A/N: Well, I turned 19 yesterday (I know, I'm old). Anyway, I was more than a little depressed about it, so I wrote this to cheer me up. Consider this my present to you. Your present to me can be reviews. I really had no idea where to take this after the last chapter, then I started listening to a lot of jazz and decided to add in something not at all related with the season, just because I wanted to dress Spike up in a bowler hat and use the song "Fever" by Ella Fitzgerald cause like…that song? Amazing. You'd probably understand the segment of this chapter in which it's involved a lot more if you've heard it. It's hot. Pretty soon updates are going to be fewer and far between cause I'm going back to college within a week or two. Ah yes…I'm old. Gah, another year wasted. I'm done ranting now. I hope you enjoy this. I actually like it for once.
The city's dark tonight and I'm treading softly through the damp alley, my boy equally silent on one side and Wesley moving jerkily on the other. I can't help but pity Wesley at times like these – when I see his hands shake and his jaw clench and he wants to say something to prove his worth, but there's no words to be said, only actions to be had. William, on the other hand, has nothing to prove. He's silent, stealthy; maybe a little too quick in his step, but he's light on his feet. He lacks patience and attentiveness and level-headedness, but he knows this. He doesn't care. That's why he doesn't need to prove anything.
Wesley stepped in a puddle, interrupting our silent journey with a loud splash.
We all stopped dead in our tracks, stared at eachother, and simultaneously glanced around the alley for impending danger.
It wasn't there.
"Terribly sorry," Wesley whispered. "Didn't see it."
William snorted, heaved a sigh, stomped a Doc loudly on the pavement, and reached into the fashionable, sophisticated-looking duster I had leant him for the evening. He took out a pack of cigarettes with a slender hand, encompassed one in his lips, and plucked it out. He then made a show of searching for his favorite lighter, getting frustrated over not being able to find it, and stomping his Docs with increasing vigor over every empty pocket.
"Where's me lighter?" he demanded loudly. Wesley attempted to shush him, but only caused my boy to speak in a raised voice. "Who in the bloody fuck has my lighter?" The bowler hat perched precariously on top of his bleached head threatened to fall off. "Oh yeah." He dipped his head then, letting the hat fall into his awaiting hands. With a pretty, impish smile he fished his lighter out and held it up for us to see. "Forgot it was on me head."
I smacked said head.
"Don't be so conspicuous," I hissed.
"There ain't nothin' in this alley, Sire. We're headin' to a club, 'member? There's no reason I shouldn't raise a fuss over a missing lighter," he mumbled, lighting his cigarette. He threw the hat at me. "An' I don't wanna wear this stupid bloody hat, either."
Of course he didn't want to wear the hat. The hat looked so very wrong on him. But Cordelia's vision had ventured us onto the likes of a jazz club and I had trouble picturing my boy's peroxide head intermingling with the jazz era swinger types. Wesley could get away with making an appearance simply by his nerdy exterior, leading the other occupants of the club to believe that he was simply there for "cool points" or intellectual intrigue. And me…well, I'm dark brooding, and mysterious. People tend not to question.
"You'll wear the hat," I told him, jamming it firmly on his head. "And you won't complain." He grumbled a series of explicatives at me, but I ignored him.
We made a right turn at the end of the alley finding the door to the well-hidden little club right at the corner. The sounds of laughter and chatter and pretty bass lines poured in a muffled haze out into the street and Wesley and I exchanged a nervous glance and a gulp, because this kind of human interaction wasn't my cup of tea and he…well, he had an inferiority complex.
William, however - my precious, brave little warrior - immediately went for the handle and charged in. Wesley scampered behind him and I brought up the rear.
"How ya doin', fellas?" the bartender called over with a friendly smile. It was musky and smoke-filled, cigarettes and cigars and cloves between the fingers of nearly every patron. On the small stage, backed up by a multitude of instruments, stood a rounded Caucasian woman, sweet tender notes flowing out of her dark red lips.
"Angel," Wesley said quietly, tugging on my arm. I snapped out of my reverie and joined him and my childe at the bar for a cold one.
A cold one?
"'S a nice place," William grinned, sucking on his cigarette. "I could grow to like it." He looked at the bartender and said, "I'll have a brandy, mate," setting the amiable man to work.
It certainly was a nice place, filled with alcohol and tobacco and good music and happy, carefree people. I hadn't been to a place like this in ages; a jubilant, cozy club where the drunks were drunk and those who weren't drunk would be soon. Waves and waves of nostalgia lapped over me and buried me and if I breathed, I would drown – the taverns back when I was a lad. That's what this was like. With the pretty women and the womanizing men and brawls…only without the brawls…and the pretty women…and everything else.
"What are we here for again?" I heard Wesley ask on my other side.
"Hey, guy, can I get you somethin'?"
I blinked, realizing the bartender was addressing me and replied, "Yeah…I'll have a Slow Comfortable Screw."
"Against The Wall?" he inquired.
"Nah, just the Slow Comfortable Screw."
I watched my boy take a sip of his brandy, listened to the ice cubes clink against the glass. He bent his head to side and twisted it around, effectively cracking his impressive neck – all tender and smooth and white and delicious…
"'M not your Slow Comfy Screw, Sire," he told me. "Stop lookin' at me with those lust-ridden poofter eyes of yours." But then he smiled as he took off his hat and laid it on the bar. Lit up another cigarette, took a drag, and handed it to me. "This should ease up that oral longing, Peaches." And I took it and smoked it, realizing minutes later that it was my first cigarette since the evil thing happened, but not really caring.
I heard Wes order a Dirty Martini and then I felt his hand on my shoulder and when I looked at him, he looked more comfortable than I'd ever seen him before. "This place is remarkable, isn't it?" he asked. "I mean, really…I don't know why we're here, but I'm glad we came."
"'S where everyone knows your name," William giggled, setting his chin on my shoulder and, after a moment, whipped out his wicked little tongue and licked my cheek. "Only no one knows anythin' about us."
"William," I scolded, wanting to turn away, but feeling myself resisting.
"Had some of your Slow Comfortable Screw on your cheek, Sire," he told me. "Had to help you with it."
"It's liquid."
"So's blood but you lick that off of me like there's no tomorrow."
"I didn't spill."
"Isn't no matter, Da," he mumbled, nuzzling his nose into my neck. "It's under your skin."
The band quieted down, silenced and stilled completely. The plump woman with dark red lips announced that Ella Fitzgerald was her hero and quiet beats from the percussionist started up. I watched, momentarily memorized, as she rhythmically snapped her fingers with the beat. Then the bassist joined in, plucking a few notes.
"This music," Wesley practically purred. "This music is intoxicating."
Never know how much I love you
Never know how much I care
When you put your arms around me
I get a fever that's so hard to bear
You give me fever
When you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
I felt William's teeth playing at my earlobe.
In the morning
Fever all through the night
Sun lights up the daytime
Moon lights up the night
I light up when you call my name
And you know I'm gonna treat you right
He crept like a feline into my awaiting lap.
You give me fever
When you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
Fever
In the morning
Fever all through the night
I nipped his neck with blunt teeth and felt his little body shudder in my arms.
Everybody's got the fever
That is something you all know
Fever isn't such a new thing
Fever started long ago
He ran his tongue over my closed eyes, scraped his face all along mine.
Romeo loved Juliet
Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her,
He said Julie, baby, you're my flame.
Thou givest fever
When we kisseth
Fever with thy flaming youth
Fever, I'm a fire
Fever, yay, I burn forsooth
He caught my lower lip in his mouth.
They give you fever
When you kiss them
Fever if you live, you learn
Fever, till you sizzle
"Er…fellas."
What a lovely way to burn
What a lovely way to burn
What a lovely way to burn
What a lovely way to burn
"ANGEL!"
With a yelp, my boy jumped off of my lap glancing around with wild blue eyes.
I looked at Wesley, who was looking at the stage with a most horrified expression on his face. I swiveled my head around to see all of the drunken patrons, sprawled and unconscious around the floor. The hefty songstress had sprouted horns and a tail.
"Huh?" was all I could say.
"Oi! Patsy Cline!" William shouted to the demon. "What's goin' on?"
"It's dinnertime," she rumbled back.
"Oh dear," Wesley said.
I looked to the still conscious, smiling bartender. "What the hell is this?"
He shrugged. "Can't really tell you, buddy. She does this about once a year. Keeps us in alcohol and entertainment for free, then eats the regulars we've acquired within the year."
"And…you're okay with this?"
"Business is business."
"Can't argue with that logic, Sire," William told me. "Evil is evil. And they do look kinda tasty." I gave him a hard look, and his gaze shifted to his feet. "I meant…eating people bad! We must put a stop to this…treachery!"
"You're damn right."
"You're such a bloody tightarse," he murmured, and the three of us – Wesley, William, and myself – leapt valiantly into battle.
Spike's POV
"Well, that was bleedin' fantastic," I groused, picking at a particularly nasty wound. "Who would've thought the chit would have bleedin' thorns growin' out of 'er tits?"
"I don't even want to know why you aimed for that area of her body," Wesley muttered beside me. "There were plenty of other areas for you to strike." He had a cut on his eyebrow and blood was gooshin' out of it and running into his eyes. Made it look like he was crying blood like in those shite vampire novels by Anne Rice.
"William, stop picking that," Peaches chided, swatting at my hand. "We'll clean it up when we get home."
"It's startin' to itch."
"That means it's healing," the watcher said matter-of-factly. "It won't heal if you keep at it like that."
"Bloody Hell."
"Stop. Scratching."
I gave my sire a withering look and purposefully picked at the bleeding gash just to grate his nerves.
"Stop it," he growled, snatching my hand away and holding onto it with a kind of strength that would cause a human's hand to break. "We're nearly home."
"It's my battle wound, I can scratch it if I want," I replied, quickly jerking my hand out of his only to have it recaptured.
"Stop acting like a spoiled little boy and do as I say." He interlaced his fingers with mine and dragged me forward. "Why do you enjoy testing me so?"
"You give me the fever, Sire."
He growled, swung me around, and lifted me into his arms before I could gain my footing.
"We're not going to speak of that song ever again."
"But it's such a lovely way to burn," I grinned, resting my chin on the top of his head so he couldn't see where he was going. "Fever when you're kissin' me, fever when you're holdin' me tight."
"William!"
"Spike!"
My grin widened. Percy must have been up to some mischief during that song as well.
"Fever in the morning…" He hefted me over his shoulder, and I hit his back in protest. "FEVER ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT."
"Oh for Heaven's sake, can't we just leave him in a puddle of urine somewhere?" Wesley asked.
"I'm tempted."
I quieted and sulked. Don't know why I hang out with these two poofs. Should drain the watcher and the cheerleader and leave my sire cryin' in his bed, but noooo. There's the fever. Stupid fever.
He didn't let me down until we got into the office and even then he just slid onto the couch and settled me onto his lap.
I felt his tongue lap at my wound, licking it clean and free of blood. Felt his lips press to my cheek.
"All better," he decided softly, gently shifting me onto the furniture so he could go and attend to the watcher's scrapes.
Bloody fever.
Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.
TBC…