Up a Penguin's Arse

The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy

The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild

TITLE: "Up a Penguin's Arse"

AUTHOR: Ducks, The Angel Ho. ;)

DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah, they're mine. Thus the fact that I'm typing this while slacking at my $US 7/hour secretarial job. Which, honestly, is a pretty sweet deal, if you think about it... but I'm still dirt poor. And if I owned them, I have to assume I wouldn't be... although, I guess you can accumulate a lot of debt if you're rich... so that's not really certain proof. ANYWAY. I don't own them.

TIMELINE: AU - Roughly three years in the future, depending on whether Joss has his calculator with him or not.

SPOILERS: Nothing important, really, unless you count the fact that I took Liam's year of death from the episode "The Prodigal".

SYNOPSIS: Angel's depressed (NO, not ANGEL! He's usually so PERKY!), so his Most Favored makes it his mission to cheer him up.

DISTRIBUTION: My honeys Darcy and Av at EN -- HAPPY B-DAY, AVARICE!; any and all who house my filthy little ditties, list archives, my site: http://www.geocities.com/ducksfanfic. Everybody else, just ask. I don't bite... hard. *grin*

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Response to EN's "Av is a Crusty Old Bag" Birthday Challenge! Requirements: "Premise - In a bid to lighten Angel up, Spike takes to celebrating his (Liam's) Death Day. Must include: Spike and Angel, Slash gets you far. A bottle of red nail polish. Something happening to Angel's leather chair. Swedish Chef type cooking (and possibly singing) in the kitchen. A reference to, or the actual singing of, "Happy Death Day to You". The line, "Yes, but does it bounce?" Optional Extras: Some wild Scottish accent work. The line "William the Bloody: Not Gay." Pulp Fiction dancing. A penguin puppet (which may or may not be named Mr. Flibble)."

FEEDBACK: Tell me how wonderfully witty I am... or how bad I suck. I'm cool with all of it. *grin* Actually, you know what? Scratch that last part.

CONTENT: Slash, Angel-Pouting, Spike Attitude, more evidence of the Angel School of Really Bad Planning, Gamers swinging broadswords, and lots of references to Cordelia's boobs.

DEDICATION: To Avarice, 'cause she's <.sarcasm>SOOOoooo Olllllld<./sarcasm>. Hell, I don't even REMEMBER my twenties. But have a happy anyway, babe. You rock! And may I just say: Your hair is so spiky today, sugar. Further notes: Thank you to to Saber for the Strat (*sigh*), and THANK BLOODY YOU to whoever the GODDESS was who posted those Maxim shots of DB. *drool* Warning: Everybody was too swamped with RL stuff this weekend to beta, and since I'm a poster child for Ritalin, I did it myself, after a quick once over from Donna, who said, "FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T POST THIS WITHOUT A BETA!" *grin*

"Up a Penguin's Arse"

I can hear his feet shuffling from all the way up here. He's a damn superhero, out saving souls 24/7, making the world a safer place for cattle, strippers and brewmeisters everywhere, and the bugger's still so unhappy that he can't pick up his damn boat feet when he walks.

Now, Angel ain't the most chipper bloke, as a rule. In fact, he really oughta get "MOROSE" tattooed on his enormous forehead, just so people won't be scared totally shitless by the fact that he *never* smiles. Okay... maybe not *never*, but... at least rarely... and then, it's mostly when he's naked, so I'm pretty much the only one who gets to see his teeth on a

Anyway, point is, he's never very cheery, but lately, he's been downright depressing, even for him. Hardly ever opens his mouth, which is a sure sign that something's wrong, as he's usually constantly running that monster effin' yap. He hasn't yelled at me in a week, which is even worse, because I've done everything in my rather impressive power to piss him off. Wake him up a little, you know? Just to keep his damn Bell Jar brain from jelling. Done some good stuff, too. Spilled Cordelia's red nail polish inside his new boots. Let the coffee maker run with no water in it. Threw the cap for his toothpaste away. Put shoe polish in his hair gel. Lots of really clever shit guaranteed to get me at least a dangerous growl, and more than likely, some fairly major shouting under normal circumstances. But the best I got was a hangdog look, and a little sigh. So I escalated things a bit. I took an afternoon and rearranged every book in his precious damn library so they were in order by jacket color -- you know, all the red books, then green, blue, black... like that -- instead of his bloody beloved "Subject matter, then alphabetized by author" system. I thought for sure that would set him off, but he didn't say a word. He just put them back the way he liked 'em again.

I started getting damn worried when I set his favorite bloody pansy-ass bedspread on fire, and then put it out with the bottle of 1938 Moet that I stole from the cellar. He came tearing upstairs when the fire alarm went off, and then just stared at the disaster area I'd made of the bed and the empty bottle on the floor like he was looking at a corpse or something. And me, I stood all smug, waiting for him to finally blow a gasket and snap out of this damn funk. Call me some names... maybe kick my ass a bit.

Nothin'. He just rolled it up and threw the whole shebang in the dumpster out back, without a whimper in protest. An hour later, there was a new bedspread, like nothing ever happened.

What the *fuck* is going on? I know Angel's all remorse-boy, and not exactly a shining beacon of self-esteem and good cheer anyway, but... he didn't even cuff me upside the head for ruining his fruity ass satin coverlet? That thing is his pride and damn joy! He always goes on and on about what a great find it was, and how lucky he was that he'd been chasing a Varkat through Chinatown that night when the market was open late...

Point is, he should've busted something coming after me for that one, and he didn't.

So, I hear him come shuffling through the lobby, dragging his ass up the damn stairs like he's just too tired to carry his own weight--not that this isn't a valid possibility, considering his bulk. He comes into the suite without even a "Hello" or "Get your feet off the table, Spike," sheds his clothes, and heads straight for the bathroom.

Okay. I'm obviously gonna have to try a different route. I strip and follow him.

Fucker's standing stone still, staring into the shower like the steam's whispering the secrets of the universe to him or something. I take a good, long look at that body (okay, so... it's more of a leer.)... all 6'2" of him is flawless... and damned yummy, actually. There's no extra special injuries... just a bruise on his left hip and that stupid tattoo that creases and rolls with the bulging muscles of his shoulder.

I walk over and press myself against his back, nestling my insta-boner between this thick, hard thighs. Damn, but I love the way we fit together. People who think two guys knocking boots is unnatural have obviously never seen how perfectly the cuts of our bodies match.

I love touching him. He's cool and hard, with all these interesting crests and falls all over his body... I run my hands softly over the front of him, barely tickling the surface of his skin, just the way he likes it. I tickle his nipples hard, caress his little Buddha belly, and finally slide my way down to the slow, gentle stroking of his cock.

He's as turgid as I am in a second, and I hear his breath hitch a little, but other than that, he doesn't respond at all. No moan... no leaning his big body back against me... Nothing.

"Why don't we both get in the shower?" I whisper in his ear, trailing a few little kisses down the side of his neck. "I can wash your back for ya."

Angel sighs and steps away. "I'm not in the mood tonight, Spike."

Now... this particular revelation stops me dead... so to speak. I take a step away from him. 'Not in the mood'? I've known Angel for a century and change, at least 40 damn years of which, we've spent scroggin' the Hell out of each other. And I know for a fact that he could have an arm half ripped off, and still be in the mood for a nice shower shag.

"*What*?" I yip. I mean, there's no *way* I heard that right!

He drags his gaze over his shoulder like it's the hardest damn task he's ever performed.

"I'm sorry. I just... I'd like to be alone for a while, okay?"

His voice is so soft and hurt, I'd probably cry if I wasn't so damned horny.

"Oh. Uh... whatever," I mumble. He must be able to hear the shock (and frankly, disappointment) in my voice, because he turns all the way around and takes a step toward me, putting his hands on my shoulders.

"I've got a lot on my mind, Will, that's all. It has nothing to do with you," he says, caressing my face with the pad of his thumb.

At which I snort. He's *always* got a lot on his mind. What the Hell could be so damn new and soddin' important that he suddenly doesn't even want a poke at *me*?

"Fine," I snap, turn around, and walk out, leaving him standing there, staring after me.

No, I am *not* pouting. Just freaks me out, is all. I don't think I can recall a single time when he's turned me down like that. Guess my right hand'll have to do me for another night. It has been for the past couple of weeks anyway.

I lie down and just sort of scowl at the ceiling. Angel takes his shower, and comes out, all wet and clean, smelling like ivory soap and misery, crawls into bed, and goes right to sleep with his back to me.

Okay. This won't do *at all*. I'm not living with him like this... not if I'm not getting any ass out of the deal.

Guess it's time to call in the cavalry.

There ain't too many people I know more glass-half-full than Miss "I'm 5'8", and 5' of that is leg" Cordelia Chase. She's a damn perky ass positive thinking bitch, and she knows Angel fairly well, in a human sort of way. So the next afternoon, I corner her in the office and invite her up to my room for a pouf pow-wow.

She looks at me like she thinks I've gone chipless, and she has absolutely no intention of going anywhere with me that doesn't have at least three clear, well-marked emergency exits that don't involve plunging four stories to her gruesome death.

"Why?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

Gee, and I thought it was a patented Peaches habit to question my every damn simple request.

"Because I want to rip your throat out and drain you dry, of course," I tell her.

Her eyes go wide. Heh.

"I bloody need to talk to you, that's all," I explain, trying not to sound like I think she's a bleedin' moron... which I do.

Oh, Christ. You know, I coulda shagged my Sire thirty times by...

Scratch that last bit.

"About your boss, Princess Brain Trust. I need your advice on something."

She screws up her pretty face like I just asked her to sample a tasty bit of dog shit... or wear Designer Imposters perfume.

"You are *so* not going to ask me for icky perverted vampire sex advice, are you?"

I sigh. That is, by far, the stupidest question anybody's ever asked me. No, really. And I'm including my loopy Dru in that estimation.

"Why the bleedin' Christ would I ask you..." Okay, Spike. Let's not have a meltdown, now. You're on a mission. And whether you like it or not, your tactics aren't wearing the old sod down, so you need Boobs' help. Besides, if you can watch an entire episode of "Seventh Heaven" without yakking, certainly you can talk to this vacant-skulled vision machine. "No. Not sex. Something you actually *know* about."

Her eyes narrow again... that's her 'Just *give* me an excuse to stake you' look.

"I wanna cheer him up. He's been down, lately," I expound.

This lightens her facial expression considerably. "Oh! Okay. But... why can't we talk about it right here?"

JESUS H, WOMAN! No... okay. I'm not going to scream. I'm not gonna rip her damn head off. I'm not gonna glut myself on the blood shooting out of her severed neck, and laugh with demonic glee as she expires.

"'Cause the Grand Poufter could walk in here any bleedin' second, and I want it to be a surprise," I force out through teeth clenched so hard, it hurts my jaw. I kindly leave off the 'you stupid, vacuous cow' I was thinking at the end.

She nods. "Riiight. Okay. Fine. Upstairs, then." She follows me out of the office and up, like a chipper (ouch, bad choice of words) puppy.

Now, truth be told, in earlier times, I really *would* be leading her to her horrible and highly satisfying death. Her blood smells like muffins, and I bet it tastes just as sweet.

But these are later times, aren't they? So I focus. We have a seat in my suite, and I tell her about Fluffy's little depressive episode. She vows that she'll figure out what's going on, and do something about it.

Cordelia may not be the sharpest tack in the box, but she's got a real knack for finding useless information on the computer. She's no Red, mind you, but... Less than an hour after I told her about Angel's ultra-brooding, she comes charging back into my room, swinging a piece of paper around like it's a check for a million dollars or something.

"I've got it!" she hollers, "I figured out what's wrong with Angel!"

If you ask me, information like that should take a whole Hell of a lot more than one sheet of paper. But... this is my sex life we're talking about, so I listen as she plops down on the couch and starts to yammer.

"I was surfing around... you know, like, trying to find him a present or something, and I found this," she says, and hands me the piece of paper.

It's a printout. Burial records from some genealogy database on one of those, "I'm so proud to be a stupid, drunken mick" websites. I glance over it. Just a list of names and dates, really. Nothing exciting -- which poor bastards got creamed and buried in Galway, Ireland, 1753. Don't know what this Hell this has to...

"Huh," I say. I spot a familiar name -- 'Liam O'Connor, February 24, 1753. Animal Attack.' That's Angel... and definitely Darla, if you added "salivating psychopath bitch of a" before the "animal", but... so it's the date the stupid bint ripped his throat out. Big whoop.

She rolls her eyes at me. "Don't you *get* it? Friday is the 250th anniversary of Angel's death!"

Again -- who the fuck cares? I mean, he's been dead a good, long time, hasn't he? You'd figure he'd be over it by now.

"So! So he's probably having the equivalent of what we mere mortals call 'the birthday blues'! Only... I guess they're Death Day blues."

I just sort of stare at her. Hell, as far as I'm concerned, the day bloody farmhick Liam snuffed it is one of the best days of my life... seeing as how I wouldn't be sitting here now if he hadn't.

You know... now that I take a mo to think about it... Peaches probably doesn't see it that way. He's not so crazy about being a vampire, after all. Hell, he fucking *hates* it. So I guess I can see how coming up on a quarter of a millennium as one might get him a little down.

But... down enough to turn away a Grade A Spikejob? Seems a bit much, to me.

"We gotta do something," I inform her. Another few days of celibacy, and I might just say fuck the chip and go on a random slaughter spree, brain-melting pain be damned.

Cordelia's thinking hard... looks like it hurts.

"Well... I know when I'm bummed about getting old and wrinkly, a party always cheers me up."

I give her a look. A *party*? Is she talking about the same brooding, guilt-ridden, dark-cloud-hanging-over-his-froofy-head vampire that I am? I'm thinking throwing him a damn party would get the same sort of reaction as strapping him down and forcing him to watch home movies of the Slayer banging her cornbread soldierboy might.

Besides... the last time we tried celebrating a Death Day just about turned into an angst fest. I'm already sufferin' from a good bloody case of blue balls. I don't need any of that weepy sniffly shit on top of it.

"A party," I repeat.

"Yeah, you know? Cake and ice cream. Booze and dancing... little hats... noisemakers..."

"Oh, right. And we could sing Happy Death Day to you," I suggest sardonically.

She ignores me. "You could cook him dinner, and..."

"Wait, wait. *Me* cook? I don't think so." That sounds like a domestic task, to me, and I'm no damn houseywife. I don't do chores for any-damn-body. Not for all the Angel-ass on the planet.

"Well *I'm* sure not going to!" she says, like I asked her to go rifle through the dumpster and find my favorite toothpick for me.

Ah, but... a stroke of Spike-Genius hits. "What about Pussley?"

"Perfect! He *loves* that "Better Homes and Gardens" crap! We can invite the Host to sing, and Gunn and his crew..."

Do I need to tell you how funny it is to hear Cordelia say "crew"? She's probably one of the whitest white girls on the damn planet.

She goes on about all the people she's going to invite and how she's gonna decorate the Hyperion, while I let my mind wander to the best part -- the post-party. How I'm gonna show Angel once and for goddamn all that I'm bloody *glad* he died. Thought I made that clear on my own Death Day, but...

Hey... maybe a trip to Harry's is in order for this occasion, too.

The sort of shindig me and Titty are planning is gonna require some major dosh... something neither of us have. And since she straight out rejected my brilliant idea of slinging her juicy ass out on Hollywood Boulevard for a Ben Franklin a shot, we're left with fairly limited funding. Like, none.

So what do two intrepid sidekicks do when they're short on badly needed cash? Why, they go visit their friendly neighborhood billionaire dork, of course. What else?

Boy can hardly speak when he opens the door and sees us standing there. Cordelia lays that blinding movie star smile on him, and I swear, I see his knees start to shake. It's really damn pathetic. Makes me want to Turn the poor bastard, just to give him a set of balls.

Of course, I can't, so I just ignore his panting and drooling as we wander into his bloody palace. The place is done up all modern and classy -- obviously by an interior decorator, if the ponce's clothes are any sign of his taste. Hell, I'm surprised Angelus hasn't begged to move in here, Architectural Digest fag that he is.

But when we get to Nabbitt's office (ten or fifteen minutes later...), it's like a fucking comic book/sci fi convention exploded in the bloody place! A really rich kid's playroom. He's got original Batman art on the walls (Figures. No wonder he's got such a thing for my Sire.), every action figure ever made covering every flat surface, a life sized Boba Fett in one corner, and...

I practically break my leg, making a mad dash across the room. I don't fucking believe it! I grab the best item in the place -- it's goddamn Mr. Bloody effin' Flibble! No shit! From the worn look of the thing, I think it might actually be real!

Tits and Dork sit right down on the couch, in conference mode, and me, I stand there and stare at the ratty penguin puppet.

"Oi, dinkus!" I shout at him, "This really Mr. Flibble?"

Yeah, I know... fucking geek mode, me. Bet you didn't know I was a "Red Dwarf" freak. Hell... it's the best damn thing ever to come outta the UK, after me... 'cept maybe "Black Adder"... and "Python", naturally, but that goes without saying.

Nabbitt's face lights up like a damn Christmas tree at my attention. "Yeah. One of them, anyway. There were actually four puppets used in the filming of that episode."

"Fuckin' A!" I comment, slip that little piece of television history over my hand and wiggle it at them. "Mr. Flibble's veeerrrry cross with you!" I tell them in my best Rimmer voice, then immediately start laughing my face off. "I have you in my hexivision!"

Nabbit cracks up right along with me. Boobalicious just scowls.

"Yes, that's great, but does it *bounce*?" she snaps, "I hate to interrupt your Loser Bonding Ritual, but... do you think we could focus on *Angel* for a minute?"

I roll my eyes at her. Twat sounds more and more like Peaches every day. Except for the focusing on him part.

But... this is my bid to getting back down the poufter's pants, I guess, so... I shove Mr. Flibble into my coat pocket and meander over to join the war council.

I'm gonna cheer my Sire up if it bloody kills me... again.

Nabbit comes through with a big, fat check, and me and the Fang Gang spend the rest of the week planning Angel's Death Day like we're gettin' ready for Armageddon. Which, really, it could turn out to be, if it pisses him off enough. By the time Friday night rolls around, I'm like a kid on Christmas, and it's all I can do to keep my gob clamped shut and not prance around like a fairy on speed all day long. Angelus keeps giving me funny looks, but doesn't say anything.

Finally, right around sunset, the plan is set in motion. My Sire gets a phone call from Snitchy Merl, saying he's got a line on a pack of Flesh-eating Mormets been picking off toddlers outside the Gym Tots on 2nd Street. This doesn't sit well with atonement boy, I'll tell ya. Of course, there's no Mormets and no toddlers... but I'm pretty sure there's a Gym Tots right around there. Anyway, Angel-face makes plans to meet the slimy rat down at his hole and take care of the threat to the youngest citizens of his great city once he gets the details.

Bloody yay for Superman.

But I'm so freakin' psyched about the shindig, nothin's gonna pop my good mood balloon. I'm gonna get sloshed, dance my face off, and with any bloody luck at all, get the Hell shagged outta me. I love parties. And I love my stupid, manic-depressive, poncy sire, so by the time he's on his way out, I know he's gotta notice my skitchy behavior. He stops in the suite doorway and stares at me like I'm doing a chorus of Copa Cabana in a fruit hat or something.

"What the fuck are you gawkin' at, nonce?" I snap at him. I don't want to be too far out of character.

Angel squints at me, drilling into me with his damn Sherlock Holmes "I've got you all figured out, pup," look.

"What's going on, Spike?"

I straighten up. "Whatdya mean?"

His all-seeing gaze shoots down to my hands, so I look too. Oh, shit. I'm holding two hands full of dirty dishes.

"You're *cleaning*," he observes, like he just caught me saying rosaries or something.

"Yeah? So?" I snap, scrambling desperately for a way to get outta this one. Why the fuck couldn't I have waited until after he left to pick up? I don't know how the Hell I'm gonna play this off. I mean, I just *don't* do chores. Ever. Women's work, if ya ask me... or... Peaches work, anyway, but close enough. My Sire and I come to blows on a fairly regular basis over my purported slobby-ness... especially the fact that I usually leave my dishes piling up in my room until he has to haul them out in a wheelbarrow. And then fumigate. And scour the joint with straight ammonia.

I set the plates and glasses down on the table and march over to him. No time for art or subtlety, here... the game'll be up, and I'll have spent all that time with that stupid bimbo for nothing. I gotta distract him and get him sent on his merry way before the help gets here.

So, I take his fucking beautiful face in my hands, and kiss him. Just the way he likes it, too... long, slow and wet, with lots of tongue.

He freezes in my embrace for a second, but you better damn well believe it's no more than that before he tangles his hands in my hair and kisses me right back.

Angel's so damn easy.

Finally, a couple long-ass years later, he pulls away, blinking, and gasps, "What was that for?"

I give him my best pretty honey smile. "Just 'cause."

His stunned expression turns quickly into a scowl. "What did you do?"

I let my mouth drop open in what I hope looks like shock. "What makes you think I did anything?"

My broody pal's mammoth brow scrunches, and his face goes into 'scold the impertinent Childe' mode. "You never kiss me like that unless you're trying to soften me up for something. Or you've destroyed something. Or you want to hide something."

Well... yeah... but... I gotta get him the fuck outta here. "You been sorta down lately. I miss shaggin' you, and I'm bloody horny, okay?"

He manages a fairly sad attempt at a smile. "I'm sorry, Spike. Thank you for noticing."

I snort. "Pretty damn hard not to, considering you've been dragging your fat ass around like Sylvia Plaith's possessing you, and you turn into Frigid Virgin Boy every time I touch you. 'S like living with friggin' Darla all over again."

His eyes go wide, and his nostrils flare. Goddamn it. I just gotta run my damn mouth, don't I? One topic not allowed under *any* circumstances in his presence is his skank-ho of a Sire. He doesn't know a whole lot about the fucking twisted mockery of a relationship I had with her after he vanished, and believe me, he's better off. But now all I've done is remind of why he's in his dark freaking mood to begin with.

"Angel..." I start to backtrack, stepping toward him again.

Too late. His almost smile completely vanishes, and he turns away.

"I can't be late," he informs me, and stomps out without a glance back.

I better hope this is a fucking great party, or I might never get laid again.

Not a half an hour after Sunshine and Baldy take off, the old Hyperion looks like the set of a John Waters movie. There's Mams and all her bimbo buddies, giggling and snickering as they hang streamers and such all over the lobby. There's Wes' main shag, Curly, and her usual entourage of overdressed rich people trying to look like they're not bored. Anne and Gunn's downtown crew are tearing up the dance floor like their lives depend on it, and sprinkled here and there are assorted stray clients, a few demons, and that faggy-assed Host Angel likes so damn much, complete with a gang of drag-queen demons that are enough to give me bloody nightmares.

Who knew Peaches had so many damn friends? Seems like all that's missing are the Slayer and the friggin' Scooby Gang, and I think every good or fairly neutral creature Angel's ever met would be crammed into this room.

Me and my bottle of Jack survey the whole scene from the staircase. Now, come on. How could a bloke be depressed when he's so bloody popular? Angelus never had so many damn bodies in one place. Okay... so, he did, but... they were usually dead before the night was over. I don't see this little soiree getting him that pissed off.

So I sit and watch the collective gyrating for a while, until my boner just doesn't fit in my pants anymore, and I'm forced to stand. I may be a muzzled damn dog, but I'm still a vampire, and a room full of all these hot, happy, sweaty humans with their sweet, sticky blood and arousal pumping around under their skin makes it damn difficult to stay outta game face. Usually, I get my frustrations out through a good, hard, bloody demon shag with my Sire... but as you already know, I haven't been getting any of that, lately. So I'm feeling a little... repressed.

There's still another half-hour before Gunn suggests to Angel that maybe Merl isn't gonna show, and gets him to come back here. Legs, for some ungodly reason, seems to think it's a good plan to turn off all the lights and have everybody jump out and yell "SURPRISE!" when he walks in.

Me, I'm thinking that's a good way to get a hundred people decapitated right quick, but... nobody ever listens to me, so I figure I'll just wait about and have myself some leftovers. So long as I'm out of crossbow range when they scare the soul right out of the poor sod, I'm okay with the mass death and destruction thing. I'll just hang out elsewhere until the worst of the

carnage is over. Plus, every time I look at somebody, I'm thinking about having one or more of my protruding body parts buried in 'em, so... off to the nice, peaceful kitchen with me, where Wussley and Merl are supposed to be cooking up a gourmet storm. There's *nothing* about that thought that gets me hot.

I know something's off the minute I hit the hallway. I hear voices... loud voices.

Somebody's singing that friggin' Swedish Chef song from the Muppet Show... that "Boo bedeeshkidoo... bort! Bort! Bort!" or however the fuck it goes. And somebody else is bellowing lines from "Braveheart" in a really damn sorry excuse for a Scots brogue.

"DAY MAY TAKE AR LYVES, BU DAYLL NAVAR TAKE AR FRRLLLEEEDOM!"

What the Bloody H. Fuck is going on in here? I step in the door and think... 'You know, this must be how Angel feels about some of the scenes he walks in on.'

It's worse than I was expecting. Nabbit, who I've always suspected is some sort of surface Dwarf or one of those Hobbit things, has brought along five or six of his be-caped, highwater-wearin' tribesmen. The one doing Mel Gibson (who looks about as damn far from old Mel as a bloke can, and still be human) is standing up on a chair, swinging one of Angel's bigger

broadswords around his head, while three other hobbits snicker at him over their Dungeons and Dragons set.

There's so many things wrong with this, I hardly know where to start. For one thing... WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF BLOODY GEEK BRINGS A FUCKING ROLE PLAYING GAME TO A *PARTY*??? And... for another, I'd bet fifty bucks one of them loses their head before this night is over. That fucking sword is bigger than the four of them put together.

And then... there's the chair that "I'm not even close to William Wallace" is standing on.

Angel's chair. The antique, Irish, hand-tooled kid-leather and cherry chair from his office. The one I'm not even allowed to *think* about, let alone touch. This bloody dork's got his muddy-ass Nike prints all over it.

Aw, Christ. That boy better *hope* he decapitates himself, 'cause it'll be a whole lot quicker and less painful than what Angel's gonna do to him when he sees this.

"BORT BORT BORT!" I hear from behind me, so I turn.

There's Pussley, cooking all nice as you please in a frilly white apron that says "Kiss the Chef" in big, girly pink letters on the front. I don't even want to *know* where the Hell he got that from. Beside him is Merl, who doesn't seem to be contributing much of anything but sampling the food as soon as it's done-- some before--and providing the Swedish Chef visuals by throwing the remains around. Beside *him* is Dorkster General Nabbitt, singing in fake Swedish at the top of his lungs, swinging a mostly empty bottle of schnapps around, and dancing with two fingers over his eyes like John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction".

I just sort of blink at them. Not a whole lot takes old Will by surprise, after all this time. But this sure as fuck does.

"AYE! Bugger me upsyde down an' BAHKWAHRDS, YA DAM MACDONALD! YE'LL NOT HAVE MY PEOPLE'S LAND THIS DAY!" bellows soon-to-be-dead-boy with the worst rolling r's I've ever heard.

I take a moment to memorize this diorama of beautiful chaos, then turn around and march right back the way I came. I'll take the shit for the party, but I want *nothin'* to do with the breakdown that scene in the kitchen's gonna cause when Dad gets home.

Or the chair. Good gods, the chair.

I grab another bottle of Jack as I go by the bar. I have a feeling I'm going to need both of them. I'd rather go back and nurse my bourbon and my stiffy, and let my mouth water over all the human flesh than think about that kitchen.

Who's bright idea was this, again?

A good hour passes, and we still haven't seen hide nor hair of Precious yet. I'm pretty bloody drunk, having polished off all the Jack and started in on the Jim, and I'm starting to get right pissed off, too. Where the Hell is he? I've gone through all this trouble, and he doesn't even have the courtesy to let Gunn trick him into coming back here and have the shit scared out of him?

I've taken to pacing the party from one end to the other, until I hear the Host calling my name and waving me over like a big fairy. I stop by the couches, and look around. It's the fucking Fag Demons Coffee Clutch, plus Cordelia's Bint Patrol, all staring up at me.

"What the fuck do you lot want?" I snarl at them... only I think it comes out more like, "Whattafuckdoyalllotwant?"

What *I* want is for bloody Peaches to show up, get this damn party out of the way, and get to the SNOGGING! I got no time to talk to the Fairy Fruit Brigade!

"We were just saying how difficult it is to be a gay demon in this city," the Host tells me, "And we were all wondering what you and Angel think."

I just stare at him. "What the fuck are you bleatin' about?"

Carey Okie cocks a green eyebrow at me. "You. Vampire. Gay. Demon. LA Social Scene. Although... you can pass as human... "

"I'm no effin' fudgepacker!" I screech at him. Who the hell does this green fuck think he is?

Cordelia tosses her barely-there hair and snorts. "Oh, please. You're *so* gay."

"HEY! I like birds plenty, I'll have you know!"

"Whatever, Willie Boy."

Oh, God. If I didn't have this bloody chip in my head...

I smack my chest hard, like a gorilla. "Now hear this, allaya! William the Bloody: Not Gay! Look it up in one a Pussley's books!"

The Host grins at me. "It's okay, Precious. You're among girlfriends."

I growl at him. Cordelia leans toward me. "Let's go over this logically. You're a guy, right?"

"And... Angel's a guy, right?"

That makes me chuckle. "Depends on your definition of 'guy', I suppose."

"Right. And however much the idea makes me break out in *hives*, you have sex with Angel, don't you... a lot? Like... exclusively?"

I squint furiously at her, feeling the bloodlust start boiling under my skin. I don't like where I know she's going with this.

"Right," she answers for me, "Thus... two guys having sex regularly, only with each other, equals *gay*." She concludes her speech with a self-satisfied smirk. All the surrounding Princesses and demon drag queens titter.

"How many FUCKING times do I have to tell you idiots?" I roar, "We're bloody *vampires*! It's *different*!"

The Host gives me a little smirk. "Honey, if you put your danglies into any orifice of any male creature on a consistent basis, you're a homosexual."

That's it. I fling the mostly empty bottle of Jim Beam down, and shift into game face as it smashes all over the floor. The room goes dead silent but that fucking "Who Let the Dogs Out" song. Everybody's staring at us.

"COMMEER AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE, YA QUEER!"

I'm gonna rip those little red horns right out of his skull. He's a demon, so I can do it, and I've got a fairly burning itch to do some damage, since I'm obviously not gonna get to dip my wick after all this trouble.

His grin goes from sweet to dangerous in a second flat. "You don't want to challenge me, sweetie."

"Oh yeah? Bloody try me, ya nonce! I'll rip your fairy ass a few interesting new holes!"

Before he gets the chance to get up and let me cream him, one of Gunn's gang shouts,

Before I can even move, the lights go out. Everybody dives behind furniture. I stand, stunned, in the middle of the damn lobby and stare at the door as Gunn comes in with Angel in tow.

"Are you sure he said over at his slimehole?" Baldy asks, stepping over to the light switch.

"Yeah, I'm..." Angel stops at the top of the stairs, looking around and sniffing. His eyes land on me. "Spike? Why are you standing in the dar..."

BAM! The lights snap on. BAM! A hundred people and demons leap out and scream,

and immediately launch into the most off-key, nerve-jangling rendition of "Happy Death Day to You" ever performed.

Angel stands there, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like he just had a massive stroke, and just hasn't remembered to fall over yet.

"And mannnyyyy moooooooore!" the Host finishes off with a flourish.

My Sire still hasn't moved. Hasn't even blinked. And I think he's forgotten to breathe.

"Wh...wha..." he mutters.

"Happy Death Day, Buddy," Gunn tells him with a grin, and gives him a good, manly pounding on the back. Then Boobs jumps in and gives him a big sloppy kiss. Wesley pumps his hand like Angel's the damn Queen of England.