Summer of Love

By gottarhyme

Part One

WOODSTOCK: 1969

The music rolled like distant thunder over the hills and the low thrum of conversation permeated the dew heavy night.

Spike paused and cupped his hand around the Zippo lighter, his eyes glinting in the sudden flare of light as the marijuana joint glowed to life, sending a faint curlicue of blue smoke into the crystal air.

He gazed at the tableau of human flesh laid out before him, soft bodies, in various forms of dress, or undress. The scene reminded him of the forbidden books that had been secreted away in the musty recesses of his father’s private library at Oxford, THE ILLUSTRATED DANTE’S INFERNO, a book that had contained hand coloured etchings of naked men and women, writhing in agony as they were pulled by demons into the fiery pits of Hell.

As a boy, he had spent many hours poring over the pictures, holding onto himself with guilty abandon, pulling on his poor todger until he came into his clean white hanky.

He smiled to himself. His Mum used to complain that he lost a fair quantity of hankies over a month.

That was over eighty years ago. He reached up and felt the bandanna knotted over his long brown curls. He doubted whether his Mum would approve of the uses he found for a clean hankie nowadays either. He took another long toke on the smoke, feeling the delicious tendrils of the drug work it’s way through his brain, relaxing him, and sharpening his senses all at once. Around him, the hills of Woodstock undulated with life.

There was an air of incredible tension, like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

The year was 1969. It was the “so called” ‘Summer of Love.’ Spike had come to Woodstock to see what all the fuss was about. After all, the song said to come, didn’t it?

If you are going to San Fransico,
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...

Drusilla, silly bint that she was, had taken that invitation literally. Her raven hair was bedecked in flowers. She looked like Ophelia after her ride downstream. Dressed in a filmy cheesecloth confection, she was as near too naked as she could be.

‘ Especially as it hadn’t stopped bleedin’ raining for nigh on three days.’ Spike thought bitterly as he inhaled deeply on the joint, feeling the buzz it offered, making his skin crawl with imagined warmth.

Not that he minded seeing the cloth caress her body like a second skin, but some of these doped up hippies liked to grab her and pile on for in an impromptu orgy of pink flesh and hair.

Usually he didn’t mind, especially as he was often treated to a free feed, but Drusilla appeared to be enjoying herself a little too much for his liking. Spike didn’t like sharing his woman with other blokes. He always made damn sure he killed them straight after. She would just pout at him, and scold him, as she had just now, small white hands on her naked hips, her breasts thrust at him like dark cherries surrounded by cream, looking like some ancient water sprite, with her long dark hair entangled with wild flowers, surveying the bloodied and tortured bodies at her feet with anger.

Then the bitter ranting would start. Spike had just shrugged and walked away. There was no use reasoning with her when she was like this. Better to let her cool down. He would find somewhere to crash by morning. He looked about him; there were small campervans and tents littering the hillside. Tiny fires dotted the landscape, sending macabre shadows stabbing into the dark. The low bass from the distant stage set up a vibration in his chest, and he closed his eyes for a moment to sway to the hypnotic feel of the beat.

“Wow” came a slow California drawl from somewhere at his feet. “You’re really out of it, man, or into it. Whatever…”

Spike looked down and saw something that almost made his dead heart skip a beat.
Staring up at him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Her red, curly hair framed her face like a bright flame. The light from the real thing paled into insignificance as it toyed with the shimmering mass sending glimmers of fire off her creamy skin. The sight of it sent a pang of longing straight to Spike’s cold centre.

He shook his head a little, and peered at her through his John Lennon glasses. She smiled blearily at him and reached up to grab at his hand, pulling him down beside her with an ungraceful bump.

He grinned widely, and handed her the joint, which she took, slipping it from his fingers and bringing it to her lush pink lips with a practised movement. She peered intently into his face, reaching up with one creamy finger to caress his cheekbone, as the smoke trailed in a lazy stream from her sweet mouth.

“You’re pretty.” She announced. “Wanna fuck?”

Spike slipped the joint from her slender fingers and raised it to his lips, drawing deeply, making the embers glow brightly, and his mind race with the sudden turn of events.

“Sure Pet…” He answered finally. “You got somewhere in mind? Don’t fancy ruttin’ in the mud like an animal.”

‘This will teach Dru a lesson’ He thought.

‘Got myself digs for the night, and a willin’ bed-warmer. See how she likes it.’

Red just smiled sweetly at him, taking his hand again, and pulling him to his feet.

She was smaller than him, delicate as Dresden porcelain, fragile and perfect as a seashell. On closer inspection, her eyes were the colour of green glass.

He felt himself responding to her, his faded blue denims becoming increasingly uncomfortable as he trailed along behind her, watching the ripe little bum move beneath her long Indian skirt in front of him.

“Down mate.” He growled at his growing erection.

“Plenty of time.”

Weaving through the piles of drugged and mellow human beings was awakening more than Spike’s carnal appetites at this point, and he cursed himself silently for not feeding as fully as he should have on Drusilla’s horny suitors. At the time he was in a jealous rage, and the sickening thud and crunch of splintering vertebra had alleviated some of his pain, but he had a habit of rushing into things without thinking, and he was paying the price now.

He tugged gently on Red’s arm. She turned to face him.

“It’s not much farther, I got a van…”

He silenced her with a kiss, crushing her to his chest, entangling his hands in that glorious mane of shimmering copper.

She tasted like life, sweet and smoky and real, and he ached then to have all of her. She stiffened a little at his initial assault, and then melted into the hard planes of his chest, deepening the kiss, tracing the blunt ivory of his teeth, devouring him, as he wanted to devour her. It was all he could do to force the demon down, and even then, a little of it made it to his eyes, making them flash gold in the moonlight.

As they broke apart, Spike drew ragged unnecessary breaths into his lungs, and stared at her open mouthed as a smattering of clapping and good-humoured laughter erupted around them.

“Fuck” He thought.

“This is new.”


PART 2. Psychedelic Electric Cool Aide

Spike was still reeling from the intensity of the kiss, and the feelings it stirred within him to move too far from the spot he found himself rooted to. He didn’t quite understand it. Marijuana had never affected him to this extent before. As if echoing his thoughts, Red voiced them aloud.

“Man, that’s strong shit you have there. You feel that?”

Spike wasn’t sure if she was referring to the drugs or to his personal mojo, and he didn’t pause to comment on it, instead grasping her fingers within his and resting her hand over the bulge in his jeans.

“See how hot you make me baby? I don’t know whether to just fuck you or eat you all up..”

She stumbled back from him, laughing and pulling him with her.

“Come-on, Pretty man, the van is over here. You can tell me what you want then.”

Spike followed her gaze, tearing his eyes reluctantly from her iridescent form.

The V.W van was painted with a myriad of psychedelic colours, messages of love and peace. He was momentarily taken aback, a dull ache of longing settled deep within the chill recesses of his heart. An overwhelming sense of loss swept over him and settled over him like a pall.

Red looked intently into his eyes. Eyes the colour of the forbidden depths of a mysterious sea gazed at eyes the colour of blue unfathomable sky, and in that moment, understanding passed between them. All traces of gaiety left her soul, as she stared into the emptiness of his existence. She wanted to weep for him, but instead, she led him gently to the van, pulling him within the brightly coloured doors, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, taking him within her world over the rainbow.

Inside the van it was warm, and close. She leaned across him to snatch a book of matches from a shelf near a curtained window, and lit a low candle, throwing light into the enclosure. Spike looked around him, noting that the ceiling of the van was painted with a vision of the clear night sky, while the walls depicted pastoral scenes of unicorns and lions. Spike experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as he swept his eyes over the painstakingly painted scenes, then shook it off, settling comfortably back into a pile of velvet cushions, beckoning her to lie with him, along his cool length.

She reached across him again, grabbing a small wooden matchbox decorated with purple silk and beads, opening it reverently and holding it in front of his face as if it was precious.

He peered into it.

“What’s this, then, Pet?”

She said nothing, merely smiling, but dipped a dainty finger into the box to show him a small white pill held there by little more than air. She placed it on her tongue, closing her eyes for a minute, the fair lashes brushing her cheeks like a pale gold butterfly, as she slowly and reverently sucked her finger before her eyes fluttered open and she replaced the finger in the box holding it out to him again with the same solemn reverence.

He felt like he was in church, and his hard-on had returned again with a vengeance. Just watching her slowly pull her finger from her mouth had done that to him. He couldn’t remember wanting a woman so much before. He wondered if she was some kind of witch, before his cock, mindless thing that it was, answered him.

“ I don’t care.”

He opened his mouth, closing his eyes and waited for her gentle touch on his tongue as she administered the drug. A line from Romeo and Juliet rattled around in his subconscious.

“Apothecary, thy drugs are quick..”

He opened his eyes to see her reaching up to remove his glasses.

“You don’t need these, pretty man.” She murmured, and he nodded, allowing her to unhook the gold-rimmed frames from behind his ears. His limbs felt liquid as she melted into him against the soft cushions. He felt the demon within him recede into the very pit of his sub-conscious, curl up and sleep, as intense emotion came to the forefront of his mind, and the tears started streaming down his face, silent, salty and wet, as the drug coursed through his body.

The light exploded behind his eyes, pure and green, like her eyes. He felt her hands caressing him lightly under his T-shirt, as she leant over him, her whole face filling his vision until the green of her orbs merged into one big green pool of ocean.

The Demon within him felt smothered under the tide of emotion, as the better angels of his nature took hold of him, and he reached up with a hungry mouth to kiss the beautiful woman who hovered just out of reach, her breasts taunting him with their ripe fullness.

He felt deft hands on the buttons of his Levis, and he shimmied his hips to allow her better access, hearing her delighted murmur as the hard length of him sprang free. He allowed his hands to wander over the soft feminine ripeness of her curves, bunching her skirt around her waist, and plunging his fingers into her hot, wet centre, finding her swollen and juicy with need for him. She smiled into his mouth, and then began the slow, languorous torture down his chest. His fingers slipped out of her, as he watched her descent, fascinated.

She trailed silken kisses down his belly, and he groaned at the feel of her hot, moist mouth on his abdomen. She grasped his balls and rolled them gently in her hand, then wound her fingers around the base of his cock, lowering her lips gently to the pink tip, rolling the foreskin back, and gently kissing the pre-cum from the slit.

He clutched at the pillows, green light swirling in his mind, and it seemed as if his heart began to beat, his blood to pump. She licked down the length of him, and he growled deep within his chest. She took him in her mouth, as far as she could go, licking, and tasting him, using the deftness of her tongue like an extension of her hand.

It was pleasure, it was exquisite torture, and he cried out from the sheer joy of it, knowing that he would spend soon if she continued. He grasped a handful of her fiery hair and tugged gently, raising her from her ministrations, calling her with a silent plea to his mouth, where he kissed her deeply, while simultaneously plunging into her hot core and flipping her over onto her back. She laughed, a heavenly sound that found it’s way into the very centre of his being, and he found his rhythm, swirling his narrow hips in a slow and languorous fashion, making love to her. She gazed up at him, wrapping her thighs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, hooking her dainty feet around his back. He groaned with pleasure, sinking into her, tasting the salty tang of her collarbone beneath his tongue. It was better than blood.

He almost felt like a man.


Part Three: Wild Rush

Afterwards, they lay naked together in the warm cocoon of the van. It was as if they were the only two people in the world, Spike thought idly, as he trailed a soft hand up and down the pale perfection of her back. His head floated somewhere above his body, and he felt peaceful, as if he was a boy again, wrapped in the childhood memory of a feather comforter, safe and protected. A little voice protested that the feelings and peace he felt weren’t real, but he squashed the voice.

The woman he cradled like a precious jewel in his arms was the only real thing for him in this time, in this place. Drusilla, and his weary existence, the constant search for an end to the boredom, and the constant search for approval were swept away in a tide of overwhelming love.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love.
Love.
Love is all you need.

The logical part of him argued that it was the drugs, the dull ache in his chest that travelled up to his throat to form a lump there threatened to erupt in a strangled sob.

He closed his eyes, the lashes already damp with tears, pretty and black like a girl’s they lay like a coal smudge on his glacial cheeks. He was lost for words for once. It wasn’t as if the sex was particularly brilliant. It was nice, of course. All sex was good. Spike was an extremely sexual animal. He liked to fuck. Hell, he LOVED to fuck. But this wasn’t just fucking, was it?

What is it then, you stupid git? And why haven’t you ripped her throat out yet?

She nestled closer under his chin, and he opened his eyes to gaze at her creamy perfection. She was all soft and lambent in his arms, and he suddenly realised where he had seen her likeness before. Titian’s “Reclining Venus,” in Venice Italy.

He and Drusilla had been in Italy during the early sixties, and he remembered fondly the little coffee houses with their Fellini-esque coolness, and stylish ambience. Drusilla and he had infiltrated the beat culture and while they had hunted together he had also secretly thrilled at the simple poetry of the times.

The Minimalist life had suited him, he had really enjoyed the existentialist discussions wrought and fought over a cappuccino. Drusilla had never really thrilled to his forays into any conversation deeper than violence or sex, or the questionable writings of the Marquis De Sade, of whom she was a devotee.

But he had enjoyed Italy. Most nights, in the hours before dawn, he would leave Dru, naked and satiated, bleeding and torn as she desired to be, for he would never hurt her unless she asked him to, and she asked often.

In those hours, as she slumbered, murmuring in her sleep about the heavens crying in the wilderness, he would go, stealthy as a cat, dressed in black, slim and shadowy, and explore the city, savouring in secret, the art, the beauty and the forbidden wickedness of a civilisation that had been crumbling into decadence for over two thousand years.

Venice was a shiny apple rotten at the core. Spike, warrior that he was, could smell the rotting corpses from a hundred battles in his mind’s eye. The city brought the forbidden poet out of hiding, and he ruminated on the ballads he wrote in his mind in secret.

Because the Poet was supposed to be dead wasn’t he?

Only, he wasn’t. Poncy git.

No matter how much blood was on his hands, no matter how many virgins he deflowered, no matter how many pretty boys he kissed the bloody poncy poet lived.

At his heart, he still retained the flicker of light that allowed him to appreciate love and beauty. And Venice made his lover's heart sing for joy.

He remembered sneaking into the Art gallery, to admire the works of art that remained a dream, unseen when he was alive, and too timid to travel far from Oxford. He had been what his mother called, ‘A man of Letters’ which was a polite way of saying that he had no need to work, being independently wealthy. But he was a stupid ponce in hindsight.

He had never wandered too far from home when he was alive.

It meant that he would never see Venice, not in the way she was meant to be seen, with that amazing golden light the Artists and Poets painted and wrote sonnets about. So he did the next best thing. He dressed like a thief, and went to gawk like a bloody tourist at painted sunlight.

His favourite was Venus, of course. She was like a perfect Goddess, a study in ivory and red. Now he understood where the term ‘titian hair’ came from. It spilled over her perfect breasts, as the light from the Venetian sky bathed all in the essence of gold, rich as blood. She gazed coyly out at him with that secretive womanly invitation, and he fell in love. A sense of desolation for everything he had lost in the filthy alley where his beautiful Drusilla had devoured him whole swept over him, and although he was drawn to the painting night after night, he would sob unshed tears that eat into him, bitter as gall, that he could find no expression for what he had lost.

The poet in him craved for the missing piece of him that would never be a part of him again.

The piece that fit. The spark.

I know I’m a bad poet, but I’m a good man.

His inner voice answered him, sneering, laughing.

Now you will be a bad poet, and a bad man, for eternity.

He looked down at the embodiment of all his secret desires to turn back time and be at peace, finally, from the thoughts that plagued him when he wasn’t drunk, or stoned and the Demon inside him laughed, knowing that it’s time was at hand.


Part Four: Out. For. A. Walk. Bitch.

Spike felt the colours of the rainbow and smelled the river that had taken residence above him in the sky. The beast within him crawled forth, sniffing like a predator at the food laid before him like so much meat.

The green light that had taken residence in his head intensified, and it shivered along his body. He felt suddenly hot, cold and terribly hungry all at once. When the roaring in his ears had stopped, he opened his eyes, gulping as saliva threatened to spill forth and dribble down his chin.

She shivered in her drug-induced euphoria at the sudden tenseness in the air, like a doe, conscious of the danger, but unsure and unaware of its peril.

His eyes shone like twin gold coins as he placed his mouth over the blue pulsing vein of her throat. There was nothing soft about him now. Inside the man screamed as the beast rode him.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

He whispered the litany into the marble column of her neck.

Then she did something that shocked the fuck right out of him.

She grabbed his dick, while disengaging him from her throat, and staring steadily into his eyes, she turned from Spike’s poetic wet dream, to horny harlot, with a twist of her body.

She spread her thighs wide, and he stared amazed, through a miasma of bloodlust and green tinged with red and gold, as he watched his length disappear into her secret depths.

He knew that his demon face was in place, but what she did next made him bite his tongue near clean through.

She kissed him.

“You are the Devil. I’m fuckin’ the Devil man.”

Spike grinned, but the effect came out as an evil leer, what with a mouth full of fangs.

The Demon rejoiced, and Spike bucked his hips up to meet her slow rocking, smearing the blood from his bitten tongue over her breasts with grasping, bruising fingers, marring and marking the translucent flesh with a macabre parody of her titian hair.

“You like fucking the Devil, Pet?” He growled, and was greeted with her clear green glass stare.

“Yeah.” She murmured as she leaned down to suck at the flat puckered surface of his nipple,

“I love it.”

Spike groaned with the imminent arrival of his release, thrusting blood-slickened fingers down through her pale nest of curls, and rubbing the ripe pink nubbin, that was impaled on his shaft. She shivered into his chest, biting heavily onto his nipple, drawing blood, and with a scream that drowned out the final strains of a Jimmi Hendrix solo, he reared up, striking at her neck like a cobra, and rode the tide of two orgasms joined in an unstoppable wave of demonic energy, drugs and green sunshine.

Part Five: Come on people. Love one another!

Come on people now,
Smile on your brother,
Everybody get together,
Gotta love one another,
Right now.

Shit.

What time is it?

Spike’s brain felt like it was packed in cotton wool.

“Where the fuck am I?” He thought.

He moved an arm, resting it in his belly.

“Still here, mate.” He thought, scratching idly at his curls with his other hand. Then he trailed his fingers lower to assure himself that the favourite part of his anatomy was still in one piece. It was. He gave it an affectionate caress.

The night came back to him in little flashes of green, and he sat up suddenly, hearing a voice quite close, low and masculine.

He cracked his head on the low ceiling.

“Ow! FUCK!” He yelled.

The voice abruptly stopped. Then he heard someone slide open the door of the Kombi, and a hippy with a purple tie-dye T, long, greasy blonde hair and a droopy moustache peered in at him.

“Hey man.” The hippy drawled. “Miranda said you was in here, said you was sleepin’ off a bad trip, man. You awake now?”

Spike glared at the blank face of the skinny idiot asking him bloody stupid and obvious questions.

Now he remembered.

“Yeah.” He answered. Attempting to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, on account of the Jimmi Hendrix guitar riff playing over and over in his head.

“Where is Red? I mean, Miranda.”

He winced. The guitar had been joined by someone singing now.

Janice Joplin was screeching in his skull. And it looked like she was tap dancing in green tap shoes in front of his eyes.

He shook his head to clear the image.

Through the door of the van, he could see the night outside.

He must have passed out for the day. What was that stuff?

He remembered very little of the previous night, flashes here and there, but the image of sex and Red riding him as he sank his teeth into her was a vivid one, and his cock rose obligingly at the memory.

“Whoa man.” The tie-dye hippy whispered, hungry eyes devouring Spike’s considerable charms.

“Need help with that? Cause I could..”

He ended the sentence with a strangled gasp, as Spike reached for his throat and dragged him into the van.

“Yeah. You can help.” He forced the boy’s face into his crotch.

“Suck on that.”

It was Spike’s turn to gasp, as the door slid shut with a bang and the boy enveloped him to the root, his whispy moustache tickling his belly as he knelt worshipfully at the altar of Spike’s cock.

He had obviously done this before.

The boy’s hot mouth sucked him, as a talented tongue licked around the sensitive head, teasing, caressing.

Usually, Spike always woke with a hard on. If Drusilla were awake, he would slip into her icy depths, and sometimes if she wasn’t, he would anyway.

Most times, he would bring himself off. It had become a ritual with him. Wake up. Wank off.

To have a human give him head, was a rare treat. And Spike was going to savour it all.

He thrust into the slavering mouth, causing the boy to gag a little. Hippyboy looked up at him, his eyes pleading, subservient.

Spike reached down under him, releasing the obedient bulge contained in the boy’s denims, unbuttoned the flies and tugging the penis loose, preceded to milk it, gently sliding his hand over the silky length of it.

The boy made a muffled, MUUUUMF sound, and closed his eyes, momentarily breaking his rhythm.

Spike brought his hand to his mouth, licking it, covering it with spittle, then reached down to the boy again. At this stage, the kid’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

With a leer, Spike rode his hand down the circumcised length of the greasy youth, and gently inserted a finger into his anus, without once breaking the rhythm of his hips.

The hippy’s eyes flew open, and he bucked beneath Spikes firm grasp on his balls, and impaled himself further on the writhing digit in his arse.

Spike felt the boy’s hand reach up between his legs, trace delicately between the peritoneum and Spike’s ballsack, then slip a moistened finger into Spike’s own hole.

“JESUSFUCKCHRIST!”

Now they were joined. The area in the Kombi didn’t seem big enough to hold their wild thrashings. Spike felt the boy shove another finger into his arse, then all of a sudden, he lost all sense of time, space and place, as he began to come, and the boy nearly bit down on him as the semen flooded his mouth and Spike jerked uncontrollably like a marionette, writhing with pleasure against the frantic movements of the boy’s slim fingers up his bum, and the pleasure of the warm mouth wrapped around his cock.

It was times like these when he wondered why he bothered to fuck women.

As if on cue, the boy began to spend as well, gulping down great mouthfuls of Spike, and splattering both of them with his white jism.

Spike slipped his fingers from the boy’s arse, giving him a gentle pat on his exposed thigh. The Hippy fell bonelessly to the side, leaning against the wall of the van, his eyes glazed and smoky with sex, his face slick with Spike’s spendings.

“Oh, Man. That was..”

“Amazing. Yeah..” Spike fumbled around under himself and drew a packet of crushed Marlboros from the pocket of his leather biker jacket.

He reached over to the matches he knew Miranda kept near the window, hoping that the indoor rugger match hadn’t knocked them out of reach.

His Zippo had disappeared somewhere. He would find it later.

Right now, he was more interested in something else. First thing after a good wank, or a fuck, after waking up, he always craved a bit of the ruby red.

“What?” said the boy, noting Spike staring at him intently.

The kid smiled reaching out to trail a finger over Spike’s lip, teasing the plump bottom of it with a thumb and forefinger.

“You wanna kiss? ‘Cause we can do that too man. Hell. I’d do anything for you.”

Spike smiled, his eyes flashed gold, and he covered the short distance shutting the boy’s scream off with his hand, and then ripping the scream from his throat forever.

The demon and the man were fed.

“Ta, mate.” Spike whispered, kissing the boy’s dead lips.

“I love a good snog.”


Part Six: Guilty Pleasures

Spike crawled around the van on his hands and knees looking for his discarded clothes.

He pulled the black T-shirt over his head, and then extracted his jeans out from under the body of his victim. The cigarette dangled from his bottom lip, as he pulled the leather jacket over his shoulders with practised grace, dragged his fingers through the sleeves, and then through his tangled gold brown curls, and finally pulling his biker boots over his socks.

He leaned back against the cushions, and contemplated the body with its pants around its ankles, staring sightlessly at a point above his head.

“Don’t look at me like that love.” He smiled past his cigarette, reaching forward to close the boy’s eyes with a soft finger.

“You were a good lad. Too bad I was hungry though.”

Spike shrugged, then reached forward to dress the boy decently. He had to get him out of here, and dump the body somewhere.

Drusilla was probably going spare by now. He really should get back to her.

He looked at the boy again, and then made a decision.

“Right then, pet. Alley-oop!”

He tied his red bandanna around the boy’s neck to hide the fact that his throat was gone, and lifted him over his shoulder. If any nosy parker asked, he’d explain the boy was doped up. Over the years he had become an expert at covering his murders.

Angelus had taught him well. He blew smoke out between his teeth and with a shove and a grunt opened the van door, hefting the body through the opening, and in the process coming face to face with Miranda.

“Uh, Red. Hi.” He fumbled awkwardly.

Miranda narrowed her eyes and looked at the slumped form of the body that had pooled bonelessly at her feet. Spike ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture that always made Drusilla giggle, and looked at her from under his brows, not quite daring to meet her green stare.

“What the Hell happened to Rick?” she whispered kneeling down to touch the boy.

Spike regained his composure, and knelt down as well, touching her arm gently.

“He went nuts when he saw me in the van, Pet.” He said, hoping that Miranda would accept the lie; he looked sideways to see if she was buying it. When she didn’t comment, he continued:

“Absolutely out of his fuckin’ tree he was. Off his trolley! Started attackin’ me. It was all I could do to defend myself! Whatever he was on, it made him act like Captain Marvel! I think he might have had a brain blow-out..”

Miranda looked at him, and he felt as if he was under a microscope.

She exhaled heavily.

“ I only met him yesterday. He seemed really cool.”

Spike relaxed. She was buying it.

“Well, love.” He soothed. “Some buggers can’t handle it. He was on a bad trip.”

She nodded weakly.

“I know.” She said. “Last night I thought I was having sex with the devil.”

There was a sliver of uncertainty in her voice and she wrapped her arms about her pretty body and stood up. Spike patted her awkwardly, and then joked,

“Yeah, well. The ladies call me a demon in the sack love.”

She looked at him then, her gaze undressed more than his physical being. It was as if she was looking for the metaphysical essence of him. He looked away. Something in her gaze unnerved him.

KILLHERKILLHERKILLHERKILLHER

His demon screamed in his head. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight.

When he opened them again, she was still there looking at him.

“Do you have to go?” She asked

He gestured down at Rick. “Got a little job to take care of here love.”

She nodded. “There’s a place we can put him.”

Spike marvelled at this bird. She could turn on a dime.

“Yeah? Where’s that, Pet?”

She motioned for him to follow her. In the distance he saw a small stand of trees. She headed for them, and he hoisted Rick’s body over his shoulder, and followed her retreating form.

On the way back to the van, they shared a companionable silence. Spike took the time to get his bearings.

“SHIT! This place stinks!” He thought.

After three days, the lovely fresh field was a mess off muck and mire. The rain, combined with the nature loving hippy freaks, had turned the place into a true Dante’s Inferno. It reminded Spike of far worse than that. His sensitive vampire senses could smell more than human shit and piss. He could smell rot, and death.

Some of these kids were loving themselves to death. Over indulged, high on anything they could get, the shit they put into their bodies was nothing compared to the rot that had set up residence within them.

In some of their eyes he saw hopelessness, and as he looked, he wanted put some of them out of their misery. Their blood was literally begging for him to take it. Dull eyes met his.
A couple of people reached out for him as he passed.

“Hey man. Got any Mary Jane? Got any smack? I’ll give you my woman for a drag of your smoke..”

Spike had growled at that one, and let his eyes flash yellow. Miranda had moved closer to him, and had shyly weaved her fingers around his.

He looked down at her with that spark of wonder that had plagued him since he first set eyes on her.
“What are you?” He asked her.

In answer, she smiled.

“What do you want me to be?”

His last thought as he wrapped her in his arms was:

“Drusilla’s gonna kill me. Again”

Then he knew nothing but the feel of her hot mouth on his.


Part Seven: Renaissance man.

He wanted to give her something.

The LSD was colouring his vision again, as they lay beneath the stars, clothed in little else but each other.

The rain had cleared leaving the summer night warm and humid in her wake, all around them the sounds of lovemaking filled the sky with the ebb and wash of a sea tide.

They lay on a soft blanket; ‘far from the madding crowd’ She was his Bathsheba. The poetry had spilled over from the secret recesses of his being, and he was quoting Lord Byron’s beautiful ode to her:

“She walks in beauty,
Like the night,
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and light,
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..”

She tilted up her lips to capture his, and silenced him with her mouth, dipping her tongue in to taste him.

He returned the kiss, bringing a hand up to stroke her titian tresses.

“So beautiful..” He murmured into her mouth, as the dull ache of longing settled like a stone over his heart.

Earlier she had undressed him, with the careful ministrations of a virgin viewing a man’s nakedness for the first time.

“I want to see you..”

She had whispered, unmindful of the seething mass of mud spattered and filthy humanity undulating around them. They were alone in their private universe.

He had let her undress him, the drug quickening in his blood, the music from the distant stage thrumming deep in his chest, giving him the semblance of a beat and the illusion of life.

Standing there, his hands at his sides, while she covered him with kisses.

He let her love him.

He wanted to love her.

He felt at peace as he let the feeling wash over him. How long had it been since he felt like this?

Don’t you want somebody to love?
Don’t you need somebody to love?
Don’t you want somebody to love…

The music had infiltrated him. Jefferson Bloody Airplane had performed some kind of mojo, he was sure of it. But somehow, he couldn’t seem to find it in him to care.

Miranda had covered him in her green light. He could almost get what this was all about, Woodstock, brotherly love, peace man, and all that shit.

He wondered how Drusilla was faring.

Uh Oh.

“SHIT!”

Spike bolted upright, tearing himself from Miranda’s embrace. She flopped to one side, her expression surprised and hurt at the sudden movement as he scrabbled once more for his boots and jeans.

“What’s wrong baby?” She wheedled, holding her hand out to him,
“Come back down here, you.”

Spike sucked in some unnecessary breaths as he dressed.

“Sorry Baby.” He explained as he snapped the buttons of his Levis shut,

“ Something I gotta see to. Bloody Hell! Where is my other boot?”

He hopped on one white foot looking for his boot. Someone tossed it to him from a short distance away.

“Here man,” a disembodied voice drawled with a trace of amusement,

“Careful where you throw your gear next time. I don’t wanna be drowning in footwear as well as mud.”

A few low laughs followed the comment, and Spike glared in the general direction, before muttering ‘thanks’ under his breath.

Miranda was standing now, and she was slipping a floral blouse over her head. She didn’t bother with a bra. The blouse was see-through, and Spike paused, licking his lips.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then.” She murmured softly, without looking at him.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and watched her quietly as she pulled her skirt over her hips, then knelt to pick up the blanket they had shared.

“I mean you obviously got a girl somewhere, Pretty man.” She continued.

He nodded, but was unsure whether she had seen it.

“Her name’s Drusilla.” He offered.

But he felt as if it was little consolation to her, and WHY THE FUCK did he care anyway? Why didn’t he just turn her? Make her his? Or kill her. He had tasted her blood; it was like nectar, salty sweet, like her.

‘You know why, ponce.’ His demon whispered.

‘Drusilla would tear her to shreds.’

Miranda looked at him sadly.

‘Fuck woman, don’t look at me like that!’

His heart was breaking in two. He could feel it.

“Listen Pet. Wanna give you something to remember me by.” His voice came out a little more strangled than he intended.

She looked into his eyes. Now it was his turn to break contact. He looked at something fascinating beyond her shoulder.

“Meet me at the van, two hours time.”

He walked over to her and tilted her face up to his. He kissed her gently, the merest brush of lips, then he hugged her to him, before turning and stalking off into the night.

She stared after him, and he could feel her gaze sending a message of love and longing that reached out and followed him until she could no longer see him.

He didn’t want her to see the tears pouring down his face.


Part Eight: One, two, three, what are we fighting for?

And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn!
Next stop is Vietnam!

People were chanting the songs of a new revolution. The air was electric with anticipation. Peace, Love, Joy.

Spike felt nothing as he walked blindly, his shoulders and general demeanour a study in abject misery.

His hands were jammed deep in his pockets, and he paused occasionally to sniff, to taste the air. He could hunt a scent for miles through a London pea souper; he could find his darling Dru at the bottom of a well covered in blood if he had to.

The black car was axel deep in the mud. Spike grinned appreciatively.

A Desoto! Bloody beauty of a car! He knew without seeing, that Drusilla was in the car. The unmistakeable scent of her, bitter almonds and lemon, permeated the area.

Her very own potent pheromones.

He hesitated before opening the passenger side door.

Drusilla was within; naked, curled tightly in a ball, and Spike’s worst fears were confirmed when he saw the doll clutched protectively to her chest. She was muttering under her breath, her face a rictus grin as she rocked, not seeing, not hearing, unconscious of anything but the inner demons she battled every day.

Spike’s heart hurt to see her. Despite everything, he loved her. Probably always would. She was his Black Goddess, his ripe, wicked plum. And he had left her alone.

Bloody prat!

He made a mental note to place this memory where he could access it again readily, whenever his dick threatened to get the better of his common sense.

“Hey there love,” He whispered, approaching her slowly as you would a nervous mare, holding a hand out for her to sniff.

“Spike’s back, Pet. Shhh”

She registered his presence, clutching his hand, and pressing it to her lips kissing and licking it, whimpering like an animal, as her large eyes filled with tears.

“Spoike..” she sobbed. Her voice barely a whisper.

She held her thin white arms out to him, and he crawled into the back seat with her, and closed the door with a bang. The sudden silence was deafening.

Neither of them breathed. Spike rubbed her arms gently and kissed her eyes with feather light kisses.

“I’m sorry, Baby.” He soothed.

She let out a strangled cry. “You went away!”

He caressed her, making little soothing noises in his throat. He frowned when he felt the tracks of needles down her arms, and glared at where purple bruises marred her clean white skin.

She had been deliberately hurting herself.

Drugs and Drusilla were like oil and water. They never mixed well. He remembered that she had become somewhat addicted to absinthe in the 1900’s in London, and what followed had damn near nearly got them both killed. She had promised him that she would try to be good, and with his help, she had.

It had been over sixty years for Chrissakes!

He fought to keep his anger under control. Stupid! Stupid! He had failed her. He had hurt his Drusilla. He had hurt his Princess. He hugged her tighter to his chest, gently prising the doll from her cool fingers.

She shivered under his touch, and he felt himself responding to her need like bloody Pavlov’s dog.

“It’s OK Baby.” He soothed, leaning down to nuzzle at the delicious juncture of her legs,

“I’m here, and I’m gonna make it all better.” He flicked his tongue over her clit, making her shiver.

She gasped, scrabbling at his long brown curls with her deft little hands, pushing his nose into the fragrant bouquet of her pussy, and her juices flooded his mouth, tasting of bitter almonds, salt and lemon.

He closed his eyes, sucking and nibbling at the delicious familiarity of it.

Her hunger for him was endless, voracious, and eternal. She loved him, had marked him as her own, and she intended to keep him, love him. She OWNED him.

Spike stared into the mystery of his woman and found himself completely in her thrall.

‘I’m Love’s bitch’ He thought, and an image of Miranda’s sad green-eyed gaze invaded his mind, as Drusilla began to scream in pleasure, over and over, her juices flowing down his chin in a slick torrent.

Her nails dug deep red rents into his back as she rucked his T-shirt over his shoulder blades.

And all he could think was that he had made her happy again.


Part Nine: For Every Season Turn Turn Turn

Spike was searching the area for Drusilla’s discarded apparel. He found most of it scattered over a wide area around the car, and he held the remnants of the thin cloth dress in his hand, as he gathered her sandals from near the cooling embers of a fire and the shattered remains of an acoustic guitar.

People were starting to gather their belongings, and the rain was again misting over the scene, as fires hissed and the droplets fell sending steam spirals up into the air.

Drusilla was suddenly at his side, wraith-like, lightly touching the scratches on his back, as if she wondered where they had come from. She held his smokes in her hand like a present, and he smiled softly at her as she held them out to him, slipping one from the packet, and placing it between his lips.

“Ta love.” He murmured, genuine warmth in his eyes as he looked at her. And in that moment, they forgave each other.

Drusilla smiled brightly as he fumbled in his pocket for his lighter.

SHITFUCKDAMN.

He took the cigarette out from between his lips and crushed it in his fist with frustration.

Drusilla reacted to the change of expression on his face, even though he hadn’t actually said anything.

“She owns a piece of you, my Spoike.” She whispered sadly, shaking her head as the smile ran away from her face.

He looked at her. She could always see what was in his mind; years of knowing him had made his every expression and thought an open book to her. She had crawled into the place where his soul used to be, and had plucked away at him until she could take him apart and piece him back together with her eyes squeezed shut.

“Yes, she does at that, pet.” And off her suspicious look, he explained,

“My lighter. I have had that for a good while now love. Silly bint must have pocketed it off me for a souvenir.” He kept his face perfectly neutral.

Drusilla nodded slowly, her fingers whispering over the cuts in his back. She couldn’t detect any lie in his voice, and yet…

Her nails raked lightly over his back, and the recently made wounds stung like paper cuts wherever she touched him, but he didn’t flinch, instead lowering his mouth to hers in a feather light kiss.

“I’ll hurry back. I promise, “ He soothed, thrusting her clothing into her hands.

“Wait with the car, Pet. This won’t take long at all.”

And flashing a grin at her, he turned on his heel, and ran off into the misty night.

Drusilla stood there, for a long time, like a marble statue, and then she blinked slowly, and walked back to the coffin like confinement of the DeSoto.

She knew he would come back to her. He always did.

Spike made a detour to the Harley Davidson motorbike that he and Drusilla had killed the owner for a few days previously, when they had arrived.

He hoped to Hell it was where he had left it, their worldly goods were stashed in the leather saddlebags, and he needed to retrieve something from his meagre belongings…

Ah. There it was! The bike was resting on it’s side in a ditch, and Spike had taken great pains to conceal it’s form from prying eyes by covering it with a mixture of garbage and tree branches. To the casual observer the bike looked like a pile of refuse, but Spike and Dru had always intended to return for it, unless something better had come along. The body beneath the bike was another matter. The Hippies had apparently sensed something was wrong in the rubbish pile as well, because they had given it a wide berth, the stink had ripened in the August summer air and repeated lashings of rain followed by humid heat had hastened decomposition.

Spike tasted the air as the smell of dead animal assaulted his keen vampire sense of smell. He sniffed in disgust, then shrugged, setting his shoulders to the to the task of uncovering the bike.

His body gleamed palely with a sheen of rain as he worked.

He looked like an otherworldly being, which in a sense, he was. Perfect and sculpted, the muscles in his stomach rippled as he bent to the task of shifting the rubbish from his prize.

He reached down, and with a final grunt, lifted the last branch clear.

A slight breeze ruffled his hair, as he stared down into the ditch. The Harley was perfect.

A work of bloody art. Seemed like such a pity to leave her here, but they had the DeSoto, now, and he would have to live with leaving this beautiful beast behind. Besides, Dru couldn’t drive, let alone ride a bike, and he knew in his bones that she might get spooked by the sound of a bike, and the feel of powerful engine under her might make her skittish enough to leap off at the wrong moment. And the car made more sense anyways.

Less likelihood of being combustible in a car, if the dawn caught them unawares. He reached out one pale hand to run it sensuously over the gleaming chrome of the exhaust pipe.

“Sorry baby, gonna have to leave you here.” He murmured, then his eyes flicked to the leather saddlebags.

He leaned over, and unclipped the straps, pulling the bags free with a slight creak of leather on metal.

He threw them to one side, and covered the bike and it’s owner once more. Spike spared a thought for the fellow, a former Hell’s Angel who was probably in the real place toasting his toes right about now, and said a silent thanks to him for the leather jacket that was now in his possession.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, and stepped back from the bloke’s final resting place.

“I don’t know how you feel about it, mate.” He addressed the corpse, “But if it was me, I could think of worse things to have coverin’ my dust than a Harley.”

He stooped to pick up the saddle bags, throwing them over his bare shoulder, then walked in the direction of Miranda’s van, hoping to all that was unholy that she was still there waiting for him.

Part Ten: How many roads can a man walk down, before you can call him a man?

‘Beautiful voice, that one’,

The high clear soprano permeated the fetid stink of the air, pure and light as a breeze.

The answer my friend,
Is blowing in the wind,
The answer is blowing in the wind.

Spike thought it was odd that there would be anyone on that stage singing such a desolate tune this late in the night, until he realised it wasn’t the voice of Joan Baez, but the clear high voice of a young girl strumming a guitar for the swaying and appreciative audience gathered around her. His eyes met the eyes of the pretty young flowerchild, her straight blond hair hanging limply in the rain, wearing ought else but a smile, but wrapped in a mantle of love so thick Spike could almost taste it.

For one frozen moment, her eyes met his across the seething masses, and he felt as if she had seen into his heart. Then the moment passed, and Spike stumbled back, feeling as if he had been hit with a wooden stake.

He shouldered his burden once more, and then ploughed through the cloying humanity, his goal clear in his mind.

“Miranda.”

She turned at her name, and the smile she gave him threatened to disarm him completely, he felt his knees collapse under him as instantly she was in his arms, her clever hands unbuttoning his jeans, and her tongue half way down his throat.

He groaned into her neck as he pushed her back into the van, kissing her all over, stumbling and smiling, hands roaming over her smooth white skin. Underneath her skirts she was naked.

“Not enough, not enough” He murmured, clutching at her body, as if he wanted to melt into her.

“Closer, I need to be inside you…” He begged.

She lay against the cushions and spread her legs wide, bending her knees, and obligingly, she pulled him down to her with insistent ferocity, nimble fingers freeing him from his jeans, and he took her then, in one swift stroke, sighing and laughing into her open mouth.

Her hips rose to meet his, and he ground his pubic bone into her curls, causing her to gasp and sigh on each downstroke of his slender hips.

It was beautiful, it was terrible, and it was agony and ecstasy, and Oh! How he wanted it, how he wanted her, wanted to make her his possession with an eternal kiss, preserve all this mysterious love and poetry forever, finally own something, someone.

Come on baby light my fire,
Come on baby light my fire,
Tryin’ to set the night on fire,
The time for hesitation’s through,
No time to wallow in the mire,
Darlin’ we could only lose,
And our love become a funeral pyre…

The tune on her radio combined with his lovemaking and he poured his every beautiful expression left to the meagre hollowed out shell that he had become. His dick, his lips, his tongue, all served to worship at the temple of lost love. Miranda became his holy chalice; he sipped from her, but held himself in check, lest he devour her totally with his longing.

She gazed up at him, her eyes smoky with want, and wonder. Finally he pressed his forehead to hers, drinking in the sight of her eyes at close range, until they merged to become one big green pool, pulling him under their spell to drown him in the cool secret depths of her desire.

They moved together, no need for language, no need for expression, in a rhythm that had been a dance since the first man and woman had joined in just this way, thousands of years ago.

Spike felt her tense beneath him, her muscles clenching and unclenching around him, as she pulled his face closer to her mouth, smashing her lips against his, muffling her cries as she came, tossing her head so that her silken hair shimmered like red streaked starlight.

He stiffened a little as her juices warmed his cock, dribbling sticky and thick on to his thighs, and then his vision flashed as he started to come himself. She held on to him, riding the beast of his orgasm.

He screamed her name as his eyes turned gold, and the ridges of his demon appeared with a roar.

She didn’t react, just pulled him closer to her, so that his fangs scraped against her neck, and his nose was pressed into the tantalising scent of her carotid artery, pulsing like a vibrator under her warm skin.

“Do it.” She whispered.

Spike fought the demon within him, his fangs had already pierced her throat, and the sweet coppery tang of her was caressing his tongue like ambrosia.

It took every ounce of his control to pull from the good place and look into her beautiful eyes with his yellow demon ones.

His cock softened within her, and he slipped out and away from her, their combined juices drizzling the blankets.

“No, love.” He said carefully, his voice a low growl, his beast still screaming for her.

“You don’t want that. S’not worth it. You don’t want to be dead.”

He had never felt less than happy with what he was, a vampire, Lord and master of his domain, top of the food chain, but she had made him want more, this sad and beautiful girl, with her hopeless devotion to him, and her sea green eyes, windows to her soul.

She merely looked at him, unafraid, her sweet hand tracing the horrible disfigurement of his face. His yellow eyes threatened to fill with tears, and he turned his face away, gently removing her gentle caress from the distorted ridges.

“You’re not dead.” She said, her voice a bare whisper.

“ I know what you really are. You can make me like you.”

Jesus! She loved him then, this Goddess, this Titian masterpiece, his own moving work of art. She saw inside him, and loved him, beast and man. He looked into her eyes in wonder, and his features slipped back into his handsome human visage.

“ I can’t,” He said softly. “There’s reasons, good reasons, Pet. Believe me.”

God! The way she was looking at him! He had to get this over with, and get back to Drusilla.

He pulled his jeans on, and reached around for the saddlebags. She watched his every move, big, fat tears leaking out of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, silent and sad.

He fumbled around in the bag, withdrawing the object he sought, and held it out to her. She reached out and took it, her touch tentative, her fingertips grasping the silky thing between thumb and forefinger.

She smiled a little then, through her tears, an expression he found incredibly endearing.

He wished he could kiss away the salt of those tears, and taste them in her mouth.

“It’s groovy.” She said.

“What is it?” She sniffed, laughing as she turned the round, black silk object over in her hands.

He snatched it back off her, laughing.

“Well, I thought it was bleedin’ obvious.” He said as he popped the object open with a flourish.

“It’s a hat!”

He flipped the top hat over in his hands like a magician, and then placed it reverently on her head.

“You look a picture in it, Pet.” He grinned at her.

She smiled at him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her nose a little red as she sniffed.

He had to admit she looked pretty, his old top hat perched on her copper hair, naked as nature intended, like the Venus of his dreams.

“I don’t have much.” He said, “But the things I have, are precious to me. This old hat has been a part of me for a good long while.”

She was looking at him solemnly.

“It’s yours, so I will always take care of it.” She pronounced.

She reached across to the curtained window at the side of the van, and held her hand out, across her fingers, laid the familiar silver lighter.

He took it from her gently, then knelt to kiss her palm, lingering over the pulse, breathing in the sweet scent of her one last time.

He opened the door behind him, slipping like a cat into the familiar and never ending night of his unlife.

“Goodbye, Love.”

She raised her fingers in the sign of hope.

“Peace, Pretty man.” She said.

As he backed away from the van, she called out to him one final time, her delicate hands resting on her naked hips, the old top hat from his first set of evening clothes perched jauntily on her titian hair.

“Hey. Can you at least tell me your name?”

He hesitated, and then smiled, blowing her a kiss.

“William.”

Then he disappeared from her sight, and her life, forever.

He could smell the dawn approaching as he jogged back to the DeSoto, a lot of the people who had gathered here at this place and time had gone home, and Spike thought it was as if a great battle had been fought on Bethel Green, New York.

For three days people had come and shared brotherly love in a great event called Woodstock, and for some reason Spike felt he would remember it for years to come.

He opened the door of the DeSoto to find Drusilla calm and waiting for him, the windows carefully shaded with towels and scraps of cloth, in preparation for the coming dawn.

He suddenly felt terribly tired.

Drusilla held her arms out to him, and then cradled his head on the familiar cool rise of her bosom.

“Did you find the missing piece, pretty Spoike?” She crooned, stroking his hair, and lifting stray tendrils from his forehead and tucking them behind his ears.

In answer, he held his lighter aloft for her to see, finally lowering his arm with a sigh.

“I smell her blood.” Drusilla continued, “Did you eat her all up, my love?”

“Yeah, Pet. She’s gone.”

Drusilla’s eyes narrowed, and she kissed him gently on his hair.

“You’re mine Spike.”

“All yours Pet,” He agreed, closing his eyes and shivering closer to her.

“You’re my Dark Prince, and I am your Princess.”

“Mmmmmm”

The last thing he saw in his inner mind was her sad green eyes seared like an after burn behind his lids, then Drusilla kissed him, and he knew no more but her possessive touch.


Epilogue

SUNNYDALE 2002

Buffy pushed against the screen door with her elbow, two steaming mugs of tea and the sugar bowl balanced precariously in her small hands.

Spike leapt up with eager grace, holding the door open, then watched as she settled herself on the familiar stair of the back porch of her home.

She knelt, placing her mug next to her knee, then held his brightly coloured novelty mug out to him.

“Very funny, Pet, “ He remarked as he took it from her hand, and smiled a little as his fingers brushed hers.

“DIP ME IN HONEY, AND THROW ME TO THE LESBIANS.”

He gave her a trademark withering glance.

“Yeah, well,” She smiled back. “It belongs to Willow.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she became suddenly very interested in the contents of her own mug.

He reached across her grabbing the sugar bowl, his leather creaking in protest.

Buffy started as his arm brushed her breast, then watched with an ‘EEWWW’ expression fixed on her features as he heaped six teaspoons of sugar in the mug, and stirred the concoction with a deliberate and practised hand.

“Well. Could be worse, Slayer” He reasoned.

“ Could be blood in the mug.” He laughed easily at his own joke.

“ Blood and sugar. Yuck. Don’t ever want to go there.” She nudged him in the ribs, her manner casual and, um very disturbing in a really confusing way.

He laughed again, and then the silence stretched between them, tense and taught as a bowstring.

‘A pretty thing this is’ He thought,

‘ The Slayer joking around with me like this, and making me tea.’

He looked at her evenly, an amused glint in his eyes, sipping his tea and looking at her, waiting for her to speak. After all, he had just told her something about himself that he had kept deep within him for over thirty years.

She had asked him about where he had been during the sixties, and he had told her the story of Woodstock, thinking it would impress her. He hadn’t said too much about Miranda, only that he had met a beautiful flowerchild, and had spent a day or two watching his hand move after he had fed off a hippy. He omitted the carnage of the horny suitors, and the gratuitous sex and violence with all the hallmarks of a bad Roman Polanski film, but apart from that, he had pretty much stuck to the general thread of the Spike and Drusilla experience.

Didn’t want her to think he was a complete Ponce, did he?

“So.” She said eventually, breaking the silence.

He waited while she cleared her throat.

“What you just told me, it’s all true? You were there?”

He took another sip of his tea, warming his mouth, wishing he could kiss her.

“Yeah Pet. It was groovy.”

She gave him the patented Summers ‘you are such a dickwad’ look.

How did she manage that? Completely disarm all his carefully constructed tough guy armour, and make him feel like a teenager with a large and prominent pimple on his face?

He turned his attention back to the tea.

Fascinating stuff, tea. Made in Ceylon.

She spoke again.

Speak again bright Angel!

“And the redhead. You didn’t ‘vamp’ her?”

She wrapped her hands around her mug, and peered at him over the rim, she had inched a little closer, and he could feel her thigh pressing against him, warm and bloody uncomfortable. It was all he could do not to throw caution to the wind and take hold of her, plunder her mouth with kisses and…

“Spike!”

“What now? Oh! The redhead. No Slayer, I didn’t ‘vamp’ her. Didn’t kill her either. Contrary to one’s opinion, sometimes I just like to fuck a woman, and leave her replete with pleasant memories.”

“ ‘Sides,” He continued,

“She looked a picture in my old hat, her red hair tumblin’ down to her hips, all naked and soft in the moonlight.”

“Yay!” said Buffy, “Goody for you. No murder at Woodstock then.”

“Di’nt say that, Pet.”

Buffy glared at him.

‘When’ He thought, ‘Will I learn to keep my big trap shut?’

She had moved away from him, the cosy closeness was gone.

He chose not to defend himself, reminding her instead of what he really was.

“ Big scary vampire here, Pet.”

“I know.” She said quietly. “It’s just sometimes I forget.”

He decided to take a chance, and tentatively put his arm around her shoulder. She tensed a little, but didn’t hit him or try to stake him, so he was encouraged.

He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her, sunshine and vanilla.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and for once, he really meant what he said, and the funny thing was, he didn’t know whether he was saying it to Miranda, Buffy or Drusilla.

The cold heavy stone of longing had settled over his heart again, and this time, he didn’t think he would have the strength to walk away.

~Fin~