayla, hearing the context of what he was saying decided to shrug it off. She was there to protect this man, not to squabble. She glanced back at the man and smiled slightly. "I think that you look more like a Spike rather than a William."
A/N: Spike is a little out of character on purpose. Here because he's still experiencing some effects from drinking the blood from a flower-child and later on because of... well, it'll be explained. Oh yeah, so it's like, Spike is telling the story with the help of the information that the demon gave him about the Slayer's memories so it has pretty much all the information needed to get into the two heads.