Chapter Seven
"We have to do it, Spike. We have to make sure everyone's safe whilst blending in - a parade of people wandering around the streets at night on to top of a hellmouth? It's just asking for trouble," Xander said wearily, running a hand through his hair. Four hours ago, this conversation had been hilarious. Amusing. Bemusing. Other words for The Funny. But now? Well, anything lost it's shiny coating after discussing (read: screamingyellingbloodymuder) about it for four hours straight. The night they'd kissedmauledtore at each other was a week ago, and neither had menioned it since then, choosing to avoid each other except for the occasional dig and scornful glance. Well. Until the current fiasco.
Spike took a deep, unnecessary breath and steadied himself.
"Get it through your thick skull, Harris. I'm not going to wear that sodding dress for anybody," he ground out, each word said with more venom than the last. Yeah, four hours ago, Xander was laughing at that exact look of horror, disgust and the artful touch of indignation. However, there was only so many times you could hear the word 'dress' with an obscenity prefacing it before you wanted to go and attempt an easier task. Like bashing through a brick wall with a toothbrush, for instance.
"The drag queens are the only ones allowed all access passes to all the floats, which is what we need. This is sort of necessary - the Boss wouldn't ask us to do it otherwise," he said slowly, reasonably, nodding towards the fuchsia dress and acrid green feather boa lying on the couch.
"Us?" Spike hissed, "Me, you mean! Why can't you be the one to wear that fucking thing?" he asked, looking close to spitting in fury. Xander moved his coffee out of spitting distance and pushed his chair back a little - with Spike, one could never be too careful.
"Because a)I make a really ugly woman,"
"Make an ugly man too, but that doesn't bloody stop you," Spike muttered.
"... b)If there is demon trouble, you're the better fighter of the two of us,"
"Too right, nancy boy,"
"... and c)I can't walk in heels, whereas, you can. And notice I'm pointedly not asking about that," Xander said, hint of glee - sure this was tiring after four continuous hours, but you know ... Spike in drag? Always a rather cheery prospect. "Besides - that colour would look better on you," he said, nodding to the cheap satin ball-gown. Spike gave him a look so black, Xander had to fight the urge to get out of the way. Once a boy of the hellmouth, always a boy of the ... Spike was smiling and oh God, why was Spike smiling?
"You ever seen Rupert's photo albums, Xander?" he asked suddenly, honey sweet voice, tilt of his head and Xander knew something bad was about to happen. "I have. Maybe I should call him - get some makeup tips and such. He would know - there's more than one picture of him traipsing about in a red corset and fishnets in there," he said sincerely, ring of absolute truth to his tone as he watched Xander's left eye twitch.
"Bullshit," he said, pleaded, near begged because now Spike had destroyed the already sullied, grimy mental image of his tweed-clad mentor. Spike grinned. Didn't reply. He stood, gave the dress one more disdainful glance before sweeping out the door.
As Xander poured himself a drink, he concentrated on spelling out the names of various demons, on the prices of hideous lamps on the Shopping Channel and on reciting every phone number he knew in various tones of desperation. He didn't think about fishnet stockings or deep red lipstick laced with spit smeared across his collar bone.
Spike was wearing a dress.
Xander should have known something terrible would ensue - the event was an unmistakable sign of Bad. But hadn't. Known, that is. He hadn't known something bad was going to happen, hadn't had an inkling, hadn't been able to think what with the fact that Spike was wearing a dress. And it wasn't the fuschia ballgown, either.
He stood out in the crowd of garish colours, of men in warped depictions of femininity, of constant neon buzzing movement. No wig, just his own hair dyed silver as he stood with his eyebrow cocked, a black velvet gown not dissimilar to something Drusilla would wear, clinging to every muscle of his body. A metal hoop in his eyebrow glinted in the dim light cast from the windows of the club behind them and another curled around his bottom lip. Xander was horrified, laughing, unable to hide the suspicious bulge in his jeans.
Spike was wearing a dress.
"No boobs?" he managed to say, a gesture to the general area. Spike narrowed his eyes.
"No boobs," he confirmed, pulling at the sleeves of the dress, gothic points and Medieval beauty. Giles and his corset be damned - the vision in front of him was going to take months to get over.
"Where are you hiding the stake?" he asked, rhetorical question because he probably didn't want to know the answer. "Your lipstick is ..." no mockery as he leant forwards, lifted his hand to fix the slight smudge of silver on Spike's skin. Eyes framed in thick coal black blinked back at him, an animal backed into the corner, primal energy Xander would never understand pulsing, beckoning ...
Xander caught himself, snatched his hand back and reminded himself of who he was. The moment was over and the world around them seemed to wake up, to start moving again.
"You realise you said the day you wore a 'sodding dress' would be the day you'd promise to write all the progress reports," he said, words sharp and plastic in the air, unnatural.
"I said 'that sodding dress'. Not wearing that disgusting thing, am I? Where did you get that dress anyway - the wardrobe of an over the hill whore? You didn't tell me you paid your mother a visit," Spike replied, words turned to mist in the cold of Pittsburgh and dissolved inches away from Xander's mouth. It was freaky how no more mist followed - Spike didn't need to draw breath, didn't need to exhale it. He was alien, and had never looked more the part.
"Keep going, Spike. Make my night. After all, I'm the one with a camera and no incentive not to use it," Xander replied, more words to come, designed to be hurled in anger only he wasn't quite angry. Which was strange in itself.
"Take as many pictures as you like, pet. I look better in this than you do on your best day," he replied, slick sarcasm and dangerous flex of his jaw. Xander took pity on him, handed him a packet of cigarettes he'd picked up on his way out. Spike snatched them without so much as a grunted 'thanks' and muttered something about how he wasn't getting paid enough.
"Love the shoes," Xander added, raised eyebrow when he glanced at the leather beetle-crushers that poked out from beneath teh dress - Spike looked like a walking contradiction.
"You look fucking amazing!" Debbie's voice rode over Spike's reply and his expression rippled, changed into the suitable mask as he turned to face the woman decorated in so many gay rights badges Xander wondered how she could withstand the wieght.
"Thanks luv," he said, smile that didn't look entirely forced. "Thought I'd show these old slappers and tarts how it's done," he added, nodding towards the men with powdered faces and blue wigs clamber undaintily from the floats and into the surging crowds gathered around them, men and women dancing and kissing, laughing, living.
"Baby, you blew them out of the water!" Debbie squealed, motherly affection as she patted Spike's cheek, "Though I'm sure that's not all you're gonna blow," she added, glancing at Xander with a knowing look and a wink that made him want to hide. "Last year you would have had some serious competition - my son, Mikey? Most beautiful fucking queer in the city when he dons the dress," she gushed, more motherly affection and Xander wasn't sure what to say.
"'Course he was. Your kid, isn't he?" Spike said with a winning smile, all charm and sincerity that Xander never had, could only emulate on occasion.
Xander comforted himself by patting his pocket, feeling the heavy weight of the camera there. Oh yeah. He was going to need double prints of Spike's Drag Queen Adventure.
Little did he know that two short hours later, the camera would be the last thing on his mind.