Casablanca
Well, it's not Rick's Cafe Americain. It's not even the Blue Parrot. I carefully step around a pool of dried vomit on the stairs and take a quick survey of the room. This place is no different than the dozens of Third World bars I've been in over the past year and a half: barren walls, a slow-moving ceiling fan, and an unwashed clientele that eyes me suspiciously before returning to their drinks. A single deep breath tells me this is yet another moment when it's not advantageous to have werewolf senses. Of course after a week and a half sailing in a freighter from Turkey to Morocco, I don't smell like a rose either.
A sailor on the freighter gave me directions to here when he learned I needed a guide to take me up into the mountains. It pays to act casual in these places, so I glance around to see if I could spot the fellow my friend on the boat described. No luck there, but when a flash of white-blond catches my eye, I spot the last person I expected to see. This is not good.
Spike sits slumped at a table, and judging from the number of bottles and glasses in front of him, he's been sitting here all day. Last time I saw him, he was helping to break me out of the Initiative and, according to Willow, he was harmless due to a microchip in his head. A double check of the other patrons assures me that they're all still alive, so hopefully nothing's changed in that respect.
By the time I look back at Spike, he's looking right at me. He blinks slowly, and then wearily rubs his hand over his face before looking back down at the table. Now, I was never the most effective Scooby, but I can't just leave him here until I'm sure he's not a threat to anyone.
Leaning back in his chair as he watches me approach, he smirks, "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, you have to walk into this one."
"Huh. Funny. What brings you here, Spike?"
"Oh, I'm here for the waters. What about you, dogboy?
"I'm looking for someone."
"And you think you'll find him here?" he asks. "Not keeping the best of company these days, are you?"
"There's a wizard up in the mountains with a spell I want. I need a local guide to get me there."
"Oh, right, right," he half-laughs, "Continuing our little journey of self-discovery, then."
I don't know why anyone ever tries to talk to him, but I tell him, "More self-control than self-discovery, but yeah."
Looking at me speculatively, he says, "Africa seems to be the place for that this season."
So Spike's here on a journey of self-control? Interesting.
He pushes a chair out with his foot and gestures, "Sit, if you're gonna. Leave, if you aren't."
I sit while he waves over the barman. After getting a closer look at him, I'm becoming more confident that Spike isn't feeding on the locals. He isn't looking so good. He's never been a big guy, but now he's thinner than ever. Add to that his puffy red-rimmed eyes and his messy hair, and you get a vampire who doesn't seem to be living the high unlife. He looks kind of miserable.
It seems to make him uncomfortable when he catches me studying him. "So you're off to see the wizard, eh? What for? Still trying to get in touch with your inner beagle?"
I'm going to ignore that. "How long have you been in Africa?"
Looking down at the table again, he mutters, "Since May."
I watch him study the wood grain for a moment and then decide to just go ahead and ask:
"What have you been eating all these months?"
He doesn't look up, and he sounds bitter. "Not people, if that's what's worrying you. Haven't you heard? Popular theory is that I've been reformed. Or something like it-almost as bad, anyway." He pauses to take a drink. "I'm surprised Willow didn't tell you when you were back in Sunnydale."
A waiter comes and puts two new bottles down. I wait until he's gone and say, "She told me about your chip. Seems to me there's a difference between being redeemed and having a microchip in your head."
He cackles, and it's so close to hysteria that I've got to admit it spooks me.
"Well, you're right about that," he sniggers.
Spike keeps signaling the server and they keep bringing bottle after bottle. After three hours, I've had far too much to drink, and for all I know the best guides in Casablanca have come and gone a dozen times while I sit here listening to Spike. He won't stop talking though, and I'm drunk enough to keep talking, too. Maybe it's just that I feel like I've been all over the planet and seen a world full of strangers, it's cool to see a familiar face-even if it belongs to someone who used to try to kill you frequently.
It's not like I ever knew him well, but even I can see that Spike is not himself. He seems...well, manic, I guess. One moment he's chain smoking and staring into space. The next, he's talking so fast that, in less than an hour, he tells me about fighting a hell god, Buffy dying and coming back, Xander leaving his bride at the alter, and a dozen other tidbits about life in Sunnydale.
After a while, I think I get it. He's lonely. I don't know what's happened to him, but Spike smells like sorrow. It's all over him. So he wants something familiar, which is why he stares at my face so intently and why his hand creeps across the table to touch mine while he's speaking.
He sees me eyeing the hand he's laid over mine and draws it back with a start. He makes a visible effort to calm himself down. It's so uncomfortable, I start to talk myself. He watches my mouth while I tell him about following rumor and myth through Peru and China in search of a way to control the werewolf for good. I tell him about my latest failure in Turkey, and the demon who told me this Moroccan wizard can cage the wolf so it never comes out. It's more than I've spoken to anyone in years, and my throat aches with the effort.
With an air of apology, he tells me that Willow and Tara have had some problems, but last he heard they were back together. Not really expecting him to understand, I tell him this is something I'm doing for me, so I can have a future. "Besides," I tell him, "it's crazy to try to make someone love you by changing yourself. My last trip home taught me that."
Spike seems to find this absolutely hilarious. Laughing uncontrollably, he puts his head on his arms and just shakes.
Curious, I lean in close.
"Spike?"
Muffled, "Yeah?"
"Why did you come here, to Africa?"
Still hiding his face, he replies, "I told you: I'm looking for letters of transit taken off two murdered Nazi couriers."
Fine. Asshole. That just proves vampires can't continue a decent conversation for more than a few hours.
It must bother him when I don't say anything out loud, because he props his chin on his forearms and says quietly, "I was looking for something."
"Did you find it?"
"Yeah," he mutters even more quietly. "And before you ask, I don't want to talk about it. Just-when you meet your wizard, be careful what you wish for."
I really want to know, but if he doesn't want to talk I guess that's it.
"Why don't you just go home? You know, to Sunnydale."
"I can't," he whispers.
"Why not?" It's none of my business, but I'm curious.
"Because I'm afraid." He pushes back his chair with a screech and stands up.
Guess share time is over. I look down at the table at all the empties and it occurs to me I don't even know what they use for currency here. Whatever it is, I'm positive I can't cover my half of the tab.
When I look up it must be written on my face, because he just sighs and rolls his eyes.
"This is on me," he says. "How have you bummed around the world without enough to cover your bar tab?"
Feeling sheepish, I reply, "I rely heavily on the barter system, and I'm usually careful not to have too many expenses." I watch him pull crumpled handfuls of multicolored bills out of his pockets and toss them on the table. "Thanks."
"Whatever," he says with a shrug. "Listen, I'll do you one more. If you really want to find yourself a decent guide, you should try this other place a few blocks from here."
"Where is it?" I stand up, pleased that I'm just a little bit wobbly.
Watching me he says, "All these little places are just holes in the wall. I'll take you there." With a nod toward the back the starts off, and I follow him out the door.
The alley is dark and narrow, and I immediately doubt the wisdom of following a vampire out here whether he's chipped or not. When he tosses me against he wall hard enough to rattle my skull, I have just enough time to think that I'm an idiot for trusting him and now I'm gonna die.
That's why I am so unprepared when his mouth slams down on mine.
It's not the first time I've been kissed by another man. But it's Spike. His tongue is stroking the roof of my mouth. I feel the hard edges of his teeth and the smoothness of his lips. He tastes like Spike should taste: like cigarettes, alcohol and blood.
But the truth is the blood is mine from where he's split my lip. He's tasting it, and I can tell by the way he's hard and rubbing against me that it excites him. My head throbs where I hit the wall. He's gripping my wrists so tightly that I can already feel bruises forming. If he's chipped, why isn't it going off?
My mouth is freed as he licks a path along my jawline and traces my ear with his tongue. Blunt teeth nip hard at my earlobe and I gasp, "It doesn't hurt you? The chip?"
Pausing, he rubs his cheek against the light stubble on my chin and whispers, "My definition of pain has changed of late." But he does let go of my wrists. I brace my hands against his biceps, but I can't hold him away from me. I shudder when he noses aside my t-shirt and presses a wet, suckling kiss to my collarbone.
He has lifted my shirt out of the way and his mouth is pressing cool wet kisses to my chest. When he laves my nipple like a cat, all I can do is arch toward him and groan. It feels like it's wired straight to my cock and I realize I'm hard as a rock and moving against him.
He moves up presses kisses to my chin, cheeks and eyes, occasionally pressing brief kisses to my lips before traveling over my face again. My hands rub over his shoulders and I can feel how shaky and desperate he's become. Fuck it all. Why the hell not? I'm lonely, Spike's lonely. I'm about to embark what I'm sure will be another failed attempt to find a cure, just like all the others. I don't know what Spike's been through that's left him in this state, but if this is what he wants, what's wrong with that? I want it, too.
We press tight against each other and it's like my senses have expanded. I feel his hands fumbling with my belt while he kisses my throat. He's not getting it done fast enough and I push him away.
Startled enough that he actually stumbles back, he looks at me and I'm not surprised his eyes are glistening. "I wasn't going to bite you...I wasn't." His voice is choked and it sounds like he's grieving. "I was just-"
I interrupt because I don't need to hear this. "I know. It's not that. I just wanted to..." While I trail off, my hands lower to my belt. He watches with dawning comprehension while I lower the zipper. I look up to say something else, but with a low moan he has already fallen to is knees in front of me. In a movement much smoother than any other he's shown in the alley, he takes my cock into his mouth and swallows it down with one stroke.
Ohgodogodogodogod. He's had a lot of practice is all I can think as I buck once uncontrollably against him. A human would have choked, but he doesn't even try to hold my hips still. He just closes his eyes as he swallows and flutters his throat muscles around the head of my cock. It's too much, I feel like I can't move, and I instinctively try to move him back a little. In response, he eases up to the head of my cock massaging the underside with his tongue along the way. His hands cup my sack as his head begins to bob up and down, squeezing my balls lightly on the upward stroke. When he begins to hum, I moan so loudly that it takes me a moment to recognize the tune. It's the "Marseillaise." He really likes that movie.
Even pressed against an alley wall with my dick in a vampire's mouth, I can't help but let out a little chuff of laughter. He releases me and leans back on his heels, cocking an eyebrow. "Inspired choice." Seeing him down there, looking up at me makes me feel like I'm going to explode. "Very appropriate." My voice suddenly sounds like it's coming through a pinhole.
With a look that warns me not to interrupt him again, he leans toward me and licks up my thighs. Reaching my scrotum, he laps at my balls with the flat of his tongue. I whimper as he sucks at one and then the other, rolling them in his mouth. His hand plays with the tip of my cock, stroking his thumb over the wetness there while I quiver and moan helplessly. Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he sucks it clean of precum and leans back to take a good look at me. I can imagine what I look like: panting, red-faced and shaking, with my jeans around my knees and my cock twitching in the air like it has a life of its own.
Apparently he likes what he sees, because he nods once in approval before tracing the veiny underside of my erection with his tongue. Reaching the tip, he sucks hard, his tongue probing the slit for any fluid. I'm so close now, so incredibly close, that my legs are shaking uncontrollably and the only sounds I seem capable of making are the most guttural moans imaginable. I look down and see him looking up at me while he sucks my cock. My balls have drawn up tight, and for a minute I think I'm going to lose it right then. He must realize this because he holds my hips with steady hands and sinks right down to the root again. I can feel his muscles contract around me as I spill what feels like a gallon of cum down his throat.
Panting, I stand there swaying slightly while Spike rests his forehead against my stomach. His trembling eases and there's an almost palpable change in the air as he withdraws and collects himself. My hand drifts down toward his shoulder but he shrugs it off and sits up.
"Don't be getting all lovey-dovey now," he says. "Sometimes a kiss really is just a kiss."
I guess the touching part is over. Without his support, I slide down the wall until I'm sitting bare-assed in the alley dirt with my pants still around my knees. With my scalp still tingling from the blowjob he just gave me, I can't seem to think of anything to say. I watch him put himself to rights, wiping his mouth and searching through his pockets for cigarettes. When he stands, I'm just about at eye level with the dirty patches on his knees.
"Four hours or so left until dawn, and I've got things to do, so...." He's already drifting toward the mouth of the alley. I can see he would rather be anywhere but here, but he pauses for a moment. "Do yourself a favor." he advises. "Get some money before you go looking for that wizard. Bastards don't do anything for nothing. Nobody does." Turning on his heel, he set off down the alley.
"Spike," I call, and he looks back. "I was serious before. You really should go home."
With a flip of his hand, he turns away and is soon gone in the shadows. And it's really not my problem. He's right; sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. I straighten my clothes and head back into the bar. The chances of finding a guide tonight are slim to none, but if he doesn't show up tonight, there's always tomorrow.