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doyleTitle: Turn On, Tune In, Vamp Out
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Spike/Dru
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For the Fanged Four Ficathon for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyoneill who wanted: 'They're in San Francisco during the Summer of Love, feeding on drugged out hippies, happiness'. There's a tiny bit of angst. But not much. It's mostly plotless and silly. Any historical errors are my bad.
"The colours," Spike said, reaching up towards the light - which wasn't just a lightbulb, it was a blazing sun and the entire universe, and it might have been God as well - and then he was so distracted by the back of his hand that he forgot whatever profound thing he was about to say. The bed seemed to ripple as Drusilla dropped onto the mattress beside him, undulating like ocean waves.
He wasn't aware that he was sharing all this aloud until she pressed a finger to his lips, curling into his side.
"Shhh," she crooned, nipping at his ear. "Is my boy flying?"
He was. So was she, so was the bed, so was the cooling body of the girl whose blood had tasted like dark chocolate and smoke. All of them flying through the window and out over the park, the streets, the bridge, and spinning off into the moon.
Spike fucking loved this decade.
**
His head felt like there was a marching band parading through it. He wanted to sleep it off, spend the day huddled beneath blankets with Dru, but by the afternoon she was restless and he reluctantly rolled out of bed. Standing up was a bit tricky, but he got it on the third go. Once he'd got the hang of that, walking was child's play.
He made sure to stay within grabbing distance of the banister, just in case.
Dru trotted ahead of him down the stairs, singing bits and pieces of songs they'd heard in the park the night before, mixed with songs he'd heard her sing for the past eighty years and ones he was sure she'd made up on the spot. At the open door into the living room she stopped, calling back "I've found a surprise!"
Remembering her last surprise, he took the last few steps with caution, and when he reached her side he sighed.
There was a dead hippie on his floor.
Drusilla clapped her hands, as if this was some lovely and unexpected present, and knelt beside him. The beads around his neck were caked with blood. She had them off him in a trice.
Head throbbing, Spike gazed stonily down at the dead man. Thirty-ish, dark brown hair to his shoulders, noticeably large forehead…
"Penn!" he shouted at the ceiling.
**
"I was going to clean it up," Penn said, after he'd dumped the body in the kitchen. He was leafing through the newspaper, probably looking for something new about his kills to add to the little shrine of clippings that he didn't think anybody knew about. At least he'd never be that pathetic, Spike thought, stuffing away the memory of drunkenly trying to recite his poetry to Ginsberg.
Having Penn around reminded him of old summers when he was human, getting lumbered with some cousin come to stay from the country and his mum anxiously prodding them into being friends. Well, Dru didn't seem to care whether they were the best of chums or mortal enemies, but she'd always got on with Penn, and Spike was prepared to be only semi-hostile to their house guest for her sake.
If the wanker kept dragging home men who looked like Angelus's mellower twins, though, he'd have to have a hasty rethink on that front.
The downside of feeding from spaced-out flower children - besides the hangover and the possibility that he'd done something very stupid or embarrassing the night before - was the restlessness. Hours and hours till sunset and he wanted to do something, because he'd read all the books in the house and if he had to listen to the snip of those scissors for another five minutes he was going to ram them up Penn's ass. He fancied some food, too, and he couldn't make the run to Quasar or Tracy's till the sun went down.
The drums inside his head started up again. He gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to his temple. It wasn't until Penn paused and looked up, frowning at the interruption, that he realized it was the neighbour's bongos again. And he had nothing on hand to throw.
"Going upstairs," he said, shoving to his feet and giving the beanbag chair a swift kick just for being there.
He took the stairs two at a time. The house was Victorian; run down, wood-framed, and too big for the three of them, it had been a commune before they'd moved in. Drusilla loved the place, said it was full of confusion. Their first night here, after he'd swallowed a couple of the little yellow pills he'd found in a kitchen drawer and spent a good four hours chatting with Pitt the Younger and an opinionated bear, Spike had seen her point.
She wasn't in their bedroom. "Dru?" he called, pushing open the next door down. She was having a tea-party, she'd said, and Miss Edith could have led her anywhere.
He finally found her on the top floor, in the converted attic room with the orange paint job that made his eyes want to be ill. The ring-pull curtain across the door jangled as he ducked beneath it.
"There you are," he said, barely aware that he'd stopped in place, or that his voice had dropped to a murmur. She was in front of the mirror, naked except for the dozens of strands of beads around her neck, and she was turning in place as though she could see her reflection.
Since Rome, her clothes had begun to join the twentieth century, and the short skirts were such a change after decades of almost Victorian modesty that Spike had spent a few years ready to rip out the eyes of any man who so much as glanced at her bare legs. But when she was like this, dark and glorious and crooking a finger towards him, he remembered that he was still the only one allowed to really see her.
**
"What's that?" Penn wanted to know, standing aside to let them out the front door.
Drusilla touched the lipstick-smudge on her forehead. "It's my third eye," she said. "It sees you." She jabbed her fingers at him. He edged backwards, looking to Spike for help.
Feeling generous and at peace with the world, even the parts that included annoying members of his family, Spike took pity on him. He circled her waist, sweeping her off the steps and into his arms. "What does it see, ducks?"
"Wonderful things," she laughed, throwing back her head and gazing up at the night sky. "Painted ladies and burning worlds." She looked back at Penn, watching them from the open doorway, and said, "Poor dear. Are you all alone?"
Spike tensed, tightening his arms around her. There'd never been anyone but Angelus for Penn, as far as he knew, and this was what he'd been waiting for since his 'cousin' had turned up like a bad bloody penny - one word about their precious daddy and it'd all be shattered. Drusilla would be gone again, there but never really there.
But Penn's eyes flicked to his, and all he said was, "I'm meeting people over on Shrader, Dru. I'll probably be back late."
"Off to visit your groupie," Spike said, covering his relief with a heavy layer of sarcasm.
"Anne's a perfectly lovely woman," Penn snapped.
Dru tugged at Spike's hands. "Can we go to the park? I found such nice people there."
"We can go wherever you want, my sweet," he said, and when he kissed her he probably got most of her third eye over himself, and he really couldn't care less.
Penn sidled past them, his plain shirt and straight-legged jeans as out of place in Hashbury as if he'd been wearing the clothes he was turned in, and before he was sure what was coming out of his mouth Spike was saying, "Uh, if you get bored. We'll be on the hill. You know where that is?"
"I'll find it," Penn said. "Dru." And with a goodbye nod to her, he was out the gate and gone.
They took their time getting to the park. It was just at the end of the street, but Spike had his girl hanging onto his arm and he wasn't hungry enough yet to rush.
"I love your beads," a girl told Drusilla, offering her a flower. Spike took it for her, arranged it in her hair, and let the girl trip away. There'd be plenty to eat on the hill.
Somebody had chalked HAIGHT IS LOVE on the pavement in coloured, optimistic letters. Spike stopped halfway over the O, and Drusilla turned to kiss him without him reaching for her first.
"My Spike takes me to all the best places," she said.
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Spike/Dru
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For the Fanged Four Ficathon for
ladyoneill who wanted: 'They're in San Francisco during the Summer of Love, feeding on drugged out hippies, happiness'. There's a tiny bit of angst. But not much. It's mostly plotless and silly. Any historical errors are my bad."The colours," Spike said, reaching up towards the light - which wasn't just a lightbulb, it was a blazing sun and the entire universe, and it might have been God as well - and then he was so distracted by the back of his hand that he forgot whatever profound thing he was about to say. The bed seemed to ripple as Drusilla dropped onto the mattress beside him, undulating like ocean waves.
He wasn't aware that he was sharing all this aloud until she pressed a finger to his lips, curling into his side.
"Shhh," she crooned, nipping at his ear. "Is my boy flying?"
He was. So was she, so was the bed, so was the cooling body of the girl whose blood had tasted like dark chocolate and smoke. All of them flying through the window and out over the park, the streets, the bridge, and spinning off into the moon.
Spike fucking loved this decade.
**
His head felt like there was a marching band parading through it. He wanted to sleep it off, spend the day huddled beneath blankets with Dru, but by the afternoon she was restless and he reluctantly rolled out of bed. Standing up was a bit tricky, but he got it on the third go. Once he'd got the hang of that, walking was child's play.
He made sure to stay within grabbing distance of the banister, just in case.
Dru trotted ahead of him down the stairs, singing bits and pieces of songs they'd heard in the park the night before, mixed with songs he'd heard her sing for the past eighty years and ones he was sure she'd made up on the spot. At the open door into the living room she stopped, calling back "I've found a surprise!"
Remembering her last surprise, he took the last few steps with caution, and when he reached her side he sighed.
There was a dead hippie on his floor.
Drusilla clapped her hands, as if this was some lovely and unexpected present, and knelt beside him. The beads around his neck were caked with blood. She had them off him in a trice.
Head throbbing, Spike gazed stonily down at the dead man. Thirty-ish, dark brown hair to his shoulders, noticeably large forehead…
"Penn!" he shouted at the ceiling.
**
"I was going to clean it up," Penn said, after he'd dumped the body in the kitchen. He was leafing through the newspaper, probably looking for something new about his kills to add to the little shrine of clippings that he didn't think anybody knew about. At least he'd never be that pathetic, Spike thought, stuffing away the memory of drunkenly trying to recite his poetry to Ginsberg.
Having Penn around reminded him of old summers when he was human, getting lumbered with some cousin come to stay from the country and his mum anxiously prodding them into being friends. Well, Dru didn't seem to care whether they were the best of chums or mortal enemies, but she'd always got on with Penn, and Spike was prepared to be only semi-hostile to their house guest for her sake.
If the wanker kept dragging home men who looked like Angelus's mellower twins, though, he'd have to have a hasty rethink on that front.
The downside of feeding from spaced-out flower children - besides the hangover and the possibility that he'd done something very stupid or embarrassing the night before - was the restlessness. Hours and hours till sunset and he wanted to do something, because he'd read all the books in the house and if he had to listen to the snip of those scissors for another five minutes he was going to ram them up Penn's ass. He fancied some food, too, and he couldn't make the run to Quasar or Tracy's till the sun went down.
The drums inside his head started up again. He gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to his temple. It wasn't until Penn paused and looked up, frowning at the interruption, that he realized it was the neighbour's bongos again. And he had nothing on hand to throw.
"Going upstairs," he said, shoving to his feet and giving the beanbag chair a swift kick just for being there.
He took the stairs two at a time. The house was Victorian; run down, wood-framed, and too big for the three of them, it had been a commune before they'd moved in. Drusilla loved the place, said it was full of confusion. Their first night here, after he'd swallowed a couple of the little yellow pills he'd found in a kitchen drawer and spent a good four hours chatting with Pitt the Younger and an opinionated bear, Spike had seen her point.
She wasn't in their bedroom. "Dru?" he called, pushing open the next door down. She was having a tea-party, she'd said, and Miss Edith could have led her anywhere.
He finally found her on the top floor, in the converted attic room with the orange paint job that made his eyes want to be ill. The ring-pull curtain across the door jangled as he ducked beneath it.
"There you are," he said, barely aware that he'd stopped in place, or that his voice had dropped to a murmur. She was in front of the mirror, naked except for the dozens of strands of beads around her neck, and she was turning in place as though she could see her reflection.
Since Rome, her clothes had begun to join the twentieth century, and the short skirts were such a change after decades of almost Victorian modesty that Spike had spent a few years ready to rip out the eyes of any man who so much as glanced at her bare legs. But when she was like this, dark and glorious and crooking a finger towards him, he remembered that he was still the only one allowed to really see her.
**
"What's that?" Penn wanted to know, standing aside to let them out the front door.
Drusilla touched the lipstick-smudge on her forehead. "It's my third eye," she said. "It sees you." She jabbed her fingers at him. He edged backwards, looking to Spike for help.
Feeling generous and at peace with the world, even the parts that included annoying members of his family, Spike took pity on him. He circled her waist, sweeping her off the steps and into his arms. "What does it see, ducks?"
"Wonderful things," she laughed, throwing back her head and gazing up at the night sky. "Painted ladies and burning worlds." She looked back at Penn, watching them from the open doorway, and said, "Poor dear. Are you all alone?"
Spike tensed, tightening his arms around her. There'd never been anyone but Angelus for Penn, as far as he knew, and this was what he'd been waiting for since his 'cousin' had turned up like a bad bloody penny - one word about their precious daddy and it'd all be shattered. Drusilla would be gone again, there but never really there.
But Penn's eyes flicked to his, and all he said was, "I'm meeting people over on Shrader, Dru. I'll probably be back late."
"Off to visit your groupie," Spike said, covering his relief with a heavy layer of sarcasm.
"Anne's a perfectly lovely woman," Penn snapped.
Dru tugged at Spike's hands. "Can we go to the park? I found such nice people there."
"We can go wherever you want, my sweet," he said, and when he kissed her he probably got most of her third eye over himself, and he really couldn't care less.
Penn sidled past them, his plain shirt and straight-legged jeans as out of place in Hashbury as if he'd been wearing the clothes he was turned in, and before he was sure what was coming out of his mouth Spike was saying, "Uh, if you get bored. We'll be on the hill. You know where that is?"
"I'll find it," Penn said. "Dru." And with a goodbye nod to her, he was out the gate and gone.
They took their time getting to the park. It was just at the end of the street, but Spike had his girl hanging onto his arm and he wasn't hungry enough yet to rush.
"I love your beads," a girl told Drusilla, offering her a flower. Spike took it for her, arranged it in her hair, and let the girl trip away. There'd be plenty to eat on the hill.
Somebody had chalked HAIGHT IS LOVE on the pavement in coloured, optimistic letters. Spike stopped halfway over the O, and Drusilla turned to kiss him without him reaching for her first.
"My Spike takes me to all the best places," she said.
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no subject
on 2004-07-13 03:30 pm (UTC)"There you are," he said, barely aware that he'd stopped in place, or that his voice had dropped to a murmur. She was in front of the mirror, naked except for the dozens of strands of beads around her neck, and she was turning in place as though she could see her reflection.
Since Rome, her clothes had begun to join the twentieth century, and the short skirts were such a change after decades of almost Victorian modesty that Spike had spent a few years ready to rip out the eyes of any man who so much as glanced at her bare legs. But when she was like this, dark and glorious and crooking a finger towards him, he remembered that he was still the only one allowed to really see her.
no subject
on 2004-07-13 03:45 pm (UTC)This was fabulous, you captured their voices very well and the era too might I add. :)
no subject
on 2004-07-13 04:04 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-13 04:09 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-14 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-14 07:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-14 07:12 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-14 08:59 am (UTC)That fucking ROCKS. The whole scene does, in fact. And the story in its entirety is so very, very lovely. You have such a way of describing things, simplistic yet vivid, and I could almost feel as if I were there with them, balanced on the loopy, loving edge of a somehow fragile 60's. Great bits of humor, love, happiness and fun, all slipped perfectly into place. It gives me a warm happiness, which mixed with cold-blooded, blood-sucking murderous vampires, is just sick and twisted and wrong wrong wrong. Heh. I love being me.
Thanks for this!
no subject
on 2004-07-20 07:44 am (UTC)Thanks so much!
no subject
on 2004-07-20 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-07-29 10:36 am (UTC)Gina
no subject
on 2005-07-07 01:02 am (UTC)