seasonal_sd December 2008 (Part 1)
The Summer of '69
It was 1969. The year of the moon landing, the Vietnam War and the ‘free love’ movement. The year of punk rock, hair gel and hippies that made Spike's mouth fizz.
(Not necessarily in that order, though.)
Spike didn’t care about space travel, since life on Earth with Drusilla was more than enough for him. He didn’t care about their latest war, either. (Let the stupid humans blow each other up. He had better things to do.) He liked hippies, though, and not just because they made his tongue tingle when he drank from them. He liked their music, their easy attitude and the way they gave him an excuse to try and talk Drusilla into tiny tie-dyed tops.
Woodstock was proving to be a bit of an eye opener when it came to that ‘easy attitude’, actually. He hadn’t realised humans could be so free. Admittedly, that was probably because he hadn’t spent much time among them since 1880. (He and Dru generally mixed with humans to hunt and feed and have a bit of fun. They didn’t really bother with conversation.) It was amazing to see how much the species had changed in less than a century. They were almost interesting now. There was definitely some potential there.
Dru, bless her, had wandered off to find someone to eat just after Janis Joplin’s set. She didn’t necessarily share his passion for music, but she certainly shared his passion for passion. Her eyes had been shining in a way that would have made William the Bloody Awful wax lyrical, and still conspired to make Spike the Vampire feel very strange indeed. He would have quite happily missed ‘Mama Tried’ to pull her into the nearest empty tent, but she’d disappeared like a wraith into the crowds of people before he’d had the chance. Still, they had the rest of the weekend. No sense in rushing things, was there?
She’d been the one to get them the Woodstock tickets, actually. A Death Day present for my darling boy. We’ve been together for nearly ninety years, my love, and we still have so many more centuries to see. Ninety years and she never failed to surprise him. She made every damn night seem like a brand new adventure. His goddess, his muse, his saviour, his Aphrodite in ebony silk. Strange to think that he’d once thought a life with Cecily - a sickeningly dull, teacakes-and-ball-rooms sort of life - was the life for him! He’d never be able to convey his gratitude to Drusilla, but he intended to spend the rest of his unlife doing his best.
***
Spike started to feel peckish at some point during ‘Bad Moon Rising’. By the time Creedence Clearwater Revival were leaving the stage, he was ravenous. It was the press of bodies and the heat of the pit. It must be. The sweat slick on the skin of the crowd around him, their hearts pounding with adrenaline and life.
Life he was just dying to steal away.
Still humming along to the set he’d just heard, the vampire shoved one man in the stomach, which was enough to prompt them to clear him a path all by themselves. (They had potential, they weren’t perfect yet. Didn't they know that a good scrap was bloody fun?) He wandered aimlessly for a while, wondering where Dru had ended up. Hunting was much more fun with her by his side, but it was a bloody big place and it would take too long to find her. He was hungry now.
More by accident than by any conscious thought, Spike found himself in a tent at the fringes of the camp. Not one of the ramshackle things the hippies constructed by themselves, using scraps of material and sheer willpower to hold the fragments together. A proper tent, with hangings on the walls and an unfamiliar - if not unnecessarily pleasant - scent in the air.
Spike grabbed the nearest hippie, his face shifting. To the vampire’s surprise, the man didn’t actually scream. Maybe he didn’t realise what was going on? His eyes were pretty unfocused ...
.... and then he placed the scent, dropping the man and wiping hastily at his bloodstained lips. As if that would help. He’d only gone and fed off a bloody flower person, hadn’t he?
There was no way he was going to make it to see The Who now.
“Bugger.”
***
She was dressed in white, with a circlet of daisies in her hair. Her bare feet were stained with mud and her lips were crimson with someone else’s blood.
“My sweet little Spike. You’ve missed all the music.”
Spike, sprawled out on a beanbag chair and swaying slightly in time to the battered record player, beamed at the sound of Drusilla’s voice.
“Dru, sweetheart! It’s bloody beautiful here. I can see all the stars.”
“We’re inside, Spike …”
“I can still see ‘em. I can see everythin’. Why didn’t you tell me what it was like?”
She glided towards him, smiling beatifically. She looked like an angel or a demon, he wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. She was his and he was hers and they hadn’t even reached a century yet. There was so much left to see, so much left to do. Slayers to kill, cities to slaughter, games to play ...
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to make thousands of promises just for her and spend the next fifty decades fulfilling them one by one. Except his hand was in the way. Had it always looked like that? So ... hand-like. Why was he wearing nail polish? Dru had painted them for him. Looked bloody good, too.
What had he been saying?
When had she sat down in front of him?
She looked beautiful in that dress. Like an angel or a demon, he wasn’t sure which. Both, maybe. His angel, everybody else’s demon.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Drusilla replied, placing her hand against his, fingertip to fingertip and palm to palm.
“I can hear them too,” Spike whispered conspiratorially, “The pixies.”
“That’s good. I don’t like being a messenger.”
“You’re not a messenger. You’re a Princess. My Princess.”
“Did the pixies tell you that?”
“Nah, love. I worked that out all by meself.”
It was 1969. The year of the moon landing, the Vietnam War and the ‘free love’ movement. The year of punk rock, hair gel and hippies that made Spike's mouth fizz.
(Not necessarily in that order, though.)
Spike didn’t care about space travel, since life on Earth with Drusilla was more than enough for him. He didn’t care about their latest war, either. (Let the stupid humans blow each other up. He had better things to do.) He liked hippies, though, and not just because they made his tongue tingle when he drank from them. He liked their music, their easy attitude and the way they gave him an excuse to try and talk Drusilla into tiny tie-dyed tops.
Woodstock was proving to be a bit of an eye opener when it came to that ‘easy attitude’, actually. He hadn’t realised humans could be so free. Admittedly, that was probably because he hadn’t spent much time among them since 1880. (He and Dru generally mixed with humans to hunt and feed and have a bit of fun. They didn’t really bother with conversation.) It was amazing to see how much the species had changed in less than a century. They were almost interesting now. There was definitely some potential there.
Dru, bless her, had wandered off to find someone to eat just after Janis Joplin’s set. She didn’t necessarily share his passion for music, but she certainly shared his passion for passion. Her eyes had been shining in a way that would have made William the Bloody Awful wax lyrical, and still conspired to make Spike the Vampire feel very strange indeed. He would have quite happily missed ‘Mama Tried’ to pull her into the nearest empty tent, but she’d disappeared like a wraith into the crowds of people before he’d had the chance. Still, they had the rest of the weekend. No sense in rushing things, was there?
She’d been the one to get them the Woodstock tickets, actually. A Death Day present for my darling boy. We’ve been together for nearly ninety years, my love, and we still have so many more centuries to see. Ninety years and she never failed to surprise him. She made every damn night seem like a brand new adventure. His goddess, his muse, his saviour, his Aphrodite in ebony silk. Strange to think that he’d once thought a life with Cecily - a sickeningly dull, teacakes-and-ball-rooms sort of life - was the life for him! He’d never be able to convey his gratitude to Drusilla, but he intended to spend the rest of his unlife doing his best.
***
Spike started to feel peckish at some point during ‘Bad Moon Rising’. By the time Creedence Clearwater Revival were leaving the stage, he was ravenous. It was the press of bodies and the heat of the pit. It must be. The sweat slick on the skin of the crowd around him, their hearts pounding with adrenaline and life.
Life he was just dying to steal away.
Still humming along to the set he’d just heard, the vampire shoved one man in the stomach, which was enough to prompt them to clear him a path all by themselves. (They had potential, they weren’t perfect yet. Didn't they know that a good scrap was bloody fun?) He wandered aimlessly for a while, wondering where Dru had ended up. Hunting was much more fun with her by his side, but it was a bloody big place and it would take too long to find her. He was hungry now.
More by accident than by any conscious thought, Spike found himself in a tent at the fringes of the camp. Not one of the ramshackle things the hippies constructed by themselves, using scraps of material and sheer willpower to hold the fragments together. A proper tent, with hangings on the walls and an unfamiliar - if not unnecessarily pleasant - scent in the air.
Spike grabbed the nearest hippie, his face shifting. To the vampire’s surprise, the man didn’t actually scream. Maybe he didn’t realise what was going on? His eyes were pretty unfocused ...
.... and then he placed the scent, dropping the man and wiping hastily at his bloodstained lips. As if that would help. He’d only gone and fed off a bloody flower person, hadn’t he?
There was no way he was going to make it to see The Who now.
“Bugger.”
***
She was dressed in white, with a circlet of daisies in her hair. Her bare feet were stained with mud and her lips were crimson with someone else’s blood.
“My sweet little Spike. You’ve missed all the music.”
Spike, sprawled out on a beanbag chair and swaying slightly in time to the battered record player, beamed at the sound of Drusilla’s voice.
“Dru, sweetheart! It’s bloody beautiful here. I can see all the stars.”
“We’re inside, Spike …”
“I can still see ‘em. I can see everythin’. Why didn’t you tell me what it was like?”
She glided towards him, smiling beatifically. She looked like an angel or a demon, he wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. She was his and he was hers and they hadn’t even reached a century yet. There was so much left to see, so much left to do. Slayers to kill, cities to slaughter, games to play ...
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to make thousands of promises just for her and spend the next fifty decades fulfilling them one by one. Except his hand was in the way. Had it always looked like that? So ... hand-like. Why was he wearing nail polish? Dru had painted them for him. Looked bloody good, too.
What had he been saying?
When had she sat down in front of him?
She looked beautiful in that dress. Like an angel or a demon, he wasn’t sure which. Both, maybe. His angel, everybody else’s demon.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Drusilla replied, placing her hand against his, fingertip to fingertip and palm to palm.
“I can hear them too,” Spike whispered conspiratorially, “The pixies.”
“That’s good. I don’t like being a messenger.”
“You’re not a messenger. You’re a Princess. My Princess.”
“Did the pixies tell you that?”
“Nah, love. I worked that out all by meself.”