TITLE: "Walking Spanish" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/fic -- NEW SITE!!
FEEDBACK: *pointed look*
SPOILERS: nada.
RATING: R
PAIRING: Spike/Wesley
SUMMARY: Well, I'm answering my own challenge. Convenient, eh? "Late night at a bar. Spike, plastered and chockful of gusto, ends up on stage, singing his little heart out. He's actually... *good*.
Must have: Spike/Wesley; no other character we know; R or NC-17 action; rock or punk music (not folk); not at Caritas - some other LA bar with a stage and a good crowd; Spike completely stealing the show; Wesley dropping his drink at something Spike does." So there. Well, Wesley didn't drop anything. Close enough though.
NOTE: This wasn't beta'ed. Be aware that absolutely NO thought went into this particular fic. None. Whatsoever. But, Tom Waits is a god.

* * *


"So how does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"How does it feel to be a year older, Spike?"

He made a face at me and let go of my hand to produce a beaten up pack of cigarette from his coat pocket. He picked one out with his lips and flicked his zippo open. "Feels like any other day, you git, only you're taking me out for drinks and I didn't even have to bitch or whine or anything." He smiled proudly at me, lit cigarette now protruding alluringly from his mouth. He puffed at it liberally and took it away with two painted fingers. "Besides, this isn't even my real birthday."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't even start with me."

"It's not! You and your bloody books can all go to hell."

"I... Just-- shut up." I looked around. Guh, bad neighbourhood.

He did shut up, not wanting to jeopardize his free drinks, I guessed. We crossed the street to tonight's destination. I winced. A bar, loud and crowded. Not my crowd. Not that I really *had* a crowd, but if I did it would appreciate that even at my most casual, I didn't fit in a place like this. I remembered idly the short period of my life where I fancied leather, but it was best to keep that tucked away in the recess of my mind. Meanwhile, I looked exactly like what I was: a bookish idiot who'd do anything for his pest of a vampire. If I wasn't the laughing stock of my kind already, I'd surely take care of that tonight.

Spike grabbed my sleeve and all but skipped to the entrance, where a large bouncer looked at me suspiciously. I made a face at him and followed Spike in. Then came right out again.

"I am NOT going in there!" I stopped on the filthy sidewalk, crossing my arms over my chest with the best scowl I could muster.

Spike came barelling out of the door, gesturing emphatically. "WES-LEY! You promised!"

"I take it back!"

"You can't take back a promise! That's why it's a promise, you wanker!"

"Well!..." I was at a loss. "Spike, this place is awful!"

"But I like it."

"You go on, then. I'll wait for you back at the apartment." I turned to leave but Spike threw himself at my jacket.

"NOOOO! You promised to come with me! It's my birthday and you promised you and me, wherever I wanted, all night." He pouted. I doubt he realized it. "It won't be the same if you don't come," he shrugged and looked at his feet, kicking at gravel. Aw.

He absolutely wanted me there. Wanted to share what he loved with me. I guess I had to take it as a sign of affection, in its own bizarre, Spike way.

I relented. "Oh, alright."

"Yay!" His eyes lit up and he bounced, pulling me toward the door again.

Bah, what the hell.


* * *


"Guys, get a room."

I turned sharply to the man behind the bar, shooting him a dirty look. I clung to the handfuls of leather I had in my hands and opened my mouth to protest when Spike put a hand over it.

"S'alright mate, we'll be good." He winked at the bartender.

The man eyed us a moment more then went to the other end of the bar to server someone else. I grinned at no one and turned back to look at Spike. That little movement made me dizzy. "Whoa."

Spike chuckled and steadied me on my stool. The place was packed at this point in the evening, and Spike and I were ferociously guarding our spots at the bar. We were both sitting on cheap wobbly stools, so close that my knees went around his and we were face to face, given a little privacy by the wall of people around us.

His hand went up to my shirt collar and adjusted it. I felt flustered. I probably was. I'd been drinking more than my share, and had spent most of the last half hour with my tongue down Spike's throat, very much wanting him to be wearing less clothing. I was aware of my tousled hair, crooked shirt and dazed look. I would wait till tomorrow to die of embarassment though. This I enjoyed.

Spike snaked a strong arm around my waist, drawing me closer. "So, luv. What another drink?"

"Yes! Yes." I settled against him, glad he had a considerably higher tolerance for alcohol than I did.

Around midnight and a couple of drinks later, the band came on. And I understood why Spike liked it here. And they say punk is dead. That might also have been the name of the band. Before I knew it I was on my feet being pushed through layers of people until Spike and I came to a free spot near the right of the stage. Spike stood behind me, arm still around my waist, and rested his chin on my shoulder to speak into my ear.

"These guys are *brilliant*. You gonna love this, pet."

Somehow I doubted it, but I was admittedly having a blast up to now, and I wasn't willing to give it up just yet. This could work. I was in no state to disagree anyway.


* * *


I leaned over the sink and stared at my reflection in the poorly lit bathroom mirror. The walls around me were pounding with the noise and I was pretty sure my ears were too. I don't think I'd ever looked like this. Utterly plastered, thoroughly kissed, hair and clothing hanging haphazardly on me. I looked like I'd just been fucked. Rightfully so, as many parts of my body reminded me. I could now cross out 'seedy bathroom stall' from my list. If I were the kind of guy with a list. Spike was slowly making me into one of those guys. 'bout time you lived a little!' he'd told me before herding me into the corner stall and locking the door behind us. I blushed at the thought that someone might have come in during our, um, going-ons, which were by no means quiet. Nothing was ever quiet here, I suspected.

Spike had promptly returned to the music, pumped to a new high, while I stood there, stunned senseless, and listened to the muffled sounds around me.

A young man dressed in safety pins came in and used one of the few stained urinals. He then strolled to the sinks and looked at me in the mirror while letting hot water pour over his hands.

"You with him?"

I looked at him, unsure. "Pardon me?"

"Are you with him? Bleached blond, leather coat, nasty mouth?"

I smiled despite myself, standing a little taller. "Oh. Yes. Yes, I am."

He chuckled, heading back out. "Then you're missing something," he spoke over his shoulder, gesturing at the door as he disappeared through it.

What?

I chanced a peek outside only to be met with a sight that would forever stay imprinted on every fiber of my being. I stubbled out of the bathroom and toward the stage, making my way through the crowd, eyes never leaving the spectacle that offered itself before me.

Spike. On stage. With the band. Mouth glued to a mic, a black electric guitar slung across his shoulder and hanging off crookedly in front of him. I stood there in awe, unblinking, as people around me cheered and shouted, only adding to the infernal noise.

Was that... Tom Waits?

His pale left hand wrapped around the neck, fingers moving easily as he played along like he was the grim poet himself. His mouth game back to the mic and he looked up, his voice suddenly husky and a little less British. "Slip him a picture of our Jesus, or give him a spoon to dig a hole... What all he done ain't no one's business but he'll need blankets for the cold... They dim the lights over on Broadway, even the king has bowed his head and every face looks right up at Mason man he's walking Spanish down the hall."

His gaze swept the room quickly and his eyes locked on mine, not skipping a beat. I whimpered and shifted, my sudden hard-on catching me by surprise.

He went on, and the crowd howled, whistled and cheered around me, eating up what my lover was giving of himself on stage. Which was, quite clearly, everything. I swallowed dryly, eyes following each of his movements. I thought I would come right there, arms dangling limply at my sides.

I was suddenly shoved aside into a group of people, who then pushed me right back to my feet. The applause around me was deafening. I looked back at the stage. Spike was gone.

I pulled at the front of my trousers and made my way back toward the bar, where I walked square into Spike. He was grinning like an idiot, people around him patting him on the back.

"Wesley! Pet, you--"

He was cut short by my grabbing him by the shoulders and crushing my mouth over his, intent on making him as hard as I was just with this. When I pulled away, he stared at me with wide eyes, disheveled and dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to say something but I interrupted him again.

"You. Bed. NOW."

He giggled as I forcefully pushed him through the crowd and toward the door. "Happy birthday me!"



END