Title: Being Evil for Fun and Profit
Author: Dusk (dusk@goldserve.net)
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Spike/Angel/m (Host)
Rating: NC-17, mostly for language.
Archive/repost: AngelSlash, plus Dru's site. Anywhere else wants it? Ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money made. (Like anyone would pay for this!)
Summary: Answer to Dru's challenge [see end for exact challenge] And I can't believe I'm even attempting this pairing (tripling?), so chalk it up to insanity on my part.
Comments: I can't stress enough how *unrelated* this is to anything else I may write about the Host [g] Don't even try to fit this in to any canon events or timelines. But boy, it was fun to write! Happy birthday, Dru. No smut, but pretty much everything else.
Posted: March '01


Spike sat for a long moment, staring at the lamp post he'd just wrapped his car around. Something hissed under the bonnet. There was a faint tinkle of broken glass falling and shattering.

"FUCKITALL!" he howled eventually, yanking the door open and falling into a confused heap on the pavement. He hauled himself to his feet by grabbing on to the tortured wing mirror.

"Of all the *bloody stupid* places to put a lamp post!" He pulled the wing mirror off entirely and threw it at the post, then turned and viciously and repeatedly kicked the tire nearest to him.

"Hey, buddy, watch where you're throwing things," somebody told him from the shadows, sounding particularly annoyed. Spike didn't even bother to find out who it was, just whirled and punched them in the face, hard. The man dropped like a stone.

Spike cheered up a little. Nothing like a little random violence to make a person feel better. He gave the man a kick in the ribs and debated eating him. Naah. Not hungry. He kicked him again before losing interest.

Like this day couldn't get any worse without also killing his car.

It was all Angel's fault. And it was Buffy's fault too, and Dru's fault, and Harmony's fault, and the entire bloody scooby gang, too.

*All* their fault. All of them.

God, he needed a drink, and a fag. Well, the last one was easy enough; he rooted through the wreck of his car and found his cigarettes. Mangled but still smokeable. He lit one.

Next priority: beer. He was sick and tired of humans, at least the ones he wasn't eating, and putting up with them just for the sake of alcohol was too much effort. Plus, he intended to stay in gameface for as long as he damn well wanted, without all that poncing about pretending he was just like the food. No way.

So. Demon bar. Big city like L.A, practically Demon Mecca after SunnyHell, had to be some. Crawling with them, probably.

He abandoned the car and slouched off down the street.

Ah, a trail. Lots of stinking demon trails, all heading in one direction. Either a demon bar or some kind of organised massacre, either of which suited him fine. The trails led him to a doorway, and Spike stopped. Music. Guns'n'Roses. A very, very bad rendition of 'Welcome to the Jungle'.


He entered the bar, growling at random patrons. Yeah. Demons all over the place. Few humans, all right, but there was always some of the daft buggers who thought it was cool. Well, screw 'em. Or eat 'em, whichever he felt like after a few beers.

He found a stool at the bar and claimed it, daring anyone to take it from him. Nobody tried, which first irritated him - he could use a good scrap - and then pleased him. He was the Big Bad. Nobody dared to take *his* barstool.

"Beer," he grunted at the bartender, who was watching him impassively. Human, but it was probably wise not to eat him, not yet. Who would bring him beer?

"How many have you had?" the man asked as he set a bottle down. Spike grabbed it and threw a handful of bills at him.

"Not enough," he said, daring him to argue. "How many will that buy me?"

"Plenty. Want me to keep 'em coming?"

"Right on, mate." He downed half the bottle in one go, then polished it off in another.

The bartender passed him another one.

Somebody had the nerve to jostle him and he stood up, fully ready to tear their face off.

It was a chaos demon.

A soddin' CHAOS DEMON had the *nerve* to jostle *him*! He growled threateningly and the little wimp just backed off, eyes wide.

No way was Spike going to let him get away. He drew back the arm holding the bottle, fully willing to waste a good beer by throwing it at the scumbag.

Somebody caught his arm and held it in a vice-like grip.

"Now, now, none of that."

He attempted to pull his arm away, but whoever it was didn't budge. He turned and growled, not noticing the chaos demon taking the opportunity to run. The green bloke holding his arm just looked back at him calmly. Didn't even blink. Spike stepped up the threatening note in his growl.

"Can you read English?" he was asked in a conversational tone. Coulda been asking about the weather for all the interest shown.

"'course I sodding can," Spike muttered, pulling on his arm again.

The demon, who was wearing a bloody dinner jacket, of all things, pointed to a sign on the wall.

No guns or violence.

Spike stared at it. And began laughing.

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked, the urge to fight draining from him. "You have got to be bloody kidding me. What the hell kind of demon bar doesn't allow violence? It's the best part of *being* a demon, the violence."

"*My* bar doesn't," the demon told him, letting go if his arm. "Now behave yourself, or I'll have to throw you out. Think you can be a good boy?"

"Sure. Why the hell not. Good old Spike, eh?"

"You can always go find somewhere else to drink if you don't like it."

"No way, mate. I'm here now, and the beer is here... I can go kill something later. No problem."

"That's very good of you, thank you."

Spike stared. "Are you laughing at me, you ponce?"

"Just a little," he was told. "Come on, sit down, drink, and you can tell me all about what's put you in such a foul mood."

"Oh, man. You don't wanna hear about that, I'll be here all bloody night."

"You have somewhere else to be?"

"Hell, no. That's the point, innit. I'm on the road, or at least I was. Bloody car. This lamp post jumped out and attacked me, and now the car's like one of those squashed-up cubes. Looks like it was eaten by a monster truck."

"Ouch," the demon winced sympathetically. "I'm the Host, by the way. And you would be... Spike?"

"'s right. The problem is, see, the problem is... it's my birthday."

"Congrats. What's the damage?"

"Hunnerd'n twenty-something. Five, I think. Or is it seven? And it's not today, it's tomorrow, not that any bugger can remember that."

The Host perched on the next barstool, preparing for a long stay. The bartender topped up his Sea Breeze without having to be asked, earning himself a smile before the demon turned back to his guest.

"So how come you're on the road?"

Spike grabbed at his beer bottle. "Oh, it's all Buffy's fault. And Dru, too. And my poncy sire. Did I mention Buffy?"

"Yes. Go on. That's the slayer, right?" The Host grinned as he put the details together. Another survivor of Sunnydale. Well, well. How about that.

"Right," Spike agreed, not wondering how the green bloke could know that. "Slayer. See, Dru left me. She was my girl, you know? My favourite girl. Absolute nutter, and I adored her, but she decided in her weird little fantasy world that I had a thing for the slayer. Which I *didn't*," he added. "Slayers in general, as in, the killing of, I'm all for. But Fluffy Buffy, naah. And Dru left, taking her dollies and her dead birds and a serious chunk of my non-beating heart with her. Then Harmony comes along, without two brain cells to rub together, and I think, all right, this could be good. A nice, normal, sane, evil vampire to shag. Go me. And the fact that she had a superficial resemblance to the Slayer is nothing to do with anything. You know... blond, short... round in the right places...."

"Oh, sounds delightful."

"Yeah. Delightful," Spike said, eyeing him suspiciously. "'cept, the stupid bint never shut up. Blondie-bear... I tellya, what kinda name is that for William the Bloody, eh?"

"Which would be you?"

"Which would be me, yeah. Where was I?"

"Dru left you, you found Harmony, and she called you blondie-bear."

"Right. And she yaps on and on about the bloody Slayer, like *she's* the one obsessed, not me. Which I'm not, and never was. And eventually, just to shut her up and for no other reason, I say, okay. I'm gonna kill this Slayer. As a present for Harm, you understand."

"Of course."

"Which was all fine and dandy, at least until the bloody Slayer kicks my ass all over town and then doesn't even stake me. More beer."

The Host signalled the bartender to bring another round.

"Can you believe that? Some Slayer, eh? But I got back at her eventually. I'll get to that later. Right now, with my ass newly kicked, I'm skulking around... not in any way hiding, just skulking... and Harm decides that I'm not man enough 'cos I didn't bring her the Slayer's head on a platter. And we get into this really, really stupid fight and she tells me that she wished I'd never been turned, and I come this close to staking the bitch, her and her stupid fuzzy bunny slippers. I left her, this time. No more Spikey getting trodden on by women. I do the leaving, now. As it should be."

"Such a troubled love-life you have. They don't appreciate you."

"Damn right they don't," Spike agreed. "I told her, I said, if she mentioned the Slayer one more time, I swear to fucking God I'd rip her head off. And she told me not to curse at her! Stupid bint. I left her, and I took souvenirs, too. Gonna find some voodoo-mojo type bloke to put a spell on 'em, make all their noses drop off or something."

"What did you take?" the Host asked, fascinated despite himself.

"This. Warpaint." Spike reached into one of his duster's many pockets and pulled out a small plastic tub for inspection. The Host took it, unscrewed the lid and examined the contents.

"Blue sparkles?"

"She wore it, see." Spike took the container and scooped out a fingerful of the gel, smearing a line down each cheekbone. "There. Paint for war."

The Host grinned. The glitter highlighted the vampire's pale blue eyes, making him look like a soldier and a transvestite had somehow swapped cosmetics. "Cute."

Spike gave him a look that was as dignified as he could make it, glitter and beer not withstanding. "I'm not *cute*, you bloody poofter."

"Okay. If you say so."

"I do. Got things from all the scoobies, too. Curse the lot of 'em." He fished around in the pocket again and laid another item on the bar, next to the glitter.

The Host picked it up. It was a novelty pencil.

"'Wiccans do it in circles'" he read out loud.

"Belonged to Red," Spike explained. "Witch."

"Very clever."

"And Xander, see what I got from him..." Spike displayed a tattered photo of a car.

"A photo?"

"His dream car, which he cut out from a magazine and carried with him for about eight years, the nonce," Spike explained. "Blue Corvette, 1960...70...80.. something. What else?" He pulled out a small red stuffed wolf. "Oz. Werewolf. Couldn't steal anything from him, so I got this and named it after him. It should do the trick, right?"

"I should think so," The Host agreed.

"Giles, that's the Watcher, token grown-up of the Scoobies..." he pulled out a ticket stub from a cinema. "'The Last Resort'" he read. "Poncy film, dunno why he bothered."

"And from Dru, my lovely headcase, I have this." He waved around a doll, which had curly hair and a lacy dress. "Now, it's not Miss Edith, it's Miss Emmeline, but she took Miss Edith with her." He sat it up carefully next to the wolf, then picked up the pencil and drew a moustache on poor Miss Emmeline.

"There," he announced, with an air of satisfaction. "Now, the final trophy... and I'm pretty pleased with this...." he produced a wooden stick, sharpened at one end.

"What is it?"

"Mr. Pointy," Spike explained. "It's the stake Buffy didn't kill me with," he went on carefully, as though it should have been blindingly obvious.

"Well, that's a very impressive collection you have there, Spike," The Host agreed.

"Yeah. Should be able to whip up a super-duper nose-rotting spell with this lot." Spike carefully replaced each item into him bottomless pockets.

"So, you left, with your trophies. Why come to L.A?"

"Ahhh. Sire. See, it's all his *fault*. He never turned me, I wouldn't be having the shittiest day on record, what with ass-kicking and car-wreaking and the universe generally pissing all over me."

"And he's here?"

"Yup. Wearing a white hat and everything. All be-souled. Bastard. Thought I'd pay him a visit, let him know just how happy I am about it all. Maybe kick the shit out of him while I'm there. God, you're sexy."

"*I* am?" he asked, trying to keep up with the lighting-speed topic changes. Spike was leering at him, slightly blearily.

"Yeah. You're nothing like the Slayer. You're all... green, and the horns and all. And I'm assuming that somewhere under that poncy suit you have a dick, which I'm pretty sure the Slayer does not, in fact, have."

"Probably not, no."

"Wanna shag?"

"Tempting as that offer is... your sire would tear me into tiny little pieces for even thinking about it."

"Me? I'm tempting as hell, I'll have you know." He stared into the demon's eyes. "Have you met my sire, then?"

"If your sire is Angel, then yes, I have. Mr. Tall, dark and broody?"

"Thass him. God. I bet he fancies the pants off've you."

"I doubt that, somehow."

"Bet he does. Has a thing for blondes, see. Slayer. Me. Penn. That lunatic sire of his, Darla, bless her dusted cotton socks. And now you. Shall we go see him, see if he wants to have sex with us? Bet he would, and all."

"I'll take you to him, yes, but that's all. No sex."

"He never celebrates my birthday, the rotten bastard," Spike announced. "I want a cake, with fudge icing and whipped cream, and those bloody annoying candles that relight every time you blow 'em out. And does he make me a cake? Does he hell." Spike's eyes suddenly began filling with tears, and a moment later he was bawling into the Host's shoulder.

The Host put an arm around him. "There, there...." He gestured for the bartender to pass him the phone and dialed a number one-handed.

//Angel Investigations...//

"Angel. I think I have something of yours here?"

//What? What is it? //

"A bleach-blonde young thing by the name of Spike is currently crying in my arms, possibly because you haven't made him a birthday cake."

"I'm the... the.. big... baaaad," Spike sobbed. "Don't *wanna* sodding cake...."

//Spike's there? He's *crying*? And what's that about cake?//

"Yup, here he is. Is he always this maudlin when he's drunk?"

He could hear Angel groan. //Yes, quite often. Did Drusilla leave him again? //

"Apparently. I'm going to bring him over to your place before he scares all my customers away. I don't suppose you happen to have a birthday cake about the place?"

//A cake?// There was a long pause. //I suppose I can get one,// Angel said, sounding resigned.

"He specified fudge icing and whipped cream, and magic candles."

//He would. He's been ten years old for the last hundred years...// There were sounds of a lengthy argument, which ended in Angel saying, '*Please,* Cordelia'... and he was back. //Okay, we can do that.//

"Great, I'm on my way." He hung up. "You hear that, sweetie?"

Spike looked up from sniffling into the Host's jacket. "What?"

"You can have cake. Angel's getting you a cake."

"With proper candles?" Spike lit up.

"And whipped cream, yes."

"Right on, mate!" He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Can we go over there now? Do you know where he is?"

"Yes, and yes. Think you can walk?"

Spike nodded. By holding on to the demon with both hands, he managed to stand up on his third attempt.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," the Host muttered.


"We're here," he announced some time later. Spike looked up at the building, still holding on for dear life to the Host's jacket.

"Wow," he said, visibly impressed. "The poof lives here? Nice one, sire."

"Yes, it's great. Let go of me for a second, will you?"

"No," Spike said. He blinked owlishly.

"I have to knock, sweetie, otherwise we'll just stay on the doorstep."


The problem was solved when Angel opened the door for them. The Host nodded a greeting.

"Come on, Spikey, here we are. Home. Angel." He tried to untangle Spike's arms from around him, without much success.


"Spike...." Angel said. "Let go and come here."

There was no arguing with that tone of voice, so Spike did as he was told. Partially. He launched himself at Angel, nuzzling his neck and sliding one arm around him. The other hand remained firmly twisted in the Host's shirt.

"Sire," he said clearly, and latched onto Angel's mouth. Angel returned the kiss willingly. There were few things more appealing than Spike, drunken and amorous.

Spike heard a choking noise and twisted around to meet the wide eyes of his sire's secretary.

"Uh... surprise?" she offered weakly, holding out a cake. It had candles on.

"It certainly was," Wesley muttered beside her.

"Cake!" Spike announced happily. "Come on then, bint, bring it over."

"I'll be going, then," the Host said, trying to remove Spike's hand from his shirt. Spike tightened his grip.

"No, you can't go yet! There's cake, and whipped cream, and I'm horny."

"I think Angel can take care of that."

Angel was deliberately not looking anywhere near his human associates. "Spike, behave, *please*... not everybody in the world wants to sleep with you."

"Can't think why," Spike muttered belligerently. "Besides I don't just want him, I want you too. It's my birthday," he added, as though that would make all the difference.

"Tomorrow's your birthday. And you can't have us both."

"It is tomorrow, already. It's nearly one in the morning. And why not? Not like we've never shared before. And he's hot for you, he thinks you're all dark and broody and sexy. Right, love?"

"Well, yes, but that really isn't the point," the Host said, still trying to extract his shirt.

"And you said I was cute, don't deny it."

"I won't, but..."

"So it's settled," Spike announced happily. "I get cake, and you, and... the green bloke. Happy birthday me."

Angel closed his eyes for a moment. "Cordelia, Wesley, I think now would be a great time for you to leave. Please?"

"Gladly," Cordelia agreed, thrusting the cake at Wesley and almost running from the room. Wesley looked around desperately for somewhere to put the cake.

"Bring it here, you great pansy," Spike told him, one hand still holding on to the Host, the other firmly around Angel's waist. Wesley placed it on a table within arm's reach.

"Want to stay?" Spike asked cheekily. Wesley stuttered something incoherent and unashamedly ran for the door. Spike broke out into fits of laughter.

"Oh, peaches, where do you find 'em," he asked, giggling.

"You're evil, and you're crazy," Angel told him. "You're fucking crazy *and* evil. Why do you do this to me?"

"Mmm. Fucking. That's the magic word."

Angel looked over Spike's head at the Host. "There's no way I can say no to him like this. If you're going to leave, do it now."

"No," Spike insisted. He leaned over and planted a big affectionate kiss on the demon. "No, you stay." He paused. "Wait a minute, Angel. You're going to let me have him?"

Angel nodded.

"Great! Didn't expect you to agree."

"Consider it your gift. You sure you want to do this?" Angel asked the Host, who shrugged sheepishly.

"Apparently I have a thing for vampires. Come on, you. If you don't let go of this shirt, I can't take it off...."

Spike gave an innocent smile and tugged, shredding the shirt. "There you go. Now it's off."

Angel shook his head and put his arms around Spike, who leaned back into his embrace. Spike freed one hand and picked up a fingerful of whipped cream from the cake, feeding it to his sire over his shoulder, at the same time giving the Host his best, 'I'm adorable, come pet me' look, which the demon was more than willing to do.

With Angel behind him and the Host in front of him, Spike grinned to himself. Nothing better than a good birthday shag to make your troubles go away, all right. He began humming and felt the demon doing his best not to laugh.

"What?" Angel asked, feeling he was missing something. Spike just kept humming, eyes closed.

"He's humming 'Can You Feel The Love Tonight'," the Host explained. Angel gave in and laughed quietly.

"You're crazy and evil and don't you ever change," he told Spike.

"Not gonna happen, mate," Spike answered, still not opening his eyes. "Not if this is what it gets me." He guided the demon's head up so he could kiss him properly, tilting his head to let Angel get at his neck.

Oh yeah, Spike thought happily. Big, bad, and sexy as hell. He ruled!


Author's note: I honestly can't remember if that particular song is Disney or not, because I haven't seen a Disney film since I was, oh, four? But I know Elton John did some songs for a Disney film, and I have an album of his with that one on it, so it might be that one and it still counts :) Is Spike having a bad day Hellmouthy? For everyone else, I suppose it is.... This is only my second attempt at challenge-writing, and I just did it off the cuff.

Dru's Challenge

Someone is having a birthday and the usual Hellmouthy things happen. Spike is the main character, sans chip. I want my evil Spike! I don't care who he's paired with. I'm posting this to a bunch of lists, so obviously if it's a spike/angel list, he can be paired with angel. Likewise, if it's a buffy/spike list, he can be paired with buffy. It can be threesome (ie:b/a/s), as long as he's main character. Timeline doesn't matter, can be a history piece. It doesn't matter whose b-day it is. Can be spike's, doesn't have to be.

Must be FLUFFY and Have:
*-birthday trick candles
*-whip cream
*-an unexpected present
*-someone yelling 'surprise' at an inopportune time
*-the line, not necessarily in this *exact* form: "You're crazy. You're evil.You're fucking crazy AND evil!"
-smut (if you *really* can't, it's okay, but i'd love it)

Try to include at least five of the following, if not all:
*-a red stuffed animal
*-blue corvette
*-a mustache
*-Miss Edith
*-reference to a movie now in theatres
*-a song from a Disney movie
*-bunny slippers
-a ill-timed joke
-the word: flagitious (it's in the dictionary)
*-a special pencil
*-Mr. Pointy
*-the line: I swear to fucking God!
-a reference to William the Bloody's bloody awful poetry -
-one of his bloody awful poems -

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