Clash of the Titans

Challenge: In response to a challenge about choosing a song from a list of 8 and letting it inspire.
Rating: PG -13
Setting: AtS, today. The way I would have liked to see it go on, and ignoring the comics.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine. That doesn’t stop them taking an awful lot of my time at the moment, little sods.
Song: I Fought the Law (The Clash). I’ve used the Clash for Spike before (and I prove it with a quote from my current fic: “Spike came back with the remote and settled with his feet up as Joe Strummer screamed his head off that he was so bo-o-ored with the U.S.A.”) so thought this might be interesting.
A/N: I don’t think I’m known to favour one character in my work – other than, I’m pretty sure I’ve never written anything without Spike in it one way or another.

It’s a bugger working for Angel. You’d think it’d get easier over the years. It doesn’t.

I slip the vinyl single out of its sleeve without even checking what it is. It’s a surprise that way. I only know that I’ll like it.

I turn on my stereo’s record deck, I put on my headphones because apparently music hinders that precious thinking that’s meant to be going on around here, and I hop back onto my bed.

Ooh, the Clash. I Fought the… Is this a bloody joke? Strumming my shame with his fingers, taking the piss with his words. I shrug to myself and leave the track on.

I get a tobacco bag out of my bedside table and start rolling up. I nibble my lower lip, thinking about the best girl that I’ve ever had. I see her clear as day, I hold her hip in my hand. See, that’s the beauty of memories, five years on, she hasn’t changed a bit. Unlike me. One day, I swear. One day I’m gonna get over her.

I light up. The smoke stings my lungs, making me feel alive. I expel it through my nose, sneaking in the taste as well as the nicotine. Roll-ups taste different than tailor-mades, they’re sweet. New life, new habits.

I open the window and stand there on my bed, watching the smoke escape into the night. Lucky smoke. The moon kind of reflects on the slabs of the Hyperion yard, the silver hedges shimmer a bit with dew or something. No stars, far as the eye can see, and I got a widescreen view of the sky here, why I called this room when we moved back. Angel would’ve let me have any room, he’d have let me have the imperial suite and a couple of other rooms if I’d wanted them, he was so psyched we’d all made it through the apocalypse. I didn’t want the imperial suite, it’s big but I didn’t like the colour. Poncy blue. Present occupier loves it, though. Hmm, wonder why.

Nah, sky’s big enough for me. You can’t take it from me. You can’t take the stars, on a clear night. I flick my ash out the window. I scan the dark grey canvas painstakingly, I put my vampire eyes to the test for the gazillionth time but nada. It’s super-hearing that came with the package, how many times, not über-eyesight. Now, if stars whispered instead of sitting there shining uselessly, I might have a chance at spotting one through the clouds.

I do this a lot these days; what’s wrong with me? Stargazing like a teenager. Sad bastard. I guess, though, as I cut myself some slack on my way to put the song back on, it took me ages to get used to the little sods, so now I make the most of them. I return to my bed and sit up against the pillow, with my legs crossed and the record sleeve over them, a makeshift tabletop to lay a second Rizla on. For a good six months I had a double take every time I looked at the stars. Kept expecting the buggers to be pink.

I run my tongue over the strip of glue. Yeah, took me at least six months to sort the reality from the made up crap, after they messed with my head. There was too much info so the way my brain coped, it compressed some data into dreams, and pushed the heavier images to the front. Random ones, many from my childhood. Hence the pink stars.

“Bugger me…” I blurt out, stunned. This record sleeve is autographed. Right, that’s it. There is no end to the unfairness of the universe. Some sons of bitches have it all. There he was, meeting all the cool people, going to all the cool places, shagging all the cool chicks while I was… What was I doing while the git was chewing the fat with a total guitar hero? When was this, gig mid-80s? Where was I in the mid… Aw, that’s just perfect. I wasn’t even born then. Literally! Mr I-Was-At-Woodstock’s making chitchat with the Clash while I’m a minus-15-year-old twinkle in my mother’s eye. Serious. I cast a sulky glance at the dedication. “To Spike, have a rioting unlife mate, Mick”. I put the song back on, grumbling to myself on the way back to my bed. Typical. Whole damn world keeps having a blast when I’m not in it.

I lie down and stare at the ceiling. Just like tonight. I fiddle with the post-it note on the record sleeve, peel it off and hold it above me at arm’s length. “Nipper, you know the score, when heard this baby goes right back into my record collection or else.” I stick the yellow square onto my forehead. Why not. That record collection’s cursed, anyways. Or he had it stashed away somewhere. Says he always had it with him, such a fibber. Been piling up records over the decades and somehow, he had them with him through half-a-dozen apocalypses? Yeah right. And when his town was wiped off the map, the hundred odd vinyls did not fall into the gaping hole it had become, nooo. His friends salvaged them just in time, shoved them on the bus. Or, no, he stuffed them into the amulet with him! I chuckle. It’s amazing how much crap fits into those things. Honestly, Spike… Most of LA gets destroyed by a hell-beast tsunami, and your records are spared? Please! Overseas stash much?

I amble to my record deck, put the single back on. Trouble with the classics: there’s no repeat button. Slumping on the bed I almost flatten the fag. That word doesn’t cease to amuse me. I’d youtube the tune, but my laptop’s lead and battery are in the reception safe. I have serious doubts about Angel’s soul sometimes. Oh well. It can wait till tomorrow. See if I care.

I don’t care. Not like I had a date. Well, a specific date, anyway. I grab an Angel Investigations gonk off my bedside table and play catch with it. There’ll be other Valentine’s days. Unlike the Trog Quartet. Only one of those. Four iguana-type mystical creatures, feed on people’s despair. Oh and, incidentally, fresh human eyes. Takes a knack, you have to basically scythe the scaly plates along the Trog’s back to kill it. According to the codex, the Trog’s energy travels up your blade when it dies, and for an instant, whoever killed it gets a shock of power or life or something. Supposed to be pretty orgasmic. How cool is that. But hey, I’ll never know. There are only four Trog demons and they’re being killed right about, I check my alarm clock, now and, well, I’m lying on my bed playing catch with a purple gonk so you do the math.   

Yup, the law certainly did that. And this is screwed up. This needs help. I mean, what father grounds his 24-year-old son? No, no, worse than that! What 24-year-old adult lets his father ground him? I shake my head in dismay. OK so, officially, I have been suspended, by my employer, from my hunting duties for one evening as a disciplinary measure for not following orders. Unofficially, I’m expected to spend my suspension in my room, without TV, music or a computer, and thinking about what I’ve done. Yeah, face it, pal, you so got your ass grounded. 

Two theories. I go put the song back on, take the post-it off my forehead and stick it on the record-player arm. I flop back onto the bed. Theory n°1, and current favourite. Guy screws up. Boss-slash-dad is pissed at guy for screwing up. Guy has a mega history of screwing up in a previous life. Guy remembers previous life. Guy feels bad about previous-life-guy’s screw-ups. Guy lays low because of history-related guilt, and as part of making amends, accepts blatantly age-inappropriate grounding.

Theory n°2, as Dr Young, Lifespan Psych lecturer at Stanford, would have explained it if asked. Guy screws up. Dad feels bad about not being around to prevent son from screwing up in previous life. Plus, dad has been robbed of job of dad twice in the past. Dad is around now. Dad is reclaiming position of dad by employing dad-friendly disciplinary actions. Dad is catching up on lost dad-time, and grounds guy like ten years later.

I take my gonk, Beatrice, to the record player and sit her in the middle. I watch her spin round as the song starts again. I pluck my roll-up from behind my ear and light it, then step up on my bed to stand at the window again.

You know what? Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Heck, I got two T-shirts! This is my third goddamn T-shirt! Like I didn’t get grounded for a week when I called my French teacher a “sac de douche” in the 9th grade! Just a bit. And that other time, when I answered back that perhaps vampires have their reasons, think I didn’t get grounded then? Actually… I didn’t. That’s not the way Father punished a fourteen-year-old impertinent. I got the whip. Except, we didn’t have a whip. So he made me make him one out of a Soklar dragon’s gut. Yep. Sure leave your back stinging, entrails. I inhale a drag. I don’t resent him. That was the done thing back in his day. And our circumstances. He did that sort of thing for my sake and I was tougher for it. Made me the Destroyer. He meant well, and I look fondly on the bugger.

Gotta stop saying “bugger.” Or “sod”, or “bloody”, “shag”, “twat”, “pillock”, “plonker”, “tosser”, “bint”. “Arse.” Gotta stop cussing in British. Way too obvious who I’m always hanging out with. Not that Angel says anything. Doesn’t have to, his scowling brow speaks volumes. I snort. Hey, not my fault if we’re mates. What, Angel makes me co-worker to the coolest vamp this side of Hell, and then he wonders why we hit it off? ’Cause Spike’s got it figured out, that’s why. He’s sorted. And he’s not boring. Been around and stuff. Bloke’s been everywhere, Europe, Asia, Africa… He’s hooked up with some total babes. Plus, he’s cool. He’s my man, I don’t care.

I chuck the cigarette butt out the window. I lie down, after returning from putting the Clash back on. Half the time we’re even working. Doing research and whatnot. But then Spike breaks out the beer, so of course, from Angel’s standpoint it looks like we’re dossing around. Beer. Could use some of that now. There’s a six-pack in the fridge. Since I’m not gonna be doing any slaying tonight… No one said anything about booze being banned when you’re suspended. I smirk. He would flip, big time. I sit up, get a pen from my bedside table, and start doodling on my Rizla pack. After this song, I’m popping down to the kitchen and grabbing myself a beer.

There is yet a third theory. I draw a little triangle and split it in the middle, making it two triangles, which I split in the middle. But that’s such a load of BS, only a great big extinct wackjob from another universe would come up with that. I overheard them. About two years ago, they thought I was out picking Mom up from the airport but her flight was cancelled and I was right here with my door open and their voices coming up from the lobby, so I relocated to crouch on the landing when I heard my name. Freaking Gunn, dissin’ the hell outta me. So what else is new? Going on and on about how she doesn’t know me like he does, and I’m still the same thug I always was, and sooner or later I’m gonna turn on them. Jackass. Neither Spike nor Dad was there to make him shut his bitchy mouth, and he was filling her blue head with crap. He carries on ranting, even says Angel knows it too, that’s why he comes down hard on me when I act up, because I still have to be taught right from wrong and if he’d let me slide I would have long blown up the hotel. What a wanker! But then she does something completely out there. She sticks up for me. I quickly put the song back on, then resume my triangle-splitting. She starts telling him he’s wrong. I’m not evil. And I pose no threat and I needn’t be contained. She says when the progeny is agreeable he doesn’t induce authority. When this lasts too long, he worries that the authority bringer has abandoned him. So he gives him a reason to exert authority, he makes sure his father fulfils his role this time around. Every so often, the progeny pushes the leader to discipline him, and this is a learnt pattern, perpetual because both ingrained and reinforced. In other words, according to her, guy – 24 years or above, eternally – screws up in order to get grounded.

I raise my eyebrows. Yeah well, that may have been the way in the Primordium, you know what I mean, but not in a fine, black or white, rational universe. What was G being so pissy about, anyways? Not exactly shocking, he’s always a jerk with me, but he was being particularly whiny that aftern-- Oh yeah. I smile to myself. This was about the time when I was going out with a vampire.

I dump the Rizlas and pen in the drawer and lie down, grinning. I know it was stupid, I knew it then, too. But she had the most gorgeous pair of… I swallow. That was the most sensual two weeks of my life. Then Angel got wind of it. Boy, did he go apeshit. I put the record back on and walk back to my bed, mentally replaying his lecture. It wasn’t the fact that it was wrong, he was past caring about me doing wrong. It was the fact that I was genetically predisposed to be attracted to vampires, both on my mother’s and father’s sides, and there was a minute line not to cross and sometimes in the heat of passion it just got crossed no matter how smart you thought you were and I should know better and I was just being an ass. To which I replied that it was all under control and not everyone’s weak. To which he replied with a gigantic pay-cut. Long story short, that relationship ended in stakage. But it was good while it lasted, and it was totally worth the risk and I’d do it again tomorrow.

Except that Spike went funny on me. He didn’t openly voice an agreement with Dad but he called me a fool and he didn’t speak to me for a few days. He’s one to talk! Like he’s never gone for dangerous, what with loving a Slayer, and before that a vampire, and now a bloody bl-- I get a whiff of kin and slam the headphones down.

Sure enough, a knock on my door. I choose my words carefully.

“It’s unlocked!”

The door is pushed open, and there stands my father. I smile at him from my bed, still finding it hilarious every time, that despite this being his hotel, and despite a hotel being a public place, by giving me this room he inadvertently activated a private property mojo, and he’s been chatting from the threshold for four years because I’ve never invited him in.

He obviously isn’t amused, failing to return my smile and sticking to his agenda. “D’you leave the hotel?”

“No.”

“Did you leave your room?”

“No.”   

He nods at the headphones. “Listen to music?”

“Yes.” I watch him scowl. “One track, Angel, it’s a single, these things last three minutes tops.” I omit to mention I must have played it 39 times.

“I know what a single is. And it’s no way to do some thinkin-- Dammit, Connor, have you been smoking?”

Bollocks. Forgot to go get my usual air-freshener from the kitchen. Warm cup of blood hidden away in a drawer. Throws him off the scent, confuses the hell out of him. I shrug. Here it comes.

“That stuff’s poison!” he yells. “It kills, okay? Spike can afford to stuff tar down his lungs, his goddamn organs are already dead! Yours ain’t, you idiot!” He calms himself down, knowing yelling doesn’t get through to me. “Don’t they scare you off? Your professors in Med School, don’t they put you off with photos of laryngectomies and shrivelled hearts?”

I let out a chuckle. He makes me laugh sometimes. “No, dude, but then I dozed during most of ‘shrivelled heart 101’.” I smile good-humouredly. “I’ll ditch the smokes, Dad.”

“Good.” He glances down at the feet of my bed. “So, you gonna disobey my direct orders again?” He looks right up at me.

“Nope.”

“Sure? You’re not gonna sneak out to take on a whole tribe of Grapplers by yourself even though I specifically told you we’d deal with them together as a team?”

“Not anymore.”

“All right.” He nods sideways. “Then you may come out.”

I get up and head towards the door.

“Hey, nipper!” Spike shouts from the lobby. “Guess what we brought you back!”

I stop dead in my tracks and stare wide-eyed at Angel. “Uh… A… Trog demon?” I ask, dubious.

Now he smiles.

I daren’t believe it. “I thought there were only four…”

“I didn’t touch mine,” my father volunteers.

“Awesome!” I step out brushing past him, noting to myself how much he rocks. I rush to the landing and look over the banister.

My team-mates glance up at me. Illyria’s pinning down a Shetland-pony-size ugly mother of an iguana, hissing its tonsils out. Gunn’s holding a scythe out to me. Spike sneers and informs me, “You gonna love it.” I race down the stairs, followed by my dad.

Yeah. It’s a total drag working for Angel.

~The end~