FIC: Live the Music (Trippin' is Fun and Informative Remix)
Title: Live the Music (Trippin' is Fun and Informative Remix) aka Woodstock
Summary: Spike feeds off a flowerperson and stares at his hands for the next six hours, watching them move in ways he remembers and ways he could never imagine.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2400 words
Spoilers: If the scene involves Spike, you're in danger of being spoiled here.
Author's Note: Thanks to rebcake for being a wonderful beta. Your knowledge of the era and love of Spike were invaluable to me. This is a remix of vampedvixen 's drabble - Woodstock.
Awards:
Nominated for Best Gen at the Shades of Grey Awards - Round 25 sog_awards
******
Spike drops the body on the canvas floor of the tent, licking his lips as he stands. They feel different. The blood tastes a little off. He laughs. Everyone here tastes a little off. He’s beginning to acquire a refined palette for drugged blood. Cocaine tastes tart, making him want to smack his lips. Marijuana tastes mellow, like drinking warm milk. And this flower girl’s blood tastes…
Different. Spike stumbles outside the tent and looks for Drusilla. She’d caught sight of a promising girl with a head full of blonde braids and hadn’t been able to resist following her. She’d said something about ‘her hair was alive’. He notices the crowd still humming with energy after the last day’s performances. Three days of music at Woodstock. He’s glad he’d insisted they come. Dru had wanted to go to Disneyland again, but he’d put his foot down.
A few amateur musicians are holding court in front of the large white tent across the muddy path, playing their favorite songs and keeping the music alive. Spike pauses to listen. They’re not half bad, though they don’t hold a candle to the real Jefferson Airplane.
won't you try
won't you try
won't you try
find a way to need someone
find a way to see
find a way to need someone and the sunshine will set you free
He sees Drusilla twenty yards off and walks towards her, the music playing at his back, his feet bouncing through the muddy earth with excited energy. A bloke in camouflage pants bangs into his shoulder and the jarring motion makes his world go slanted. He finds himself sprawled in the mud, his vision all a-tilt. Bloody hell. He holds his hands up in the air to brace himself and stares as they begin to blur and jump.
He moves his right hand slightly and is amazed at the patterns and colors he paints on the air. The patterns begin to resemble a kaleidoscope and he shakes his head, trying to restore a proper perspective. His hands continue to dance and spark, mesmerizing him with their motion. And then something weird happens. Something more weird happens. His vision elongates dramatically and then contracts until the background of stars and moon above him fade and he sees -
soft hands gently return a mother’s caress, affection and devotion guiding the fingers to curve and warmly linger
inspired hands grip a stylus, scribbling furiously on rough paper only to pause, frustrated - nothing rhymes you see
embarrassed hands wipe away hot tears that flow underneath fogged spectacles, shaking with regret and shame
terrified hands clutch at his dark demon woman, not a pickpocket though she surely has picked him
cold hands claw at smothering dirt, upward upward reaching, violently seeking release through the breach of earth
powerful hands wrench a nameless man’s neck to the side, exposing his tantalizing pulse to a ravenous hunger
excited hands boldly touch pale breasts, drinking in the sensation of woman and desire before lust is consummated
misguided hands cup elderly shoulders, promising to guide the mother across the new divide
disillusioned hands grip splintering wood that collects and disperses his demon mother’s dust
vengeful hands shove the railroad spikes into haughty, overblown skulls, letting loose all the braggarts’ airs, who’s superior now?
cocksure hands brave the shaft of sunlight to join another angry fist, a pissing contest to win a new brother
brotherly hands clasp and part to pull a wire between them, connected in purpose and death toll as opponents’ heads roll in St. Petersburg
reckless hands throw punches at the girl who seeks his end with pointed wood, catching her off guard at the light of explosion and bagging his first
masterful hands hum with power, now gripping lover and victim with equal assurance of right
confused hands push off the nickel-steel hull of the submarine, swimming up through leagues of frigid dark waters
suave hands spin his dark princess round the ballroom, waltz meeting tango then quick step and jive
rebel hands throw her leather clad shoulders across the subway car, dancing in the sway til flashing lights giving way to snapping necks and he bags his second
protective hands cradle his love, broken down by a mob’s fury til listless madness alone supports her weak body
taunting hands run down his chest towards his groin, a manly show for the cutie to appreciate before dying
healing hands plunge the dagger into the bound palms of angel and sire, lover and mentor, restoring strength to and from his family
frustrated hands grip the wheels of his prison, spinning him in place, forcing him to watch them shagging and listen to her moaning his name
resourceful hands knock the officer out, offering truce and alliance on a tenuous trust of mutual interest - his love returned for saving the world
traitorous hands beat down on his sire’s dark head with a fireplace poker and suffocate his darling til the lights go out - time to quit this hellhole
pathetic hands grip a bottle, drowning his sorrows for love lost and providing liquid courage for a magical restoration that’s proven unnecessary
determined hands drill up for the gem from beneath her, his power unleashed in the daylight to challenge her self-righteous whining and finally bag him a third
captive hands flinch at the shock of electricity flowing through the glass wall of his cell, the cunning required to make his escape later understands the flowing shock exists inside him still, now a walking prison within his head
pleading hands beg his enemies for protection from the deadly sun rays, an offer of information rewarding him with entrée across the white hats’ threshold
impotent hands are bound in rope then chains, three squares of handfed swine’s blood a poor substitute, but better than being a living skeleton
enchanted hands offer his skull ring to his newly imagined beloved, passionate liplocks and wedding toppers only highlighting his fierce though temporary happiness
redirected hands discover that demons make for potent targets, no pain in the bash and crash of the thrill and kill
devious hands play Yoko on insecurities among friends, breaking up the band before the night of the big gig, only to switch sides during the battle yet again as demon and human war underground and within
scheming hands steal a doctor and plot a return to the villain’s path, his foiled attempts to restore his bite reveal an unknown layer to his attraction, oh god no
rageful hands raise the shotgun to blast the source of his hurt pride and anguish, dropping at the sight of tears that push away anger and bring forth forgotten sympathies, the closed fist becoming an open attempt to comfort
stalker hands rifle through drawers and unmentionables, nicking pieces of satin and cashmere for his personal collection
helping hands toss her a butcher's knife and then offer anchor so she may rise again, the alien demon dead at their feet
courting hands open doors and aid in battle, lieutenant to her captain on the front lines until his interest is revealed, enchained ultimatums are given and the threshold is denied him once more
rejected hands rip down his wall of worship, channeling his obsession into creating a plastic replacement that ultimately tests his true loyalties, displacing the fake with something real
knightly hands stop the sword from falling and offer to carry her weapons into battle, undemanding devotion that returns his invitation and births a fragile trust
mournful hands shake with grief and cover his face so he cannot see her broken body among the rubble, but covering his eyes fails to stop the nightmares of failure every night
reverent hands hold hers, examining bloodied knuckles and understanding the terror of rebirth, overcome by her return
friendly hands offer solace in a bottle while dealing cards from under his sleeve and solving problems by avoiding the source
magical hands stop her dancing towards death, reminding her to live and recapture the fire, the fire that ends in a kiss
defensive hands hit back after a degrading blow, surprise at the ability to strike without pain leading to confusion at it only being her that’s wrong
impassioned hands clutch and clench, smashing down walls and taking them both into the dark below
seductive hands entice her into shadow, fighting to keep her with him as she struggles to find her place, rejecting his darker influences with the reminder of her former self and leaving him in-between
horrified hands throw the bottle against the wall of his crypt as visions of her pleading haunt him, the realization of his crime demanding he find a way to change and finally call victor of the war between man and demon
defiant hands catch the demon’s flaming fist, crushing the flames into his grasp and demanding his light be returned to him through the trials
penitent hands slash at his chest, desperate to remove the heart that gave birth to all this guilt, the heart that coveted and loved and destroyed itself
insane hands bob rhythmically with the rocking motion of his body, distracting his mind from visions of her begging him to stop, of everyone begging him to stop, of the silence when he fails to stop
triggered hands guide his victims back to the house where he drinks them down and buries them in his victim’s basement, humming his mother’s old ditty as the puppet master pulls his strings
defeated hands pull his jacket back from his chest, offering her a clean target, straight to the heart that belongs to her fully, admitting his failure at chaining the beast within, that evil disgusting thing
shamed hands fight against her basement’s chains to prove he’s dangerous and unforgiveable, he doesn’t deserve her belief, he cannot change
tortured hands hang from evil shackles, a suffocating hopelessness is further encouraged by whispers of what he already believes, the only counter to the growing dark a chanting reminder that she believes in him, that he is worthy to be saved, to be free
insecure hands remaster the demon within, cloaking himself in leather and harnessing the violence, directing the power outward and under his control again
faithful hands follow her lead, support her choices and await her word as she frees him from the metallic prison within and gives him the opportunity to restore his free will
inspiring hands reach for her cheek and pull back when she resists, offering undemanding admiration, belief and love in the place of selfish desire
loving hands hold her as he watches her sleep, feeling full and complete and happy, perfectly connected and not alone
jealous hands jab at the punching bag and crinkled paper taped onto it, the kiss he never wanted to see playing again and again in his mind’s eye
heroic hands accept a gaudy trinket and wear it with the knowledge that it spells his death, but it’s a gift from her and so always welcome
effulgent hands alight from the flames within, his entire being ablaze with soul and her, finally understanding the ultimate gift of love when he sends her away and gifts what she most desires, freedom
Spike’s vision snaps back into focus and he blinks against the light burning his eyes, opening and closing them erratically until his sight returns. He stares at his hands, waiting for them to move on their own. And they still do a bit, but only in the way he expects after drinking down a flower child.
He feels dazed, like he’s been walloped upside the head, thoughts slowing and memory blanking even as he sobers up from the drug-rich blood. The details begin to fade and everything that made perfect sense within the vision now lacks rhyme and reason. He only remembers the wonder of the feelings, the power of them and the blinding light at the end. Rolling up on his knees, he notices Drusilla kneeling in the muddy grass next to him.
“Spike? What did you see?” Drusilla raises her right hand as if to touch the vision in front of Spike’s face.
“Heh. My hands…” Spike shakes his head, half-smiling. “Was a hell of a trip.”
Drusilla sidles up to Spike till their knees touch, tilting her head to look deeply into his eyes. “Your dark wicked hands are all mine now, aren’t they?”
Spike grins, grasping her hips as they sway to the music playing from a distance, their knees slipping through the mud as they bend and turn. “Everything I am is all yours, love.”
Drusilla sighs, her eyes distant as she looks through Spike. “Now you say nay, all sorts of sweet things.” She pouts. “The party’s over. The music’s stopped and I haven’t even begun to dance. I’ve forgotten my slippers.” Drusilla pulls up the hem of her skirt to show her bare feet.
“Lost your shoes, pet?” Spike eyes a woman strumming a guitar in front of the tent nearby. “Fancy hers?”
“Not hungry for more hippie. Tastes wrong, no zing, and they never scream half as much as I’d like.”
“Suppose it’s a bit too easy. Always the way of it with peace-loving, drugged up types.” Spike examines the crowd bunking down for the night and the few who remain awake, still high off the final day’s performances. Well, still high. “Looks like we’ve played this scene. Time to go?”
“Yes, please. Somewhere new and delicious.”
“Anything for my princess.” Spike smiles fondly, resting his hand at the small of her back as they rise from the mud and walk towards the DeSoto parked on the other side of the hill.
As they reach the top of the hill, Spike turns to squint at the faint outline of the stage in the distance. The light of the moon shines on center stage and he imagines all the performances again in his mind. It’s one thing to hear music, another to experience it. To live it. He had lived the music the past three days. He had lived the music tonight. He would never forget it. Never forget this.
Best damn concert ever.
Summary: Spike feeds off a flowerperson and stares at his hands for the next six hours, watching them move in ways he remembers and ways he could never imagine.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2400 words
Spoilers: If the scene involves Spike, you're in danger of being spoiled here.
Author's Note: Thanks to rebcake for being a wonderful beta. Your knowledge of the era and love of Spike were invaluable to me. This is a remix of vampedvixen 's drabble - Woodstock.
Awards:
Nominated for Best Gen at the Shades of Grey Awards - Round 25 sog_awards
******
Spike drops the body on the canvas floor of the tent, licking his lips as he stands. They feel different. The blood tastes a little off. He laughs. Everyone here tastes a little off. He’s beginning to acquire a refined palette for drugged blood. Cocaine tastes tart, making him want to smack his lips. Marijuana tastes mellow, like drinking warm milk. And this flower girl’s blood tastes…
Different. Spike stumbles outside the tent and looks for Drusilla. She’d caught sight of a promising girl with a head full of blonde braids and hadn’t been able to resist following her. She’d said something about ‘her hair was alive’. He notices the crowd still humming with energy after the last day’s performances. Three days of music at Woodstock. He’s glad he’d insisted they come. Dru had wanted to go to Disneyland again, but he’d put his foot down.
A few amateur musicians are holding court in front of the large white tent across the muddy path, playing their favorite songs and keeping the music alive. Spike pauses to listen. They’re not half bad, though they don’t hold a candle to the real Jefferson Airplane.
won't you try
won't you try
won't you try
find a way to need someone
find a way to see
find a way to need someone and the sunshine will set you free
He sees Drusilla twenty yards off and walks towards her, the music playing at his back, his feet bouncing through the muddy earth with excited energy. A bloke in camouflage pants bangs into his shoulder and the jarring motion makes his world go slanted. He finds himself sprawled in the mud, his vision all a-tilt. Bloody hell. He holds his hands up in the air to brace himself and stares as they begin to blur and jump.
He moves his right hand slightly and is amazed at the patterns and colors he paints on the air. The patterns begin to resemble a kaleidoscope and he shakes his head, trying to restore a proper perspective. His hands continue to dance and spark, mesmerizing him with their motion. And then something weird happens. Something more weird happens. His vision elongates dramatically and then contracts until the background of stars and moon above him fade and he sees -
soft hands gently return a mother’s caress, affection and devotion guiding the fingers to curve and warmly linger
inspired hands grip a stylus, scribbling furiously on rough paper only to pause, frustrated - nothing rhymes you see
embarrassed hands wipe away hot tears that flow underneath fogged spectacles, shaking with regret and shame
terrified hands clutch at his dark demon woman, not a pickpocket though she surely has picked him
cold hands claw at smothering dirt, upward upward reaching, violently seeking release through the breach of earth
powerful hands wrench a nameless man’s neck to the side, exposing his tantalizing pulse to a ravenous hunger
excited hands boldly touch pale breasts, drinking in the sensation of woman and desire before lust is consummated
misguided hands cup elderly shoulders, promising to guide the mother across the new divide
disillusioned hands grip splintering wood that collects and disperses his demon mother’s dust
vengeful hands shove the railroad spikes into haughty, overblown skulls, letting loose all the braggarts’ airs, who’s superior now?
cocksure hands brave the shaft of sunlight to join another angry fist, a pissing contest to win a new brother
brotherly hands clasp and part to pull a wire between them, connected in purpose and death toll as opponents’ heads roll in St. Petersburg
reckless hands throw punches at the girl who seeks his end with pointed wood, catching her off guard at the light of explosion and bagging his first
masterful hands hum with power, now gripping lover and victim with equal assurance of right
confused hands push off the nickel-steel hull of the submarine, swimming up through leagues of frigid dark waters
suave hands spin his dark princess round the ballroom, waltz meeting tango then quick step and jive
rebel hands throw her leather clad shoulders across the subway car, dancing in the sway til flashing lights giving way to snapping necks and he bags his second
protective hands cradle his love, broken down by a mob’s fury til listless madness alone supports her weak body
taunting hands run down his chest towards his groin, a manly show for the cutie to appreciate before dying
healing hands plunge the dagger into the bound palms of angel and sire, lover and mentor, restoring strength to and from his family
frustrated hands grip the wheels of his prison, spinning him in place, forcing him to watch them shagging and listen to her moaning his name
resourceful hands knock the officer out, offering truce and alliance on a tenuous trust of mutual interest - his love returned for saving the world
traitorous hands beat down on his sire’s dark head with a fireplace poker and suffocate his darling til the lights go out - time to quit this hellhole
pathetic hands grip a bottle, drowning his sorrows for love lost and providing liquid courage for a magical restoration that’s proven unnecessary
determined hands drill up for the gem from beneath her, his power unleashed in the daylight to challenge her self-righteous whining and finally bag him a third
captive hands flinch at the shock of electricity flowing through the glass wall of his cell, the cunning required to make his escape later understands the flowing shock exists inside him still, now a walking prison within his head
pleading hands beg his enemies for protection from the deadly sun rays, an offer of information rewarding him with entrée across the white hats’ threshold
impotent hands are bound in rope then chains, three squares of handfed swine’s blood a poor substitute, but better than being a living skeleton
enchanted hands offer his skull ring to his newly imagined beloved, passionate liplocks and wedding toppers only highlighting his fierce though temporary happiness
redirected hands discover that demons make for potent targets, no pain in the bash and crash of the thrill and kill
devious hands play Yoko on insecurities among friends, breaking up the band before the night of the big gig, only to switch sides during the battle yet again as demon and human war underground and within
scheming hands steal a doctor and plot a return to the villain’s path, his foiled attempts to restore his bite reveal an unknown layer to his attraction, oh god no
rageful hands raise the shotgun to blast the source of his hurt pride and anguish, dropping at the sight of tears that push away anger and bring forth forgotten sympathies, the closed fist becoming an open attempt to comfort
stalker hands rifle through drawers and unmentionables, nicking pieces of satin and cashmere for his personal collection
helping hands toss her a butcher's knife and then offer anchor so she may rise again, the alien demon dead at their feet
courting hands open doors and aid in battle, lieutenant to her captain on the front lines until his interest is revealed, enchained ultimatums are given and the threshold is denied him once more
rejected hands rip down his wall of worship, channeling his obsession into creating a plastic replacement that ultimately tests his true loyalties, displacing the fake with something real
knightly hands stop the sword from falling and offer to carry her weapons into battle, undemanding devotion that returns his invitation and births a fragile trust
mournful hands shake with grief and cover his face so he cannot see her broken body among the rubble, but covering his eyes fails to stop the nightmares of failure every night
reverent hands hold hers, examining bloodied knuckles and understanding the terror of rebirth, overcome by her return
friendly hands offer solace in a bottle while dealing cards from under his sleeve and solving problems by avoiding the source
magical hands stop her dancing towards death, reminding her to live and recapture the fire, the fire that ends in a kiss
defensive hands hit back after a degrading blow, surprise at the ability to strike without pain leading to confusion at it only being her that’s wrong
impassioned hands clutch and clench, smashing down walls and taking them both into the dark below
seductive hands entice her into shadow, fighting to keep her with him as she struggles to find her place, rejecting his darker influences with the reminder of her former self and leaving him in-between
horrified hands throw the bottle against the wall of his crypt as visions of her pleading haunt him, the realization of his crime demanding he find a way to change and finally call victor of the war between man and demon
defiant hands catch the demon’s flaming fist, crushing the flames into his grasp and demanding his light be returned to him through the trials
penitent hands slash at his chest, desperate to remove the heart that gave birth to all this guilt, the heart that coveted and loved and destroyed itself
insane hands bob rhythmically with the rocking motion of his body, distracting his mind from visions of her begging him to stop, of everyone begging him to stop, of the silence when he fails to stop
triggered hands guide his victims back to the house where he drinks them down and buries them in his victim’s basement, humming his mother’s old ditty as the puppet master pulls his strings
defeated hands pull his jacket back from his chest, offering her a clean target, straight to the heart that belongs to her fully, admitting his failure at chaining the beast within, that evil disgusting thing
shamed hands fight against her basement’s chains to prove he’s dangerous and unforgiveable, he doesn’t deserve her belief, he cannot change
tortured hands hang from evil shackles, a suffocating hopelessness is further encouraged by whispers of what he already believes, the only counter to the growing dark a chanting reminder that she believes in him, that he is worthy to be saved, to be free
insecure hands remaster the demon within, cloaking himself in leather and harnessing the violence, directing the power outward and under his control again
faithful hands follow her lead, support her choices and await her word as she frees him from the metallic prison within and gives him the opportunity to restore his free will
inspiring hands reach for her cheek and pull back when she resists, offering undemanding admiration, belief and love in the place of selfish desire
loving hands hold her as he watches her sleep, feeling full and complete and happy, perfectly connected and not alone
jealous hands jab at the punching bag and crinkled paper taped onto it, the kiss he never wanted to see playing again and again in his mind’s eye
heroic hands accept a gaudy trinket and wear it with the knowledge that it spells his death, but it’s a gift from her and so always welcome
effulgent hands alight from the flames within, his entire being ablaze with soul and her, finally understanding the ultimate gift of love when he sends her away and gifts what she most desires, freedom
Spike’s vision snaps back into focus and he blinks against the light burning his eyes, opening and closing them erratically until his sight returns. He stares at his hands, waiting for them to move on their own. And they still do a bit, but only in the way he expects after drinking down a flower child.
He feels dazed, like he’s been walloped upside the head, thoughts slowing and memory blanking even as he sobers up from the drug-rich blood. The details begin to fade and everything that made perfect sense within the vision now lacks rhyme and reason. He only remembers the wonder of the feelings, the power of them and the blinding light at the end. Rolling up on his knees, he notices Drusilla kneeling in the muddy grass next to him.
“Spike? What did you see?” Drusilla raises her right hand as if to touch the vision in front of Spike’s face.
“Heh. My hands…” Spike shakes his head, half-smiling. “Was a hell of a trip.”
Drusilla sidles up to Spike till their knees touch, tilting her head to look deeply into his eyes. “Your dark wicked hands are all mine now, aren’t they?”
Spike grins, grasping her hips as they sway to the music playing from a distance, their knees slipping through the mud as they bend and turn. “Everything I am is all yours, love.”
Drusilla sighs, her eyes distant as she looks through Spike. “Now you say nay, all sorts of sweet things.” She pouts. “The party’s over. The music’s stopped and I haven’t even begun to dance. I’ve forgotten my slippers.” Drusilla pulls up the hem of her skirt to show her bare feet.
“Lost your shoes, pet?” Spike eyes a woman strumming a guitar in front of the tent nearby. “Fancy hers?”
“Not hungry for more hippie. Tastes wrong, no zing, and they never scream half as much as I’d like.”
“Suppose it’s a bit too easy. Always the way of it with peace-loving, drugged up types.” Spike examines the crowd bunking down for the night and the few who remain awake, still high off the final day’s performances. Well, still high. “Looks like we’ve played this scene. Time to go?”
“Yes, please. Somewhere new and delicious.”
“Anything for my princess.” Spike smiles fondly, resting his hand at the small of her back as they rise from the mud and walk towards the DeSoto parked on the other side of the hill.
As they reach the top of the hill, Spike turns to squint at the faint outline of the stage in the distance. The light of the moon shines on center stage and he imagines all the performances again in his mind. It’s one thing to hear music, another to experience it. To live it. He had lived the music the past three days. He had lived the music tonight. He would never forget it. Never forget this.
Best damn concert ever.