for clockwork_jo, my ship-cosigning bb, for her prompt: i remember it well over at the doomed ship ficathon
note: this is basically 60s porn. emphasis on both 60s and porn.
also OH LOOK WHO FINALLY WROTE >1000-WORD FIC IN THIS FANDOM. (not that that's long at all, but i'm excited to dismantle the trend.)
All the psychotropics in the air, you'd think (Spike thinks) the 1960s would have been just Dru's cuppa, but she'd gone into it with a sulk. "It's no good," she'd sniffed when they first slipped into the city as it buzzed its manufactured light all around them; "all the puzzles have gone into hiding, and the answers don't make half so joyful a noise."
She had liked the 50s, had Dru: had picked apple-cheeked children as if they'd grown on trees; her cheeks had grown nearly pink and her smile had been a slice of fruit worth biting, marvelous and sharp in the teeth. The shadows had swirled around her, jostled by her chaos and the way she twitched her hips against the way the world was built—now they swirled of their own accord, foggy and cigarette-scented, and Spike stretched his shoulders out into the wide and filthy world and loved every minute of it.
"You're just not listening, pet," he had replied. "There's a whole cacophony buffet."
"But it all wants. Like a pond full of fish with no teeth." There had been broken glass beneath her feet; she crushed it without a second look. A whore's bare throat greeted them on the corner block; Dru had taken it in hand with her fingers in the woman's mouth, coming out hypnotic with neon pink lipstick stains. "It's tiresome. There's no music when it screams."
No comment, he'd decided. No sweet-faced saint-in-training, the corpse dragging down around their ankles, but no pet guppy either.
"Darling, we're stuck in a musical revolution," he had said, and she had covered her ears.
"Music shouldn't be put in boxes."
She had been contrary and perverse; naughty, wicked, he had caught her chastising her glassy-eyed dolls with pursed lips until he interrupted her game and surprised away the transient wrinkles on her unmarked dollish face. His hands would slide over her waist from behind, her breasts with no heartbeat and no lungs for no breath could still rise and fall and stiffen against his hands—and she had never minded giving up her game, not when he had always been able to offer her a better one.
The time had offered up slick skin on skin in every place, and when he had unlocked her, she could dance nearly naked in the streets. She did, and he had laughed because it was in the air, because she always favored white dresses and they made them transparent these days, like they were trying to slip into a past that even preceded his. A goddess if the word ever meant anything. A goddess enough to make the word mean something.
"I always fancied you in a temple," he said, breathing smoke rings under the wafting train of her skirt, and her face had lit up like he'd finally stuck the flame in the lamp, candle-bright. The hem of her skirt was already beginning to char. Ash on her feet until she jumped, feet pre-empting a dance he didn't know, until her hand rang out against his cheek.
"Reckless boys shouldn't play with fire."
"Love," he said, "it's raining out."
It was their time of night, their time—on the streets, she had twirled like a top spun right and he had tossed himself down onto the ground, lying spread-eagled and splashing the light out of the puddles as he looked up at her, making incongruous angels in rain-slick streets. Her body barely veiled by the dress now made half of water, homeless winesacks in the garbage beating savage drumbeats on the streets until it thrummed its way into the blood—and that's when they chose, and that's when they bit.
He remembers the bite, the moment when teeth tore out the veins whole in the body's neck, the moments he'd throw his head back, yelping loud and wild and over-fucking-joyed. Never a moment for silence, as the absent drumbeats echoed in their throats. The blood tasted like music and like smoke, running over his face and into his hair. The vein draining into his mouth until he spat it out onto the streets.
"God, I'm buzzed! Come here, pet."
And Drusilla pouring into his arms, tracking her tongue up the side of his neck. "You taste like symphonies aching to get out. Like music in a box. Locked." Her open mouth grazing his jaw, the hollows of his neck. "Keyed."
"Wanna let it out, love?" Grinning with bloody teeth, his hands tracked between her thighs. Pressed her back against a rain-slick building, bricks like dried blood fraying the dress into her skin until she squealed, nipping at his lip with her sharp little teeth. "Sweet release."
Eyes half-hooded, she demanded: "Play the songs." And he held her up by the hair and played cock-and-bow stories with the cello of her body. Fucks her there, endlessly. All the time in the world as she arches slick as the sky against his cock and he slams the percussion her unbreaking china bones against the wall. Fucks her until she comes with her legs wrapped around him and her fingers digging down to his spine, until he's spent and soaked and can't tell where she ends or where the whole wide wet world begins: that's music, baby.
Beat that, Liverpool fucks, he remembers thinking, stroking knuckle-deep into her cunt afterward almost like a reminder—a reminder of a thing that never stopped.
He'd carried her home one day still wrapped around him—one ankle pinning the back of his neck, one long white leg curled around his waist—and, God love that city, no one fucking blinked.
They didn't nest in one place in New York, didn't have to. City of transients and hotels and when they got tired of one lobby's matted red carpet they move somewhere tiled—one keeps the blood and one mops it up, but it all amounts to dynamic aesthetic choices in any case. Bands travel around them, skinny humans rich on the inside with the million ways to fuck with the blood. There are a million crumpled white bedsheets for them to defile with great good cheer. The world is theirs, and the musicians pass by with the tantalizing promise of music inside them.
"These are the notes, then," Drusilla said once in her most knowledgeable voice, counting ribs. A heart in her hand, she examined it, picking it apart chamber by chamber. "Here are the songs, little pigeons home to roost. Filthy little doves," her sweet voice cooed. "Here's their home."
Her fingers clenched a millimeter closer in, blood running down over her reddening skin. "There's the bad apple itself, baby. The big one." He held it to her lips, fingers curled over hers. "Bite?"
He never had to ask her twice. Drusilla'd understood music by the time they leave. At least she thought so—and God knows it amounts to the same thing. She could play the piano just fine, far as he could tell, or at least she did until he comes home one day to find she's stuck a discarded hand in the wires. He'd laughed until her teeth fastened around his throat, and then he laughed more, taking his gorgeous pit bull by the hair and leaving no inch of skin unbitten from ankles on up.
Every so often now, he'll catch a Behind the Music on the bands that never caught on; he'll catch faces of missing members and he'll laugh just the same, too much and too hard, remembering the taste of electricity and music on twined tongues. He'll laugh, then, until it hurts, same's it always fucking hurts now.
It had been his kind of time.