Chapter Text
HANKY-PANKY ON THE HELLMOUTH: A CRACK CROSSOVER
By TrueImmortality
--Sunnydale, California—
Alexis was every California schoolboy’s dream: she was tall and generously proportioned, with sleek blonde hair and daring blue eyes and enough makeup to make her look older than her professed seventeen years. She had on some spectacularly inadequate jeans and a halter top. And she had asked Jim Creed if he’d wanted to walk in the woods with her.
Now, Jim was only fourteen, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew junior girls didn’t mess around with freshmen, even if they were at the same bonfire party. He’d been skeptical enough to ask Alexis if she was joking. Alexis had only smiled, her glossy pink lips inviting. “Am I laughing, sugar?” she’d asked, and had taken his hand. “Come on, before your friends notice.”
Jim had taken that answer as good enough. Leaving the bonfire party in a heartbeat, he hurried after her, pulled along by Alexis’s startlingly warm hand. He stumbled a couple times, too lost in the fact that a girl had paid attention to him—and even asked him to go alone into the woods with her—to watch his feet. At length, when Alexis had led him for a good fifteen minutes, he got up the courage to ask, “Um, Alexis, where are we going?”
“Somewhere private,” Alexis had whispered, with another pink-glossed smile.
“Okay,” Jim swallowed, “but we’ve been walking a long time. I think we’ve left the party way behind.”
The two of them broke through the tree line and Alexis abruptly stopped. “Ah, here we are,” she said, and dropped Jim’s hand.
Jim stood, looking at the scene before him in bewilderment. The clearing before him looked a lot like the party he had just left, only instead of one bonfire, there were at least half a dozen, all ranged around the clearing’s edges. There was a table low to the ground, stuffed with all kinds of foods and what looked like—
“Is that a full bar?” Jim asked, blankly. “In the middle of the woods?”
Alexis sashayed back over and handed him a bottle of whiskey. “Jim Beam for my Jim,” she said, and laughed. “Go on, have a swig, Jim.” Then she waved a hand. “All right, party people, let’s get this party started!”
All around the bonfire, figures appeared from out of the woods with shrieks and rude whistles. Jim gaped in disbelief as they all danced steadily toward him. The bottle of whiskey in his hand was forgotten, until Alexis came back up to him and raised it to his lips. Jim drank some of the stringent liquid, but he coughed up most of it. He wasn’t much of a drinker.
“Drink it up, Jim!” Alexis said. Some of the dancing figures seized Jim’s arms and tied them behind his back, and his would-be hookup started pouring more liquor down his throat. Jim thrashed his head back and forth, but it didn’t do any good; Alexis was way stronger than she looked.
In short order, Jim’s world swayed back and forth. He tipped dizzily as he felt his body lifted up and carried to what felt like a cold, stone table. He stared blearily at Alexis, who started dancing to the beat of what sounded like a Madonna song through throaty boom box speakers. “Madonna?” Jim mumbled, through his whiskey daze. “Really?”
Alexis whirled away. Someone stood over Jim. The words said were lost on him, but he understood the knife held high in the figure’s hand well enough. Even though Jim Beam had done its best to dull his senses, Jim Creed was alert enough to voice a dull protest as the knife came down, right over his heart.
Jim Creed died. Madonna played on, singing cheerily into the smoke-streaked night.
“Like a virgin,” sang Drusilla, dreamily, as she plucked the feathers off a newly-strangled chicken. “Like a virgin…feeling your heart beat next to mine…”
“What’s that, love?” asked Spike. He lounged against a table in the old warehouse, lazily rolling a lighter between his fingers.
“The Madonna’s singing to the dead boy,” Dru answered, rubbing chicken feathers all over her body. “Dead boy doesn’t hear, though. Pity.”
“That’s nice,” sighed Spike.
Dru straightened suddenly, dropping her feathers. “Oh,” she breathed. She flung her head back and raised her arms above her head, as if to ward off a blow. “Oh. The pretty hunters, they’ve got the scent. They’re going to find the little deer.” She made a gun out of her fingers. “Pow, pow, pow!” Then she turned to Spike, sticking her lower lip. “They’re such naughty boys, Spike. Why must they follow?” Dru clutched her head, mussing her long, dark hair. “Silver bullets, green eyes, I don’t like it—don’t like it—“
“Shhh, love,” Spike said. He set down the lighter and strode to Drusilla, pulling her against him. He stroked a hand through her hair. Dru quieted instantly. “You tell me when the naughty boys come to town,” Spike said, soothingly, “and I’ll string them up and let you pluck at them like that chicken, eh?” When Dru only pouted, he kissed her and stroked her cheek. “Eh? How’s that sound, my little dove?”
Dru made doe eyes at Spike, but she leaned against him and pressed the length of her body against his. “I get to do the plucking?”
“All of it,” Spike promised. “Every bit.”
Dru smiled, slowly and seductively. “All right, Spike. I’ll be watching for my little chickens, yeah?”
Behind her, Spike’s eyes fixed on the mutilated bird, and his eyes burned with a raging curiosity. “Of course, love,” he said. “I know how much you love to watch.”