"Still Life, with Birthday"
In general, vampires don't celebrate birthdays.
For one thing, few vampires look back on their human lives with fondness. And why should they? Getting turned isn't an equal-opportunity fate; it's something that happens to the unprotected, the alone, the vulnerable. Society's castoffs, transformed into an army of bitter undead. To celebrate the beginning of a life the owner was only too glad to lose seems perverse, even by demon standards.
Then there are vampires like the Master, who live so far removed from the world that they've lost all concept of time. Suffice it to say, they don't
The less said on that subject, the better.
Among younger, more worldly vampires, the most commonly celebrated
But even if none of the above were true, birthdays would still be a
Of course, there are exceptions to this rule. Most of mine involve Spike,
Speaking of...my Childe is the reason I'm on the subject of birthdays to
What celebrating his birthday signifies to Spike is debatable. It's not
What am I saying? It's not debatable. As far as Spike is concerned, the
Tonight is actually Phase Two of Spike's birthday celebration. Phase One was yesterday evening, when he disappeared off to the mall, returning home late and overloaded with bags full of, I assume, birthday gifts from me. Tonight is my attempt to show him a good time that I'm actually present for, beginning with dinner at a restaurant I know he likes.
We have reservations for eight o' clock. It is now five minutes to seven.
Fifteen minutes. That's how much time he has to get dressed.
"Hey, Wanker! Bring me another beer, will you?"
This could get ugly.
"Angel, did you hear me? Answer me, ya bastard! I know you're there--I can hear you brooding!"
That's it. I'm going in.
***
Angel walks in giving me his best put-upon Sire expression. The one that combines the sulky pout of martyrdom with the beady glare of "why in the hell did I turn you?" You wouldn't think those two would go together, but he makes it work. He's talented that way.
Anyway, there's no beer in his hands so I'm guessing this is my wakeup call. Which is fine--I'm almost done with my work here. Still, there's no point in giving in too easily. I smile up at him and ask him the question that's been bugging me for the last two minutes:
"Peaches, if Wolverine and Lara Croft were gonna shag, what position, d'you think?"
Angel stares at me like I just asked him what position he and Slutty used
I shrug and give my attention back to the little plastic people in my hands. "Mishposish it is, then. Sorry, mate," I tell Wolverine, as I bend him into place. He's really too good for that Tomb Raider bint, but the store was all out of Batman, and there's no other bloke here I'd put him with. Especially not this wanker in the sombrero. Is it me, or does he look exactly like Slutty's watcher? It's kinda creepy.
Finally, Angel speaks.
"Spike."
It comes out half like a sigh, and ordinarily, I'd go on ignoring him. If
"We have to leave in fifteen minutes. Go get dressed."
Like it ever takes me more than five minutes to get dressed. Unlike Angel, who needs at least an hour on account of all those poofter personal grooming products he uses. Not that I blame him. If I was as ancient as he is I'd probably do the same. That, and live in fear of waking up one morning with bat-face.
I don't budge from where I'm sitting. "Now? But the Naked Chef's on in
Huh. Angel's really holdin' it in tonight. Under normal circumstances I'd
"Oh. Well still, there's--whatever this is. I'm watchin' it."
Angel turns to look at the TV. It's another cooking show. This little
"Spike, that's disgusting."
"Why? She's showing us how to make a festive party dip out of sour cream and cheezels."
"I repeat, that's disgusting. What's a cheezel?"
It's my turn to sigh. I have a special one reserved for these moments. It
"A cheezel's a snack food, ya brooding nonce. And don't worry, no one's offerin' you any."
There's a certain calm that comes over my Sire when he's reaching the end of his patience, and which I've learned to ignore at my own peril.
And yeah, I know there are other things I could do besides just go get
But still--as much as getting shagged senseless by my Sire is my idea of a well-spent evening, there's not just me to consider here. Angel wants to take me out and, well, I'm halfway interested to see what it is he's planning. It oughta be something good, since he won't tell me a damn thing. At least it can't be bloody *Riverdance* again.
So I take my cue like a good Childe, much to Angel's surprise. He looks
Ponce. Let him smile if he wants. I have nothing to prove.
Nothing that can't wait a couple of hours, anyway.
****
Sometimes I wonder if it was wise to sire someone with such an irritating
Like just now. All of that--the action figures, the TV, the cheese-things--that was all just a little game of Spike's, his way of testing how much I'm
How do I know this? Extensive experience. It's the 120 years rule
Which is fine--I don't have to hear him say it to know he's looking forward to tonight. He doesn't owe me any display of enthusiasm. If anything, I owe him one. Something to make up for the fact that I'm 250 years old, grouchy, and unable to relate to 90% of the things he loves, including most music, all popular culture, and the majority of modern appliances.
So tonight, for his birthday, I intend to surprise him. And not my usual
This surprise is different. It's a gift--something I know he'd love, but
I hear sounds of paper tearing in the bedroom, and Spike calls out to me:
Oh please, not an argument about footwear. "Spike, you are *not* wearing those boots!"
"Wanker!"
We need to leave in ten minutes. If there's no traffic, we'll be sitting
Hopefully I will not regret this later.
There are a few things I do for my Sire.
I massage the knots out of his great hulking back when the stress of bein' a brooding superhero threatens to turn him into the Petrified Man. I put up with his poofy romantic shit with a minimum of complaint. I make him laugh, which is no mean feat; also cry, and, if I'm lucky, occasionally beg.
Nobody begs like Angel. It's fuckin' unbelievable. He oughta teach a
Anyway, my point is, when it comes to getting along with Angel, you have to know what's important. He complains a lot, but when you cut through all the noise, what really matters to him is pretty simple: He wants quiet when he's trying to sleep; an apartment that's clean and not on fire; plenty of hot water when he comes home with chunks of demon in his hair; frequent shags; and, once in a while, to take me out somewhere nice without gettin' an aneurysm over what I've got on.
Needless to say, except for the shagging, Angel doesn't get any of these
Normally I'm not big on dressing up to go out either. I figure a place that
The trouble with that attitude is, Angel doesn't give up. Never mind his
So I've decided it's time for a new strategy. Angel doesn't want me in
I can hear Angel in the living room grumbling to himself about the time.
Item number one: Trousers. Leather, comma, black. All smooth and supple, cut close like my jeans. They remind me of my duster, and Angel when he's in that dark evil mood of his. Not sayin' I like the mood, but I do like the gear that goes with it. And if leather trousers are good enough for Angel when he's bein' a rat bastard, I figure they've gotta be good enough for me just bein' my regular self.
Item number two: T-shirt. Black. V-neck. Cashmere.
Yeah, that's right, I said cashmere. And yeah, I am aware that I've called
That takes care of the clothes part of the operation. There's just one
His answer comes back so fast, I bet he was waiting for it. "Spike, you are *not* wearing those boots!"
"Wanker!" We'll see about that. I strip off my clothes and pull on the
I give my hair a quick rub to make it stand up all spikey, and I'm good to
My Sire has a limited range of facial expressions, but he makes up for it by using most of them now. In quick succession we get: annoyance when he sees I'm not in the suit; confusion, as he takes in what I'm wearing; and then--I don't know what to call it. The furrows in his brow smooth out, his lips part slightly, he blinks a few times, looks down, then back up at me...
Oh wait, I do know this one. It's called, "Angel has no blood left in his
Also known as, I am *so* getting laid tonight.
The plastic figure under my bare foot reminds me that I have something to ask him.
"Peaches, do you mind if I wear my boots?"
He blinks at me a couple more times. Christ, what if he had an aneurysm
Ha! Let the birthday festivities begin!
****
Spike's halfway across the lobby by the time I get to the bottom of the
Ten feet from the door he stops to wait for me. "C'mon, ya trotting poof!
I guess it's him. I just...I'm not used to seeing him dressed this way.
When I reach him, neither of us makes a move toward the door. Of their own accord, my hands find his hips, my fingers sliding over the unfamiliar leather. I lower my face to his neck and breathe deeply, taking in the smell of him. It's tobacco and alcohol, leather and blood, plus something that's uniquely *him,* that marks him for all time as my Childe.
I dimly recall we were on our way out, but at the moment I don't remember where. I love the feel of the leather under my palms, and I can feel a purr starting in my chest. Maybe we could just skip the plans and...
"Angel!" Someone's shouting my name, and it isn't Spike.
Crap. Why am I always being interrupted? With a growl of frustration I
It's Cordelia. She's got her hand over her eyes as if to shield herself,
Spike is snickering behind me. "I'm sorry, Cordy," I begin, sheepishly, but she stops me with an upraised hand.
"Never mind, I'm sure the part of my brain that remembers this will die
"Like I said, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here."
Cordy uncovers her eyes and gives me an exasperated look. "Hello? You're lucky I was here, because you were about to walk out without something *very important.* Something you *need.* Something you're not supposed to *forget.* Am I getting through to you here? 'Cause you still look a little confused."
I feel a little confused, actually. But no--I do know what she's talking
Cordy marches up to me, giving Spike a dirty look over my shoulder. "Here," she says, shoving an envelope into my hand. "Happy birthday to Spike, have a nice evening, blah-di-blah, goodbye." With her best fake smile she yanks open the door and stands there, waiting for us to leave.
"Don't mention it. *Ever.*" Still smiling sweetly, she slams the door
****
Instead of the garage, Angel heads for the street. "Hey, wanker!" I call
"Gunn's got the car tonight," he tosses back over his shoulder as he flags down a cab. There's a screech of brakes as one pulls up. "Come on." He hauls open the door and shoves me in.
I settle into the seat and turn to where he oughta be, but he's not there.
"Spike," he says finally, "is that...*cashmere?*"
****
Okay, two things:
First, our cab driver is seriously insane. I say this not to judge, but
How do I know it's Bulgarian? Darla and I once spent a winter in Sofia.
Why do I only *think* we cut across the sidewalk? Because I wasn't looking. Because Spike and I are flat on the back seat and I'm kissing him like my life depends on it. Which is ironic, because my life probably *actually* depends on getting the hell out of this cab.
Which brings me to thing number two: Spike. Spike on his back with my
That snaps me out of it, a little. I raise my head, half-expecting to see
****
I'm fuckin' dying, I'm laughing so hard. Partly at Angel, for the
Oh, but fuck, wasn't my Sire beautiful in that cab? He's so bloody heavy
That, and whatever kinda animal cashmere comes from, better don't let Angel get near one.
****
Strange, I don't quite feel like myself right now. And it's not the
Spike's sitting across from me, still chuckling to himself as he reads the
He nods at my menu, which I haven't touched since I got my hands on the whiskey. "What do you think, Peaches? Want me to pick something out for you?"
I nod. Pick something out for me. I'll eat anything. Just keep looking at
He laughs and gives me a look that says "whatever, poofter." I don't care. I have half a glass of Ireland's finest coursing through my veins, and at least I'm beginning to get feeling back in my lips.
The waiter comes then, and Spike orders for both of us. Then the waiter
Yes, that's right. Homicidal impulses, brought on by--what? What the hell
The waiter was flirting with Spike. I think Spike was flirting back. What
Okay, I'm going to close my eyes, and when I open them, I will be calm,
When I open my eyes, Spike is staring at me with what I hope is curiosity,
"So, what did you order for us?"
I don't know if I can explain what goes on in Spike's eyes at that moment.
"Well, pet, for me there's steak, and for you there's scallops in white wine
Maybe it's the touch that does it, that brings me back to reality. Or maybe
I did say almost. Why do you ask?
****
*That* was interesting. I wonder if the waiter knows how close he came to gettin' his head ripped off. 'Cause no shit, that was as near to an Angelus moment as I've seen since the last time my Sire's soul took a vacation.
And no, I was not flirting with the poofter waiter. That was strictly a
But whatever; Angel seems to be recovered, so I'm not complaining. He's sittin' there nursing his third whiskey and looking reasonably normal, for him, while I work on dessert--berries in a kinda thick cream. He's still being unnaturally quiet, though. Usually during meals like this I have to listen to all kinds of commentary about my table manners, or at least some poofter romantic crap. Tonight there's none of that; the only communicating Angel's doing is strictly nonverbal. Which, as long as he's not brooding, is okay with me.
Anyway, I'm enjoyin' the hell out of myself right now. I've got my chair
And Angel's got his big hand on the back of my neck, a gesture that's tender and possessive at the same time. It's the unspoken equivalent of him tellin' me I belong to him--which is usually right before I do something to remind him that he may be my Sire, but I can bring him to his knees just as well as he can bring me to mine.
And part of me's thinking I should be draggin' him outside right now for a quick shag in the bushes, 'cause what says "happy birthday to me" like a little public indecency? But the other part of me's not in a hurry, and just wants to enjoy this for a little longer--this meal where I actually recognize the food, and my Sire's fingers slipping gently under the neck of my shirt, even this restaurant, with its windows open to the terrace and the night air waftin' in, and...and...
That's it. Hangin' out with Angel is definitely turning me into a poof.
Time for some corrective action.
****
It's not just the clothes. There's something different about Spike tonight.
Oh, right. That was *me* threatening the waiter.
The Spike who's sitting next to me now is one I don't see very often outside our apartment. Calm, seemingly unconcerned at being surrounded by humans, and apparently more amused than offended by the strange looks I'm giving him. When he catches me staring he just smirks at me and licks another berry off his spoon.
When he goes to get matches from the bar, he doesn't seem to notice the eyes that follow him. He's oblivious to the wave of human lust that rolls toward him from certain corners of the room, that to me is the sensory equivalent of a car alarm going off. How can I blame anyone for staring at him? He's beautiful, my Childe--lithe and graceful, unselfconscious in his black leather and pale white skin, like some kind of punk angel. It's all I can do to sit still here, to not tear after him and tackle him into the coat closet. Which I'm sure he wouldn't mind, but I'd hate to get banned from a restaurant he actually likes.
And part of me just wants to prolong this. Even if he's only tolerating
But hell, it's his birthday, and I'm not used to peace anyway.
I'm so engrossed in thinking about it I don't realize he's come back until
****
I'm about dragging Angel out of the restaurant. Not that he's not willing;
As soon as we're outside, though, he stops. One minute I'm pulling my
He's not listening. God, I hate it when he ignores me. I start toward him
Except now I'm pissed. I can't believe he just did that. He *knows* how
I'm still standing there when another bastard valet pulls up in front of me.
He puts his arms around me anyway, and presses something into my hands. It's Cordelia's envelope. "Happy Birthday, Will," he says.
I look down at the envelope. A note? A card? Some kind of message to
The Mustang.
It's for me.
If any of the valets at that restaurant never saw two blokes necking on the hood of a car before, they have now.
And yeah, I guess I forgive him. Maybe.
****
In my own defense, let me just point out that Spike really isn't a bad
All right, okay, so maybe giving Spike this car might *technically* be
He's having such a good time.
"YEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! Eat my dust, ya tutu-wearing nancyboy! Let's see you pass me now!"
Who am I kidding? I'm going to burn in hell for this. But I don't care,
"Angel," he shouts, "this is fuckin' amazing! How did you--?"
"Wesley and Gunn. They dropped it off at the restaurant for me. I wanted
"I'm bloody surprised, all right."
"I'm glad. Watch out for that truck!"
"I see it!" He swerves smoothly and floors it again. "Don't be so jumpy,
I'd forgotten how much I love seeing him just enjoy something. He keeps up a front of cool mockery toward so many things, but when it comes to what he loves his enthusiasm won't be contained. He laughs with pleasure as he takes a long, wide curve, grins as he floors it on the straightaway, shouts with delight as the gears shift smoothly under his hand. I'm grinning myself just from watching him, and not even the sense of mortal danger that comes from being his passenger can diminish my enjoyment.
And I'm suddenly overwhelmed by how much I want him. Not just in general, but now--to kiss that laughing mouth, to spread my fingers over those leather-covered thighs, to see those sparkling eyes fall shut in surrender. I lick my lips and I swear I can taste his blood. The sensation is so real it makes me dizzy, and I have to close my eyes to stop from slipping into gameface.
"Oi! What are you, brooding again?" He's watching me from the drivers'
"Spike, I..."
I don't get to finish that sentence, because at that moment we round a
"What the bleedin' hell--?" he starts, but the words are arrested by the
And at first I think it's some kind of carnival, or a renaissance fair,
Then they lift the burning effigy, and I realize it's a protest.
****
A fuck doll? Why would a crowd of enraged hippies be burnin' a fuck doll?
At least, it looks like a fuck doll. 'Course it also looks a bit like
When we first pulled up it looked like things were going peacefully, but
The crowd's chanting, but I can't make out what they're saying over all the other noise. Something about American global cultural genocide or some such bollocks. The important thing is, there are riot police starting to move in on the far side of the crowd. From where I'm standing I can just make out the tops of their shields over the heads of the hippies and the forest of burning sticks. In about half a minute those cops are going to start movin' in, and all hell's gonna break loose.
And half of me's ready to hurl myself out of this car and into the mob,
I don't have long to decide, though, because Angel's standing up now too, and I know he sees the riot police just like I do. And don't think he's not reading my mind, either. He knows me too well not to know I'm about five seconds away from diving into the middle of the melee. Which is exactly what this crowd has turned into, because the riot police just started moving. And there are bottles flying, and flamin' sticks gettin' brought down on people's heads, and screaming, and the whole mob is gettin' pushed back toward us, and old Britney goes down in a huge shower of sparks. It's the best bloody hippie riot I've ever seen.
And I turn to Angel, who's still standing next to me, staring at the crowd
"Come on, Peaches," I say, "let's go home."
****
Driving home, Spike is quiet. If you didn't know him, you might think
And when we get home, I'm not surprised by how fast he's out of the car and inside. Or how he strides across the lobby ahead of me, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and at the foot of the stairs stops and turns to watch me. And when I reach him, and he grabs me and pins me against the pillar, catching my face in his hands and my mouth with his mouth, I know that bruising, angry, insistent, searching kiss.
When he finally releases me, I see the command in his eyes before he says it.
"The ballroom. Go. Wait for me."
It's not a request. He's not asking.
So I go.
****
I let him wait a little. Not too much, maybe ten minutes. Enough.
When I walk into the ballroom, Angel's at the window. Standing there with his back to me, looking out at the city, all dark and bright lights spreading out in all directions, like spokes in a giant bloody wheel. He doesn't move when I enter, doesn't turn around. But he knows I'm here. He always knows. He's just waiting, perfectly still, to see what I'll do.
What I do is stand there for a minute, and look at him. The back of him, at
Angel doesn't know why I celebrate my birthday. He thinks it's for the
When I was a fledge, he dominated me. It wasn't even a question; it's just
And I know sometimes he regrets it, the end of the way it was. Even though he feels guilty for the things he did, and he'd go back to hell before he'd ever be that demon again, there are still things he misses. Like feeling in control of his own destiny. Like action without consequences. Like my obedience.
Yeah, he does miss that.
But I don't regret anything. Didn't then, don't now. And part of my job is
He stays perfectly still as I cross the room, quick and silent, until I'm
Have I mentioned how unholy seductive my Sire is in these moments? It's nearly enough to make me abandon my self-control--but not quite. I grasp his hips in my hands and pull him tight against me, brush my mouth against his ear and say, in a voice that's half whisper, half growl, *"Be still."*
And he tries, because my Sire in this mood is nothing if not obedient. He
That sound--it's like someone struck a match on my spine. It shoots through me, settin' every nerve on fire. I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to--and I don't want to. My arms tighten around his waist and I bury my face in his shoulder and I bite, and I drink.
I don't take much. I stop when my body stops shaking, and I feel his knees start to give. Holding him by the waist so he doesn't fall, I pull my fangs from his throat and lick away the last rivulet of blood. And he turns his head toward me and looks at me with those soul-having brown googly eyes of his, and I can't help it, I have to kiss him. I press my open mouth to his and let his tongue steal the last taste of his blood from mine.
And gods, it feels so good to kiss him, I almost don't want to stop. Let
But it's not my Death Day, and this is not about the night he made me. So I pull away from his kiss, and close my eyes, and press my lips against the damp skin of his neck. And I whisper, "Precious...put your hands against the window."
And he does. He steps forward and raises his hands and presses his palms against the glass, leaning forward slightly to give them his weight. And *that* is a beautiful sight: my Sire, stripped to the waist and gleaming pale, with the whole damn night sky and city as the background. And I don't know about him, but I'm through playing. 'Cause Angel, obedient and as good as bound, is a sight to about drive me mad with wanting him. So:
I step forward and wind my arms around him and slide my tongue around his ear, all the while making short work of those foofy trousers. They're down and he's naked before he knows what happened. I pull out the lube I picked up on the way in here, which turns out to be--white chocolate-scented massage cream. Good christ, but Angel's a poof! But no matter; worry about aesthetics is Angel's gig. Mine's more basic. I squeeze the cream into my hand and slide two fingers between his beautiful cheeks, running them up and down over the tender skin, until he groans and squirms against me. With one arm around his waist to steady him, I gently push one finger inside, then two, pull out, and push in again deeper. And Angel's writhing in my grasp now, his head thrown
But this is not how I plan to get Angel off tonight. For that--well, like I
And I've got stars in front of my eyes, he feels so fucking good. I don't
Like my birthday.
Angel doesn't understand why I celebrate my birthday. And for a long time, I didn't either.
I used to think time didn't matter, that being immortal meant that you
I s'pose I celebrate my birthday to remind myself of that--that time doesn't stand still, that everything has to change. Even vampires, even us. Because being immortal's not the same as being dead.
And in a way, I think it's good for the brooding poof, too, even if he
And how much of the above do I say to Angel? Not much. And what I do say comes out something like:
"Ohgodyes...Angel...fuck...Sire...you. feel. so. fucking. good!" Because
No, I know what he'll feel like tomorrow. Like it was worth it. Because
And we lay there on that thick carpet in that perfect quiet room for a long
"Yeah?" I barely lift my head from where it's layin' on his chest.
"Were you flirting with that waiter?"
"What? What the fuck, you trotting poof? What do I want with a bloody
No, he's laughing. This is Angel's idea of a funny joke about our evening.
And as we're drifting off to sleep, naked and in a public room where we will surely be found by one of Angel's pet humans in the morning--preferably Gunn, if I have any choice about it--the last thing I hear is my Sire's voice, low and far away:
"Happy Birthday, Spike."
~Fin~
