The Symphony Hall

Pre-Bebop, pre-Julia. Twenty-year-olds (changed the age) Spike and Vicious are low-time gang members for a group called the Red Dragons, but when an opportunity makes itself clear, their lives are changed. Rated R for cussing and adult situations.

Notices: Changed their age. Be warned, this chapter is more Vicious-centric… (I think this whole fic is going to be, actually…)

Radishface

~ 2 ~

"Get down!" Vicious yelled as a hail of bullets rained over his head, loading his gun with one hand and holding a knife in his mouth.

Spike was crouched in the alleyway of one other building, cradling his right hand, which was covered in blood. "Since when did Wolfiekins have so many enemies?" He shouted good naturedly, over the gunfire. "It wasn't like this last time!"

Vicious found himself laughing to himself, but the distraction made him lose the gun in his hand as it was shot out by some anonymous gang member to the opposite side of the street. The one lamp in the street was broken, so the light went on and off like an ambivalent firefly. "Shit," he muttered to himself, taking the throwing knife out of his mouth.

A gunshot unexplainably close to him, and Vicious found himself catching a heavy load as a body fell into his arms. Glancing quizzically over at where Spike was, he found the other giving him a wry thumbs-up, a smirk on his face, then pointing to his gun.

He turned the body over and glanced at the empty eyes, the spluttering countenance, and spit on the dead face. Vicious wrenched the gun out of the limp hands and set to searching the pockets for ammunition, grimacing as he wiped his hands on the man's coat. It was an expert gunshot to the neck, as Spike would have delivered any day.

The distant whining of police sirens gave him a start, and he turned to look at Spike, who had already stood up and was preparing to sprint. Suddenly the gunshots ceased and there was more chaos as he and Spike ran down one way and the other gang members ran the opposite way.

"Water Leopards?" Spike muttered as he shoved the gun in his pocket, and Vicious nodded.

"I thought we scared them off last week."

"Fucking bastards are homo masochists, that's all."

When they reached the rendezvous, Spike gave a sigh and slumped against the wall, lighting a cigarette and determinedly shoving it into his mouth. Vicious did the same.

"You got hit?" The silver-haired man laughed, staring at Spike's bloodied sleeve. "Fucking pathetic."

"It caught me off guard." Spike shrugged, masking the pain. "You were caught off guard too, you know. That's why I sent the asshole your direction."

Vicious didn't let him see the gratitude in his eyes, looking down at the ground. "You have anything to wrap it with?"

Spike mustered enough energy for a huff of laughter. "Do I look like I carry a first-aid kit with me, birthday boy?" His intake of breath sounded pained and he instinctively clutched at his arm. "Fuck."

Vicious spat out the cigarette and ground it under his heel, reluctantly letting a worried tone filter through his voice. "When is he going to show up, sending us all the way here to face a bunch of motherfucking assholes along the way, he's a motherfucker himself."

A laugh from Spike's direction made Vicious turn his head. "Want to go home?"

Vicious tried not to let his eyes wander down to Spike's arm, tried to show himself as unconcerned with the situation at hand. "A can of beer, a whore, and a bed sound pretty appetizing right now, yeah. If you call that home."

"Well, you won't have to wait too long, unless Wolfe decides to lecture us today."

Vicious shrugged. "We can't help that."

They stood in silence for a while, Spike clutching at his arm and fusing a pained smirk on his face, Vicious keeping his expression aloof. A few minutes later, a black vehicle pulled up into the parking lot and a tall, gangly excuse for a man climbed out of the driver's seat, pulling up the collar on his turtleneck and he made his way to them.

"So nice to see you two." He said in a honeyed voice, obviously amused. "I'm very proud. Only the two of you taking out the entire Water Leopards gang in less than fifteen minutes."

"It was the police sirens that chased them away." Spike gritted out, moving his bad arm into the shadows so that Wolf couldn't see. "You shouldn't try to flatter us-- they're just a bunch of fucking cowards."

"You couldn't have guessed." Wolfe raised an eyebrow and made his way over to Spike and grasped his arm, pulling it into the light, where he could see. He shook his head. "We can't take you to the hospital, you know. They'll be all over asking you how you got a bullet in your arm. Besides, you dress like a gangster."

"Probably because I am one." Spike retorted, a reluctant smile on his face.

"But if you didn't have those clothes on, you'd look like an angel, a complete innocent."

Spike raised an amused eyebrow and pulled his arm back, inspecting it, and Vicious cast Wolfe a sardonic smile. "Since when did you resort to overused pick-up lines to get what you wanted?" He shot, and watched as the gang leader's face settled into a look of restrained annoyance. He'd probably interrupted their little moment, hadn't he. "Spike's a regular whore already. How many different colors of hair are on your pillow, Spike?"

Wolfe gave Vicious an interested look. "You would know this?"

Vicious scoffed. "Took a shower there today myself."

The gang leader smiled and turned to Spike, but his words were aimed at Vicious. "Are there silver-white hairs on your bed too, Spike?"

The injured man gave both of them mock-annoyed looks. "Of course not." He cradled his bleeding arm, oblivious to Wolfe's innocently concerned gaze. "You and I both know that Vicious doesn't have that... sort of leaning. Persuasion." He gave a smug grin. "Whatever gentle, unabashed name you want to give it."

Vicious stared hard at the ground. "Of course not," he repeated himself, but his voice wasn't as resolute as it was before. "Fucking no."

Wolfe didn't catch his words, thankfully, didn't catch the tone of it, that would have brought him humiliation to absolutely no end. "Well, if you'd like, Spike, you could come with me and I could take care of that arm of yours. Unless, of course, Vicious..." He glanced over at the silver-haired man. "Unless you have the necessary provisions?"

Vicious scowled, grinding his heel into the ground. Bastard knew that he didn't have the 'necessary provisions.' Let me take care of the medical situations. He had once said. I'm the one with the doctorate, the medical degree. Bastard knew the place he called his 'home' was an empty apartment with closets filled with weed and GHB and crystal and guns and bombs and redeye, little cash he had hidden away under what looked like a mattress.

But he never slept in his apartment, always stayed up all night with Spike in tow, cruising at bars, in the alleyways. Slept during the day, here and there, on subway trains, on park benches, in Spike's apartment, on Spike's couch, on Spike's bed.

Only once, though, did he sleep in Spike's bed. It wasn't that they were drunk or anything and they did that thing and regretted it the next morning, nothing like that. Vicious had O.D.'d himself on redeye and was suffering the aftershocks of the temporary edge it gave him. Spike practically had to carry him away from the alley where maybe twenty opposing gang members lay dead or bleeding, and Vicious was still kicking their dead bodies around in the air. Spike never used the redeye. Spike was always looking out for him, making sure hat at least one of them was still sober enough to get back home.

But those were the killing situations, that was in gang time. Afterwards, when they had day off, at night, always, it would be Spike getting drunk and Vicious having to drive them back. Vicious didn't like alcohol. Unlike redeye, it muddled the senses, not enhanced them. He couldn't afford to lose control. Who knew what he might do, might have done.

"Oh, he has a first-aid kit." Spike grinned at him, through his pain, and Vicious glanced up sharply, first looking at Spike with some bewilderment, then at Wolfe who was looking very, very pissed off. Fucker wanted a lay, fucker didn't get his lay.

"He does, does he." Wolfe said disapprovingly, clicking his tongue. Spike gave him a winning smile.

"Vicious is a fucking Boy Scout. Always knows his safety procedures, and he's always prepared." He grinned at Vicious, and Vicious stared at his arm.

Got a bottle of lube right in my pocket just in case I decide I can't wait to bang a whore when I get home and do it on an alley wall instead, Vicious thought, eyebrows knitting. Bottle of lube there just in case I fucking turn into a homo and decide I want to get some up the ass. Girls don't need lube. Whores are already wet enough when they want to be. It's like a mechanism.

"Surprising." Wolfe smiled disarmingly, and Vicious glared back.

"So are you going to tell us why we're here?" Vicious tried to keep the sneer out of his voice. "Or was it that you're still mustering the courage to ask Spike out on a date?"

Amber eyes gave him a quizzical, slightly angry look, but Wolfe didn't look put out at all.

"No, I'm just here to tell you that there's a new gang in town, that we have to take them out."

"And you couldn't have just called us?" Vicious shook his head. "Or did you miss his pretty face?" He didn't need to say whose.

"Technology, boys." Wolfe chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "There's a lot to be said about bugs. I'm afraid I let one of them into my house and they bugged my phone."

"So use a pay phone, then." Vicious snapped. "I'm sure you can afford a phone card, unless you've spent all your money on rent boys."

"Renting doesn't come cheap, that's true." Wolfe smiled, showing teeth. "But they've got an operator, hackers, the works. All online, twenty-four hours a day. They don't go to sleep."

"And how are we supposed to, as you say, 'take them out?'" Vicious scoffed. "They don't seem like the kind of street gangsters we're used to dealing to, the dipshits we're used to shooting."

"The syndicate you're talking about is the kind of syndicate that has the money, the make-believe business building, and the hot bitches in the slinky red dresses that hang onto the boss's arm when he goes out." Spike shook his head. "You know we don't have the resources to tackle those."

"You forget your place, Wolfe." Vicious spat out. "We're just street fuckers. We do small drug trade, we do little things, we kill people that the world won't miss."

"And those kind of syndicates we're talking about have international drug trade, they commit big crimes behind the backs of people who wouldn't matter less." Wolfe said. "Of course, you would know this, Vicious." He grinned charmingly. "You're descended from one of those sorts of syndicates yourself. Too bad you couldn't live up to your father's expectations? You can't even take over five spurts of redeye before you pass out, and you think you're--"

"I think that's fucking awesome." Spike interrupted, eyes completely emotionless as they stared at the gang leader. "But you were saying?"

Vicious was seeing red without the help of any redeye. It was sort of funny, actually. Look at the world swirl in front of him. Look at Wolfe's face split in two. It was like he was drunk.

"We've got the backing we need to rise to syndicate-level, boys." Wolfe said in a swaggering tone, as if he were chewing on a cigar. "Shady Chinese business men agreed to sponsor us to get rid of these fuckers. Straight from socialist Asia and we've got ourselves a bunch of corrupt old men who can advance us."

"We can trust them?" Vicious said. "You're going too fast. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Doesn't matter if we can trust them or not." Wolfe replied, looking out at the city lights. "If they switch loyalties on us, we'll do the same. They're just rich old men. We're the ones with the experience."

Wolfe didn't usually say things like that, Vicious thought, and stared at the gangly figure out of the corner of his eye. He was acting irrational. Stupid 'rich old men' could hire gunmen, the bastards. "What's in it for you?"

Their leader had the decency to look surprised. "Why, I told you they were socialists, didn't I? It's a big gain for everybody." His voice had a syrupy quality to it now. "Our little obscure street-gang called the Red Dragons will advance to a syndicate reputation and we'll advance in the world. I'll get my power, the rich old men will be rid of their opponents, you'll be wearing Italian suits, Vicious, and my dear Spike will have all the slinky red-clad ladies he wants."

Spike grinned. "Sounds like a beautiful proposition. There are still faults, I'll guarantee that."

"We'll take the risk." Wolfe said, and turned around, walked back to his car. "Do you need a ride? If I remember correctly, you came here on foot. I hope you aren't too exhausted." Such consideration, Vicious thought. It was so considerate you wouldn't have even thought of asking that at the beginning of their conversation.

"Our car was shot down by the stoplight." He said flatly, grey eyes peering up at Wolfe's arrogant face.

"It was a piece of shit, anyway." Spike added. "Jacked it from some old lady down the street. She had a heart attack two weeks ago, she won't be missing it."

~

They were dropped off at Spike's apartment, and Spike graciously refused all offers for Wolfe to come in and assist him. They barely made it to the front door before Spike collapsed in a heap. Vicious immediately picked him up and slung his arm around his shoulder, searching Spike's pocket for a key and jamming it in the lock, hastily kicking the door open and nearly falling over once they got inside.

"You bitch." He found himself saying as he removed Spike's jacket, his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. "You should have said something back there. I could have used a break from all of that shit coming out of Wolfe's mouth."

"Yeah." Spike said drowsily, nodding his head, but it was a motion caused more by the lack of blood rather than agreement. "But he would have done the same thing you're doing." His voice slurred, and Vicious looked up, brow furrowed.

"You want me to stop?" He said, his voice barely audible, barely controlled. "Can you take care of this yourself? I'll go. I'll go and let you bleed to death."

"No, no." Spike said, still in a state of blissful, barely-there oblivion. "I didn't... didn't mean it like that. Don't get pissed off, Vicious, don't get..." He stopped to take a breath, and Vicious gripped the material of his jacket, hands squeezing the cloth until they turned white.

"I'm not pissed at you." He found himself saying, a wave of calm washing over him. "You're just an idiot, that's all. Who knows how much blood you've lost." He continued with the buttons, and managed to slip the shirt off, grimacing at the amount of blood on the sleeve.

"Just meant..." Spike tried again. "Just meant that he would have taken my shirt off, like you're doing, and then he would have jumped me." He laughed, and Vicious glanced up again.

"Would you have let him?" He asked quietly, and knew that now wasn't the time, wasn't the place, but he wanted to ask. Let him ask.

"I wouldn't have done anything to stop him, would I?" Spike said, his voice not more than a murmur. "I wouldn't have liked it. But you would have stopped him, you would have told him to..." he shuddered. "... to fuck off."

"Yeah." Vicious whispered, watching Spike's eyes close in the dark. "Yeah, I would have."

~

How was that? ^^;; Too weird? Too cliché? Open to all suggestions, please C&C!

As for the next chapter… I dunno. More about Vicious's life. Remember how Wolfe mentioned something about his dad being a big-time syndicate member? And of course, more slash. Hopefully.