Rating: 18

Summary: 1974. 1984. 1994. All very fun years for Spike, snatches of blood and gore that he'd orchestrated. Now it's 2004 and he plans to make this year very special - with his new Childe.



Riot


by
Nasty Shrew


“Of course, there was Windsor Park,” Spike said thoughtfully. Flicked his fag, ash on the bed sheets and his captivated audience sprawled across his legs.

“I’ve never heard of a Windsor festival,” Xander prompted, head resting on his arm, hair mussed and pupils dilated. Lovely sight, that was. Utterly corruptible – Spike almost wished he could shove Xander’s innocence back into his eyes, force his mouth into the childish grin that he had lost ... only to rip it from him all over again. Corruption was a wonderful way to pass the time.

“No, you wouldn’t have. They stopped letting the blokes who organized it use the park after ’74. See, Dru and I stirred things up that year,” a deliberate pause, nostalgic grin, daring a moral reprimand that he knew wouldn’t come. “Whipped the little hippies into a bloody frenzy – had them storm Windsor square, fight back against the pigs. Good year, ‘74,”

“Emeralds in the ground,” Dru laughed, digging her delicate hand through the soil, eyes cast up at him - streak of a child, overtone of greedy lust. Oddly endearing combination and Spike had long since forgotten what shame felt like.

“It’s just grass, princess,” he said, picking up a blade and holding it to her lips, “no emeralds, just nature. Bloody disgusting, really,” he added, sort of experiment to see what she would do.

“We should crush it,” she hissed. Fickle, his princess. Affection for the grass beneath her dress turning to a loathing that was beautiful in it’s simplicity. Some days, Spike wondered if her affections towards him would twist the same way. Most days, he didn’t much care.

“Let’s make them crush it,” he said, inspired. She cast her eyes to the long haired freaks sitting around their tents, hypocrisy and pot palpable in the air. She clapped her hands with glee, flicker of gold in her eyes before she threw her arms around his neck and pushed her lips on his. Spike adored her, then.


“You’re showing off,” Xander said easily, raised eyebrow and purr to his voice he hadn’t possessed when he was the boy in Sunnydale. Funny how easy it was to manipulate one’s Childe into the image desired – a few weeks had been all it took. A few weeks away from the plastic colours and glossy houses of California and he had shifted – molten liquid poured into a new mould. Gorgeous, vicious and needy. A rather addictive combination – Spike liked being addicted. Gave one focus. Which was something he’d generally lacked.

“’Course I’m showing off,” Spike replied, pushing his hand through his hair – brittle blue, gelled into curls. Had been about time for a new look. He’d been sporting the bleach since … what? ’84?

“Write me poetry, William,” Dru laughed, patronizing wave of her arm – weak with unnatural disease bone deep, she still managed to make him feel like the sniveling human he wanted to forget.

“Stop it,” he warned, pushing himself to his feet, snarl to his voice that didn’t even make her flinch. She was in a mood. “I’m going to bring you something to eat,” he muttered, striding to the door.

“Bring me effulgence!” Drusilla called, whimsical lilt that saved her from true sarcasm. But it was still there – his Dru wasn’t nearly as incapable as she made herself out to be. Read the morning papers, liked to make up her own words to fit in the crossword puzzles and laugh at the latest catastrophe. She was mocking him, and perfectly aware of it. This? Did not improve his mood.

“Come here,” steady hand around a boy’s throat and felt a satisfying snap, floating bits of bone in his flesh. Spike watched the body slump to the floor, blue eyes and hair an unnatural white. He leant down and ran his fingers through it, felt it’s crisp coarse texture. Decision made, he pulled a knife from his boot and pulled the hair up, sliced open the scalp and held it in his hand as he walked towards the salon across the way.

“How can we …” the woman trailed off, her eyes slipping to the dripping red and white thing in his hands, her eyes widening as she paled.

“Want my hair this colour,” Spike said pleasantly. Lightening quick movement that left his hand in her candy floss curls, her body pressed against his so he could feel her heartbeat thud against his chest. “Scream and I’ll tear you apart,” he whispered in her ear. As he watched her pour out the mixture, hands shaking, sharp sting of peroxide in his nostrils, he noticed a gathering crowd of restless young boys shuffling – leather, drugs and boredom. Ah. Potential there. Only a few choice words after the hairdresser’s neck had been snapped, only a couple of accusations that he’s seen a policeman kill her and they were a churning crowd of violence, storming towards the police station screaming for revenge. His day had finally improved.


“Something good is going to happen this year,” he said, pulling Xander up so he lay on top of Spike, heavy weight and larger frame that covered him completely – wrapped and smothered him in his very favourite pastime.

“Why?” Xander asked, lick up his collar bone, eyelashes brushing against Spike’s chest.

“Because it’s 2004. ’94 was the year Dru and I started a blood war between these two families in Saudi Arabia. Fuckin’ blast, that was. Finding Arab bits in the desert for months,” soft snort of laughter as Xander’s hands slid lower, eager to please. “This year should follow the pattern. Been looking forward to this year since that moron Angel offered you to me. Was worried I’d spend the fourth year of this decade alone since Dru stayed with him,” he said, arching under the touches, each rougher than the last.

“What do you want to do, then?” Xander asked against his skin, eyes still trained on his face. Spike lay back and took another drag of his cigarette, hissed through his teeth when he felt his dark prince push into him. Substitute for what he’d lost? Never. Came damn close though – closer to filling the hole Drusilla left every day. They had eternity to try, anyway.

“Let’s pay the slayer a visit. Go to that school there and ... see if we can stir something,” he muttered, sharp intake of breath he didn’t need as Xander pushed deeper, harder.

“Okay,” he said, quirk of his lips as he dove down and pushed his tongue into Spike’s mouth. “It'll be a riot.”




The End





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