AUTHOR: Elektra
EMAIL: mydestinyfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: All the characters in this fanfiction universe belong to Joss, the WB television network and everyone else who holds copyright to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer series and the Angel series. No copyright infringement is intended.
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SERIES: Happy Birthday Mr. Vampire, Installment 1
RATING: Rated PG13.
CONTENT: A/S, C/S
SUMMARY: The first installment in the Happy Birthday, Mr. Vampire series. Upon Giles' suggestion, Spike takes a vacation from the Initiative and visits Angel in LA.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This series is dedicated to Bree, who will be leaving us shortly to have her baby. It was conceived from a fanfiction challenge that she issued for her birthday. Good luck with little baby Nicky, Bree, and come back to us as soon as you can. We'll miss you.
Angel ran his hand over the slick surface of the steel door to his apartment as it reverberated against the heavy pounding coming from the other side. Without looking through the peephole, he knew who he'd find standing impatiently in his hallway. The question was, why was he bothering to announce his presence?
He opened the door slowly, determined to piss off his childe as much as possible. After all, would Spike really be Spike if he didn't have something to bitch about?
"Spike," Angel grinned as he looked down at the scowling face of his childe. "Whatever could have sent you running to Papa?"
"Funny Dad," Spike snarled as he shouldered his way past Angel and threw a heavy black satchel onto Angel's leather couch. He smirked as the rusty metal feet of the bag scraped against the surface of the leather, leaving several pale gray streaks in their wake.
Angel felt his heart squeeze in his chest as his childe's dirty bag molested his furniture. He strode across the room quickly and snatched the offending piece of luggage before it could inflict any more damage to his precious furnishings.
"Winner and still champeen," Spike drawled in the bizarrely southern accent that he occasionally found himself slipping into.
Angel glared up at him under his heavy brow.
"Oh come on, Angelus. You have got to be the most anal demon ever created on God's green earth. How someone like you created such a fine specimen as myself, I will never understand." Spike grinned roguishly. "I suppose you are their favorite son and all that. What rot."
Angel shook his head.
"I allow you to come into my home with that thing in your head, and this is what I get? This is how you thank your sire?" Angel stood from his crouched position beside the couch. He gave the leather cushion one last look before he walked across the room, shoulders tensed.
"Oh look," Spike chortled, "it's Frankenstein."
Angel's face was menacingly still.
"Tell me," he said softly, "how long has it been?"
Spike's brow creased as he attempted to translate what was bound to be the first of many cryptic Angel utterances for the evening.
"What in the hell are you going on about?"
Angel grinned.
"You'll figure it out. You never were a stupid boy. Anyway," he said, tapping Spike's forehead before turning his back on the younger man, "do you get good reception with that thing?"
Spike snarled before flashing two upraised fingers in a V formation at the back of his sire's head.
Angel chuckled.
"You might be able to get away with that on American television," he said, without bothering to look over his shoulder, "but you forget, I actually know what it means."
Spike flinched. Was his sire developing eyes in the back of his head? If he recalled correctly, the jigarkhor, a particularly nasty strain of witches from India, had something to do with that. Or was it that you killed them by crushing the eyes in the back of their heads? Whatever.
Worse yet, could the damn chip in his head actually be turning him back? He swallowed against the bitter bile that welled its way up the back of his throat. Human? William the Bloody? What the hell would Drusilla think! First he was helping the Slayer, and now this!
Spike peered into a window just beyond his sire's left shoulder. A heavy green blind had been drawn over the far side of the glass. In its reflection, he noted a dark leather sofa, a finely fashioned wooden chair, and- Fuck. The hallow inner surface of his chest cavity felts as though it were crawling with clover mites. It couldn't be. A slight leather clad figure stood in close proximity to the chair, exactly where he was standing.
A momentary swell of pride passed through him as he noted what an attractive creature he'd become. However, it was quickly squelched by the knowledge that it was his face he was seeing in the glass.
Angel grinned at his silent childe. Except for several occasions when Spike had been knocked unconscious, he'd never managed to stay silent in Angel's presence for this long. It was physically impossible.
"Completely bizarre, isn't it."
Spike nodded silently.
"I've got to say though, Angelus, you do have good taste."
"You're right," Angel said sarcastically, "I do seem to have a thing for bottled blondes."
He stood in silence as he waited for Spike's inevitable rejoinder. When none came, he looked at his childe more closely. Was it possible that he had never noticed the changes taking place in his body? Could he have been so completely preoccupied by his inability to feed that he had ignored everything else around him?
"Spike, you did realize you were changing, didn't you?"
Spike frowned at his sire's tone. It was one he hadn't heard since he was a fledgling and Drusilla and that bastard Penn had allowed him to take the fall for their highjinks. As the youngest of the three, he'd been particularly susceptible to becoming so drawn into their adventures that he forgot the details--like bringing back your sire's cut when you slaughtered a church congregation during midnight mass. He had to give Angelus credit though; he always managed to see through their schemes--takes one to know one. But that voice, that damnedable "you're a total fucking moron" tone that was unfortunately all too familiar.
"No Angelus, somehow I managed to miss that one. You know, the next time a bunch of boy scouts on steroids decide to stick a fucking computer in my brain, I'll be sure to ask them about the potential side-effects. We wouldn't want my dick to fall off next time, would we?"
Angel smirked.
"Now that would be a senseless tragedy."
"Fuck you."
"Sorry, not today. Somehow I don't think my employees would particularly appreciate walking in on that one."
"Oh I don't know, you've had a hot one down here." Spike grinned at Angel's stunned expression. "Don't bother denying it, Angelus, I can still smell her. Demon's my guess, and one that you've no way of forgetting, if my nose is correct."
"Her name was Jhiera."
"I'm right, aren't I? Made you stand up and give a ten gun salute."
Angel chuckled.
"No, make it the full twenty-one."
"Ahh," Spike said, rubbing his hands together greedily, "information to pass along to the Slayer."
Angel shook his head. Anything to get at Buffy. He should have known better.
"Spike, you aren't going anywhere. Bug on the brain, remember?"
Spike snorted.
"Angelus," he said, clapping a hand down on Angel's right shoulder, "they sent me to you of all people. Either Buffy's afraid that she's going to succumb to my charms, or I'm as good as dead and they don't want to deal with it."
Angel looked at his childe's deathly still gaze and realized that the chip had caused many more changes in his childe than he'd initially anticipated. His inability to feed had made Spike an outcast. He no longer had the benefit of demon, vampire or even sire. He had been alone. That loneliness had done something that Angel had thought impossible.
Spike had become . . . perceptive.
As Angel struggled to find the appropriate response, Spike turned to admire his reflection in the glass. Why the hell did they send him to me, he wondered. I'm no good with these kinds of situations. Why couldn't Rupert have told him- He breathed a deep sigh of relief as the steady whir and hum of the elevator disrupted his thoughts.
"Blood hell, Angelus, why didn't you tell me my roots were showing. Got any peroxide around this joint?"
"Maybe because he doesn't want to contribute to the delinquency of a major fashion victim."
"Cordelia," Spike said as he wandered over to Angel's kitchen and grabbed a jar off the counter, "as witty as ever, I see."
Cordelia smiled at him sweetly as she walked across the living room and dropped several white plastic bags on Angel's lap.
"It isn't hard when there's this much material just lying around. I mean really, did you actually look at yourself in that window? You look like a Billy Idol-wannabe."
Spike snorted as he wrenched the lid off the jar he'd taken from Angel's kitchen.
"Billy's a real man."
Angel grinned at Cordelia.
"He and Spike used to hang out together back in the old days."
Cordelia's nose wrinkled in disgust.
"So that's what you were doing in the 80s. I always kinda-"
"Yeah," Spike replied with a quick wiggle of his left brow, "the 1880s weren't exactly a swinging time, so we made our own fun."
"Wait a minute, wait just one minute, are you telling me that Billy Idol is a vampire?"
Spike and Angel shared an amused glance as Cordelia sputtered over the implications that one of the biggest recording artists of the 1980s was, in fact, a vampire.
"Like someone with that much sexual charisma could possibly be human."
"Hey," Cordelia said, clearly offended, "there are plenty of us humans who have sexual charisma. Ricky Martin, for example."
"Oh please," Spike said, grimacing and rolling his eyes to the heavens, "that pansy. Anyone who has to resort to talking about 'shaking his bon-bon' should be dragged out to the desert and staked under the sun to boil in their own blood."
Angel dropped into a leather chair and propped his feet up on a foot stool as he enjoyed the banter passing between his childe and his best friend.
"Eeewww," Cordelia groaned, "that is so disgusting. And like 'rock the cradle of love' was such a masterpiece. Please, did you see that video? It's like a girl crawling all over this middle-aged man's bedroom furniture. Oh yeah, that's hot, where's my cold shower or better yet, a wet nap."
Spike grinned wolfishly as he peered at the contents of the jar in his hands.
"She might have been crawling all over that guy's bed in the video, but I can tell you exactly where she was when the cameras weren't rolling, on her hands an-"
"Ok, ok, I don't want to hear anymore. I do not need to know the intricacies of Billy Idol's love life. I'll let you win this argument, but you have to do one thing for me."
"And what's that, pet? Show you just what that chit was doing with Billy between takes?"
"Just stop. I am so not going to be your final quickie before you die. Anyway, at least admit that Ricky did a good job on General Hospital."
Spike stared at her in astonishment.
"What's with your hard-on for this guy?"
"I don't have a- one of those for anyone. I just-"
"He just moved into the penthouse apartment in her building," Angel interjected with a grin. Finally, someone was getting Cordelia's attention. He hadn't seen her engage in this verbal foreplay of hers since Doyle had died.
Spike chuckled.
"Trying to get in his pants?"
"As if! Sex has certain consequences, buster. It isn't something I play around with."
"Otherwise you wake up eight months pregnant with some demon's progeny," Angel muttered sarcastically.
"What was that," Spike asked with a frown.
"Nothing," Cordelia said, slapping Angel on the back of the head, "he just had a frog in his throat. Right Angel?"
Angel nodded.
"Anyway, we were talking about the eye sore that is your wardrobe," Cordelia said as she slunk across the room towards Spike. The girl was plotting something. "If you're going to be sticking around here for awhile, that wardrobe has got to go. I'm talking head to toe makeover."
Spike frowned. A chip in his head was one thing, but asking him to break all ties with his duster, combat boots and faded jeans was going too far.
"I don't think so."
"Oh yeah," Cordelia grinned, "you'll be surprised at what I can do with just a few changes in a wardrobe. Just look at him," she said, gesturing over her shoulder at Angel, "a few helpful hints and he's in color. It's done wonders for our business. Of course, he didn't need quite as much help as you do. He has a pretty high caliber sense of fashion. You, on the other hand, are stuck in a rut."
"I'm not in a rut," Spike said petulantly, "I'm comfortable."
"Look, I know you and Drusilla were like an item from birth or creation or whatever, but you're single now. You need to update the wardrobe or no decent, credit card carrying woman is going to want to have anything to do with you. Now, we'll start small and it won't be quite so traumatic for you. First, we're going to need to get you a new shirt. Yeah, the duster covers it, but look at this collar; it's totally limp. You need crisp. Find some spray starch and learn how to use it. It's your friend."
Cordelia tugged at the collar of Spike's shirt in a desperate attempt to make it stand properly.
"Bloody hell, can't we get the witch to bring the Angel-wannabe back to keep you occupied."
Cordelia stopped fidgeting with Spike's collar as she realized what he had just said.
"Doyle," she said hesitantly. "How'd you know about that? We didn't even tell Giles."
Spike shrugged.
"It gets around, luv. Demons aren't exactly known for their self-restraint. Hell, he's the perfect example," he said, gesturing toward Angel with his empty hand. "I'm in Sunnyhell less than twenty-four hours and already Harm's going on and on about the hickey he planted on the Slayer."
Angel sat up in his chair abruptly, no longer relishing the scene before him.
"She what?"
Spike grinned evilly.
"She was telling me all about your little death roll with the Slayer. I've gotta say Angelus," he said, plucking a cherry from the jar, popping it into his mouth and sucking on it, "nice work. I've seen it up close and personal, and I'd give it a 9.25. You're a little shaky on the form but the dismount was excellent." Spike waggled his cherry-juice-stained tongue lasciviously in Angel's direction. "I'd say it's almost as good as one of mine. Then again, I did learn from the master, even if he is a little out of practice."
"Eeewwww," Cordelia groaned, "that is just wrong on so many levels."
Angel glared at Spike before he stood, stalked across the room and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.
"Stupid bastard," Spike said. "All this time and he's still whipped."
He flinched as the loud, echoing strains of Mozart's Requiem assaulted his ears.
"And he's still listening to that long-haired music. Damnit Angelus," Spike yelled over the volleying strains of organs and violins, "get with the fucking century."
Spike grimaced as the volume of the music increased in response.
"How long do you think he's going to do this?"
"Oh," Cordelia said, slapping him on the shoulder and grinning up at him, "you did a great job. I say it'll last three hours and fifty-two minutes."
"You seem pretty confident about that. Sure it won't be three hours and fifty-four and a half minutes?"
Cordelia grinned.
"Nope. Three hours and fifty-one and a half minutes is more like it, because that's when you're scheduled to go in for surgery."
"Surgery? What the hell are you talking about? He never said anything about blo-"
"Why else do you think you're here? Hmmm? Angel's taking you to get that chip taken out."
"You aren't joking, are you? This isn't to get back at me for that whole 'torture of Angel' thing from last fall, is it?"
Cordelia grinned.
"No. As much as I would like to kick your ass over that, Angel says you're different now. If he can forgive you enough to take you to have that implant taken out, then I can too," she said as she bent down to pick up the cascade of plastic bags that had fallen to the floor during Angel's abrupt departure. "Just don't screw it up, because as far as he's concerned, this is your last shot."
Spike nodded silently as he watched her throw the bags on the kitchen table and walk over to the elevator.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours. He's got cable and there's some blood in the frig."
With that said, Cordelia climbed into the elevator and disappeared from view.
Only four more hours, Spike thought. Four more hours and I'll either be free of this chip or I'll be dead and it won't matter.
Spike sighed as he slumped down on Angel's leather couch. He ran his finger across the scratches his bag had made in the leather surface earlier in the evening.
Damnit, if this worked, he was going to have to buy him a new couch.