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Manchester, Spike, decided, was a dump. And the 1970s were the most miserable decade since the 1900s. Possibly even worse. He turned up the collar of his coat against the drizzle and pulled Drusilla closer to him as they trudged back to the warehouse they'd made their home. She giggled softly and murmured something about lights making noises in her head.
"Yeah, lovely, pet. I'm sure they're very pretty lights." To make things perfect, he was hungry. They'd found a couple of Woodstock refugees but Dru had been peckish and eaten them both.
"The lights are singing me to sleep," Dru told him. "Shhhhh... Mustn't wake them up."
Spike stopped and turned Dru to face him. "Tell you what, love. You curl up with the lights and I'll get something to eat."
"But Mummy's all filled up," Dru complained.
"I know, sweetheart, but Daddy isn't." Spike's patience was fraying like a cheap tablecloth.
"Oh." Dru looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Was I greedy?"
"Just a little." Spike couldn't help smiling as his irritation lessened. "Go on, pet. You go and play with the lights."
It was only when Drusilla held up a human lung that he realised she had been talking about lights as in guts and entrails. He beamed fondly. That was his Dru. Drove him up the wall at times but he couldn't live without her.
Well, unlive without her. Whatever.
The streets were empty. Bloody typical. Too early for chucking-out time, which meant no convenient people with interesting things in their blood. Spike kicked a stone down the road and grinned as it shot straight through a shop window and set off a clamouring alarm. Considering the area, Spike wasn't surprised that no eager coppers appeared, truncheons at the ready. The alarm was more likely to attract opportunists, out to pick up whatever the original thief had left behind.
He waited hopefully for a while but nobody showed. With a sigh, he turned into a slightly busier street and started hunting for a pub where he could at least while away the hour or so before dinner.
Except... Who needed a pub when there was a concert? He kicked open the door of the Lesser Free Trade Hall. Even better, it sounded like the kind of concert where one or two deaths among the audience were expected.
Or, he decided as a bouncer approached, one or two deaths among the doorstaff. The old geezer tried to scream but Spike kept his hand over his mouth until it was too late.
Spike spat as he let the body drop to the ground. The moment they died, the blood went all watery and disgusting. Bloody nuisance. He kicked the body into a convenient alcove and headed into the venue proper.
The noise hit him.
For a vampire, it wasn't a metaphor. He could feel every vibration of anger, frustration and vitriol. Every half-formed chord torn out of the guitars caressed his skin. Each misplaced drumbeat or bass note was a punch with a blunt needle. And every screaming, flat rasp from the singer's throat was sandpaper.
This was the music he'd been looking for. This was the music William the Bloody Awful had been seeking with his poetry, if he'd only known it.
This was, in short, a bloody good reason for hanging around on the planet for a century or so.
Spike was grinning as he strode forward, casually kicking be-flared and be-clogged losers out of his way. He wanted to know who was playing this music and who the addictively crap singer was.
The lighting was bad, the acoustics worse, and Spike was nearly at the edge of the stage before he could get a good look at the scrawny figure clutching the microphone stand as though it was his last weapon against the world. Ginger hair, ripped clothes, skin paler than Spike's own and a jawline that he had a sudden to run his teeth across. And, bizarrely, not as a precursor to biting down and feeding.
Spike blinked at the thought. Angelus had taught him about rape, before he turned soft. (It was, he said, a very effective way of hurting somebody. Spike had pointed out that teeth were just as effective and had the added advantage of getting you a good meal. Spike was just an old-fashioned, straightforward guy at unbeating heart.) The point was, he'd done the whole shagging-a-bloke thing and hadn't found it a particular turn-on. Though, admittedly, Angelus breathing down his neck and offering him 'helpful tips' was enough to put anybody off his stroke, so to speak.
So why did he have a sudden urge to take this skinny kid dressed in a... Was that a woolly sweater? Spike shuddered. Well, get the woolly sweater off him - shouldn't be too hard, the thing was already ripped to shreds - and take the kid and screw him senseless.
All this for a pretty jawline, a fascinating stare and safety pins.
Spike frowned. Safety pins? He'd never considered safety pins as a fashion accessory before. As a torture accessory, yes, but fashion, no.
Ah, bugger it. He'd listen to the music for now and figure out later if he was going to do anything about the kid. Or to the kid.
Except all of a sudden the kid was looking down at him and grinning. Cocky little beggar! He should be running in fear, not sneering like he was the one in charge.
Oh yeah, Spike realised. Traditionally, the kid was in charge. He was the lead singer of the band while Spike was an adoring groupie hanging around his ankles. Bugger. He glared at the kid's Doc Martens (More sodding safety pins? Someone should buy the kid a sewing kit), slumped against the stage, folded his arms and, despite himself, enjoyed the show.
Far too soon, there was a final, defiant mischord. "We've been the Sex Pistols," the kid roared. "Goodnight, thank you and fuck you!"
Spike's gaze jerked upward and he found the kid staring - smirking - at him.
Now that was not on. That was blatant taunting. And nobody, Spike decided as he jumped on to the stage and followed the kid off, taunted a vampire.
Especially not a vampire with a sudden interest in safety pins.
And no bloody security guard stops a vampire following those safety pins backstage, no matter what the meat-brained oaf might think on the matter. He was eating a lot of security staff tonight, Spike realised as he slid back into human face. Which was a nuisance because they never tasted particularly good.
They did, however, have security passes which were useful to a safety-pin fixated vampire. No, not fixated. Interested. Spike studied the photograph for a moment, shrugged and slipped the pass over his head. Nobody would notice that he was six inches shorter and three foot narrower, with hair that was both a different colour and a foot shorter.
Or at least, if they did, they wouldn't be concerned about it for long.
Spike followed the noise and smell. He'd learned back in the fifties that groupies have a specific smell to them and, despite the masks of cigarettes, fake leather and cheap perfume, the scent was still there. Spike felt a brief glow of comradely feeling towards his fellow predators. The difference was, they were hyenas while he was a sodding lion.
He used the back of his hand to wipe a splash of blood away from his mouth.
Oh yeah. And he was usually out to kill his prey, rather than shag it.
The kid had something leaning on his shoulder that, under all the make-up, was almost certainly a woman. Spike raised a scarred eyebrow and tilted his head in silent assessment of the minimal clothing. Definitely a woman.
She wouldn't be there for much longer, though.
Spike was grinning as he clapped his arm round the kid's shoulders, knocking the woman away. "It's your lucky day, my lad. I've got a little proposition to put to you."
The kid stood stock still, ignoring Spike's gentle-ish pressing towards a more private area. Deciding reluctantly that it would be undignified to haul the kid off kicking and screaming, Spike tapped his foot impatiently.
"What you on about?"
Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. "Never heard of A&R? I'm here to make you a very good offer. Well. Consider making it." He studied the kid. "Don't know yet if you're actually going to be up to it."
The kid gave an exaggerated yawn. "Don't deal wiv that stuff. Speak to Malcolm."
"I've already spoken to Malcolm." Spike's patience was as exaggerated as the kid's yawn. "I need to know if you kids are actually what we're looking for."
"Probably not. No record company's looking for us. Bunch o' cunts, the lot of 'em." The kid studied Spike in turn. "Like your hair, though."
"Well, I like your music. But what I don't like is the thought that you might be a bunch of posers. If that out there is just an act - forget it."
"You saying we're ponces?"
"I'm saying-" Spike gripped the kid's face and turned it towards him "-that you'd better bloody not be." They glared at each other for a moment. "What the fuck's your name, anyway?"
"John." He pointed behind him without attempting to pull out of Spike's grip. "Paul. Steve. Glen."
"That's nice." Spike didn't look away. "Are we going to talk or not?"
"Who are you?"
"Spike. And you didn't answer my question." John didn't reply and Spike tightened his grip. "It's not polite to refuse to answer a question."
The kid grinned. "We ain't polite. We're the fucking Pistols."
Spike grinned back and, with a shove, released John. "Somewhere quiet where we're not going to be interrupted. Lead the way."
As he walked through the doorway, Spike assessed the grubby little dressing room. Then, in one move, he kicked the door shut behind him and slammed John's back against the wall. "Hello, pretty boy." An arm across the kid's throat kept him wedged firmly in place.
"Fuck off, you great faggot!"
Spike liked the look on John's face as he realised Spike wasn't going to be pushed away easily. It was a rather sweet combination of defiance, hatred, shock and a little bit of fear. "That's not very nice. And here I am offering you such a wonderful opportunity."
"Oh yeah? What kind of opportunity?"
"The opportunity to get buggered senseless, actually. Give us a kiss."
John spat, with uncanny accuracy, into Spike's eye.
Spike blinked and used his free hand to wipe his eye. "That wasn't very smart." Spike studied the fuming kid for a moment, then kissed him.
He was prepared for squirming, kicking, biting, etc. What he wasn't prepared for was John kissing him back with what, for a human, was a rather interesting amount of viciousness. John, he decided a moment later, was smarter than he looked. The kiss had distracted him for long enough for the kid to wriggle out of his grip, leaving Spike kissing empty air.
"Bugger," he said.
"Fuck off."
"I was hoping for something about how I wasn't going to be buggering anybody but I suppose I can't have everything. Come here."
"Fuck off."
"This is getting repetitive. Get your arse over here so I can screw you."
"Fuck off."
"Just say something other than that. Anything. It's getting very dull."
"Screw you."
"I suppose I asked for that."
"I mean it. I'm gonna fucking screw you."
Spike frowned. "Look, kid. I'm a lot stronger than you are. You're not going to make me do anything I don't want to."
"You're gonna want to be fucked."
Oh well. Let the kid keep his delusions until it was too late.
It only took a moment for John to wedge the door shut and a few moments more for him to be stripped and waiting on the unhygienic bed. He didn't, Spike decided, look too bad. A bit skeletal, a bit bruised and battered, but it was a look he quite liked in humans.
"Get a fuckin' move on, can't you?"
The stroppiness was another matter. "Watch it."
And yet... Spike quickly kicked his clothes off and thudded on to the narrow bed, half on top of John. He didn't have time to think before John had grabbed the back of his head and was kissing him. And then he didn't have time to think because John's hands were everywhere, pulling him closer to sharp bones and hardened flesh and it felt seriously fucking good. John's hands, sharp and demanding on his neck, his back, his arse, and he didn't even notice being manoeuvred on to his back, John sprawled on top. Teeth nipping at his neck and he gasped, thrusting upwards without conscious effort.
John's hand gripping his erection with unapologetic viciousness, rough strokes driving Spike too quickly but the other hand was on his throat and he could have broken away but it all felt too fucking good.
He was almost whimpering as he thrust into John's fist, his eyes flickering between the kid's manic, unsmiling glare and the cigarette-scarred hand torturing him with pleasure. He jerked frantically, losing all rhythm as the orgasm rushed through him, and then, before he could even finish, he was on his stomach and the skinny hands were pressing his body against the mattress and his head into the pillow and he fucking knew he'd been an idiot.
A hand leaving his back and the sound of spitting behind him and then the distant memory of a cock shoving into his arse was pushed roughly into the present. He pulled away instinctively but his arm was twisted behind his back and, damn it, he could easily get away but he lay there with his demon face buried in the pillow as he snarled with fury and John pushed roughly into him and it still felt too fucking good. As quick and violent and overflowing with contempt as his music, John thrust into him and the dry pain felt so damn good and familiar and right and then John's teeth closed on the back of Spike's neck as the kid gave three final, deep shoves and Spike couldn't stop the longing whisper of, "Angel," that escaped him.
"Jesus!" John was gone in a moment. "Should've known you'd get all fucking affectionate. Bloody faggots." The kid was shrugging into his clothes, getting dressed even quicker than he'd stripped. "Get a move on, you poofter. C'mon."
Spike had to make an effort to go back to human face before lifting his head from the pillow and he had to make even more of an effort not to rip the bloody kid's throat out. "Shut the fuck up."
"Ah, sod it. You can find your own way out."
With that, John was gone.
"Wanker," Spike muttered.
"You smell of nightingales," Drusilla murmured as he wrapped his arms around her.
"Yeah, pet. Nightingales with fucking teeth."