PART 4

Author's note: This is the beginning of a 'historical look' at Angel and Spike's relationship. We are going back to 1977, to The SEX PISTOLS last ever concert in England, before the band went on their infamous tour of the U.S.A, resulting in the break-up of the band, and bassist Sid Vicious'  ever increasing spiral into heroin abuse, culminating in the death of his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen in a room of the Chelsea hotel, New York in October, 1978.

Sid himself died of a heroin overdose in February 1979.

And Spike, and Dru, as well as Angel (with a soul) were there.

All lyrics used in this part of the story belong to The Sex Pistols, and Sid Vicious' Vicious White Kids band. I have tried to be as historically accurate as possible, and for complete enjoyment of this era, I suggest you have Never Mind the Bollocks, here come The Sex Pistols playing on your CD.

And now, on with the story...

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Christmas Eve, 1977
LONDON

I am an antichrist!
I am an anarchist!
Don't know what I want
But I know how to get it
I wanna destroy passers by
Cause I
Wanna be
Anarchy!
No dogs body...

The look on Drusilla's face could only be described as rapturous. Her eyes were closed, and her red lipsticked mouth was stretched into a wide grin as she swayed to the thumping beat of the angry young men on the stage. Around her, punks and freaks of all persuasions leapt and gyrated, and fights broke out .Drusilla didn't seem to care. The scent of blood and arousal enveloped her like a blanket, and she continued to sway, completely against the heavy bass thump of the beat, her head dancing in time to a minuet tune only she could hear.

Spike paused in the middle of throwing a punch into a green-haired greasy youth's face to watch her.

'My Drusilla, nothing touches her,' he thought proudly .

Drusilla's black lace dress glittered with flashes of silver, safety pins baring pale expanses of her taut white flesh. Her long hair was streaked with a myriad of colours, red, green and blue punctuating the midnight black of her tresses. Dark kohl outlined the blue of her eyes, making them appear larger in the pale perfection of her face. Spike felt his dead heart lurch, and as he watched her dance. He threw his head back, and howled for joy, taking the head of the youth in both hands, twisting it to the side and baring his fangs. The blood flowed into his mouth, hot and passionate, laced with heroin, making his head spin with the sudden rush of it. He felt himself being grabbed from behind as the boy's body slipped from his grasp, lifeless and empty, the expression on the corpse's face barely registering that he was dead. Spike's game face morphed away as he faced the 'somebody' who had grabbed him with an angry human snarl in place. His features relaxed into a grin when he realised who it was.

"Hey, Nancy!" he yelled above the din, before reaching out to grab her arse in an affectionate squeeze.

"Sid's lappin' em up tonight isn't 'e?" To illustrate, he punched the air, and started to leap wildly into the crowd around him, bumping and grinding to the desperate bass rhythm thumping just under Johnny's angry lyric.

Nancy, Sid's New Yorker girlfriend, junkie and all-round band whore, plastered a crooked smile on her vacant face.

"Spike," she simpered. Spike cringed inwardly at the sound of her nasally annoying voice. "Sidney and me gotta favor to ask ya.."

The Vampire felt keenly the borrowed heat and the press of the crowd around him, and he glanced over at Drusilla again, and caught her eye, before indicating to Nancy that they needed to find some place quieter to talk. Nancy took hold of his hand and led him out of the rabid, pulsating throng of human desperation and heat. The borrowed drugs were making Spike feel languid, and he ran a hand through his spiked and peroxided locks as Nancy steered him towards the rear of the stage The last few years in London had been a wild rush, an endless smorgasbord of  sex, drugs and punk rock. The hedonist in Spike thrived on the anarchy, and truth to tell, the poetry of punk appealed to him. He and Drusilla had stumbled across the band in 1975 during a particularly memorable evening of carnage at an East-End nightspot. Drusilla and he had followed the Sex Pistols ever since, the fights that often broke out, Doc Martens and fur flying, suited Spike's need for violence and fed his body as well.

Nobody ever missed a few punk junkies.

The set-up was perfect, and somewhere along the line, he and Dru found themselves unofficial security at all the band's gigs. Drusilla's idiosyncrasies were never an issue within the general madness and mayhem of London's disenchanted punk youth, and Spike felt free to indulge her sado-masochistic quirks without reprisal. It suited him fine. For the first time in years, he felt he belonged somewhere. He didn't even mind when the band had started to splatter certain aspects of his life story amid the general anarchy of their angry lyrics.

Flattering, really. If it bothered him, he could always kill Johnny later, but let him know just before he did,  Exactly [i]why[/i] he had pissed him off.

The lyric to 'SEVENTEEN' contained a direct reference to Spike, and his Mum. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd shared that bit of info with any of the band members, but the reference was there, all the same.

You're only 29
Got a lot to learn
But when your mummy dies
She will not return
We like noise it's our choice
It's what we wanna do
We don't care about long hair
I don't wear
See my face not a trace
No reality
I don't work
I just speed
That's all I need...

The poignancy of his loss was drowned in the cacophony of Johnny's screaming vocal, and Spike nursed a secret stab of hurt every time he heard the tune played. However, he usually did his most inventive kills to the strains of it playing, reverberating eternally like a bad dream nearly a hundred years after the actual event itself.
 
With a whisper of disturbed air, Drusilla was suddenly at his side, dragging him from his dusty thoughts, her eyes shining, and a trace of blood leaking like a tantalizing drop of fine ruby claret from the corner of her luscious mouth. Spike let go of Nancy's sweaty palm, and leaned in to lick the fluid from Drusilla's red lips. They tasted each other, sizzling from the crowd's warmth, the borrowed blood running hot and new in their veins.

Spike leaned in close, concern colouring his features, as he tasted Drusilla to make sure she was untainted with drugs. Last thing he needed was to deal with Dru trashed. Drugs tended to spin her out, mangle her thought processes. She had very nearly killed him once in his sleep, a stake missing his heart by inches, after a particularly nasty run-in with absinthe in the early 1900's.  Over the decades that followed, he was always careful to ensure that there was no repeat performance of that particular event.

With a slight shiver, he remembered the events of Woodstock, in 1969, when in a jealous fit, she had very nearly topped herself after a night of debauchery and heroin. It wasn't one of his favorite memories.

Their long, combined past was littered with the baggage of their combined carnal appetites.

Drusilla had an addictive personality, and Spike wanted her to stay addicted, to [i]him,[/i] so he always made sure her kills were clean. It was becoming increasingly difficult, however, as drugs were a major part of the world these days.

 He spent a good deal of his existence mostly stoned himself. Truth be known, he was pretty much an addict, and if it weren't for the fact that he was a vampire, he'd probably be dead by now. He craved the rush of heroin, and would seek out junkies by smell. Some, like Sid and Nancy, he kept alive, tasty treats when he needed a fix. No need to kill them, yet. Not while the fun lasted, and definitely not while the blood was so willingly given.

"Havin' fun, Pet?" Spike murmured into Drusilla's hair, reassured that her kill had in fact, been untainted. In answer, she licked a warm trail of blood and spittle along his cheek, and he closed his eyes, leaning down to allow her better access. Her teeth nipped at the pin shoved through his scarred eyebrow, and her hands snaked down to grasp at his sudden and painful hard on.

"GRRUFFF! Bad Dog . ." She whispered into his ear, and he smiled, pulling back to look at her, his eyes slightly unfocussed from the effects of the drugs, a hand shooting down to cover hers, massaging and gyrating against her, pressing her hand further into his obvious arousal.

Her fingers started to fumble for his zip, and slipped in to caress his naked erection. Spike groaned, the sudden and intimate contact with his favorite part causing him to lose all coherent thought.  He didn't care where he was; he needed to have her. Right here, right now, warm bodies all around, both of them still hot with borrowed life.

Drusilla lowered her lashes, and with one hand lifted her skirt to press into him, he looked down to where the garter of her fishnet stockings revealed that she wore no underwear, like him. With a groan he slipped into her, and found Drusilla to be wet and ready for him. Leaning in, she braced herself against his shoulders as he began to pump, in, out, in out, ending each forward thrust with a little twist of his hips making Drusilla gasp in pleasure. Spike felt the eyes of the dancers closest to them look on in appreciation as he to moved within his lover.  He leaned across Drusilla to grab at the willing mouth of a yellow haired punk princess, who by the taste of her couldn't have been more than eighteen.

Other hands started to caress his body, and he felt his clothes being pulled and pushed away to allow mouths and hands better access. It was as if he and Drusilla were the centre of the fucking universe. A wall of sensation enveloped him, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the mood. Then he felt Drusilla gently disengage herself, to be replaced by the warm wet mouth of a willing human. Tongues like fire nipped and sucked him all over his body. A solid wall of numbness crept over him, as he scrabbled for purchase in the gelled, spiked hair of a blue haired boy.  With a yell, he shot his load into said boy's willing mouth.

"Fuck, YEAH!" He roared; vamping out and biting into a convenient neck as his orgasm peaked. The heroin coursed through him, adding its own texture to the unreality of the situation.

Spike came down from the combined effects of the orgasm and the drug high blinking rapidly, knees weak, Levis pooled at his feet, 'Hey, that rhymes,' he thought stupidly, before a spasm of terror ripped through him. 'Where's  Dru?' He pushed roughly at the grasping hooks of hands that seemed to be everywhere at once, pulling, nipping, and tasting him. It was all too much. He threw a few well-aimed punches, and stumbled off blindly to find his errant dark, ripe lover.

Nancy, her tits hanging out, lipstick smeared like blood across her cheeks, sidled up beside him, and screeched his name, pointing to the right of the crowd where Dru stood, a bemused expression on her face as a man dressed in leather and chains banged her against the wall.

Spike smiled as he caught Drusilla's eye, and she winked at him, slowly and sensually, before twisting the guy's neck to the side so hard, it nearly snapped clear off.  She stepped over the body delicately, as if she were stepping over a mud puddle, and found her way to Spike and Nancy, acknowledging Nancy with a kiss, and shyly twining her fingers with her lover of a century.

"Let's go, guys." urged Nancy. "We got stuff to talk about."

Spike winced at her massacre of the English language. She said 'tawk' like a parrot screeching. He wondered what Sid saw in her, frankly. But he pushed the thought aside. Nothing could ruin his mood. Everything he wanted, everything he needed was here and now.  Idly, he wondered what Sid needed to see him about.

He smiled. "This should be fun."