Second, is anybody else having the weird LJ userpic swap? A couple of times, I've had userpics just turn into something else. For instance, earlier this week, my homemade Spike/Dru icon turned into Ellen DeGeneres. Ellen is a fine entertainer and all, but I DON'T HAVE ANY OF HER ICONS! The first time it happened, I ended up with little collegiate cartoons of beer, instead of my usual cakes and Spike, so I changed my password. But then it happened again, and now I'm feeling tech challenged. How does this dad-blamed thing work?
Third, I'm a little nervous about posting this fic, as it didn't go where I intended. Not the era, not the style, not the content. It was supposed to be a 100-word drabble about lighting a cigarette. However, I am sick of not posting anything, so I'm gonna chance it. I'm just not sure if anybody will think it's interesting. It's another historical, but hardly what you'd call ancient history. If you disagree with that assessment, may I just say: Hey! Watch it!
Title: Voodoo Chile
Word Count: 1069
Characters/Pairing: Spike/Dru, Historical Real People
Warnings: History, but no song!fic!
Summary: Woodstock was only part of the story...
Originally posted at still_grrr for Prompt 100: Dead Like Me
He first heard Hendrix at a gig at Blaises late in ’66, and Swingin’ London instantly seemed to turn into something much weirder and more wonderful. Dru was mesmerized, lost in the new world spread before her like a sonic magic carpet. He didn’t get a word of sense out of her for days, not that that was such a rare occurrence. What was odd was seeing Pete Townshend and Jeff Beck stand in the back of the club, looking both miserable and as if they’d seen the moon rise for the first time.
A month later, at the Brian Epstein tribute at the Saville, it was the same thing all over again: a tsunami. Dru begged for more, so, against his better judgment, they went up to Darlington. The old hotel there wasn’t up to the challenge, and those monster amps blew every fuse in the place after 3 minutes. Now, that was fun. Spike created a little havoc in the dark, somebody made off with Jimi’s guitar, and a good time was had by all. Except the deceased, he supposed.
Jimi played all over Blighty that year, and they also caught a show in Germany at one point. Fortunately, Dru didn’t follow the news and he managed to avoid being dragged to the soddin’ Royal Albert Hall. Horrible old pile. Then the band was off to the U.S. for most of ’68, and Drusilla kept going on about India, so he thought that was that.
It wasn’t, and they ended up at Woodstock in ‘69. The night before Jimi was supposed to play, Spike kept noticing the way the lights created areolae on the beautiful, seductive, enticing night sky. He knew he could make love to it, the way it deserved, the way nobody ever had before. He barely noticed the dawn trickling in with “My Generation”, but Dru did, and she got them settled in for the day, somehow.
By the next night, he was once again in possession of himself, and realized after Johnny Winter finished up that there was no way Hendrix was going to be able to play before the sun was up again. In addition, that crap hippie caterwauling was driving him mad, with all its peace and love. (A little part of him thought that “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” was very nearly a fitting tribute for his blood-splashed princess, though he’d never, ever say so.) He managed to hustle Dru out of there before the mass exodus, and it wasn’t until a year later that she brought it up again.
They were spending a lazy summer’s afternoon in the bed of some obliging (now dead) hipster. As he got up to flip the LP, she sat up, suddenly.
“We’ve got to go say goodbye, Spike,” she said solemnly.
“Goodbye to what, then, ducks?” He blew a bit of lint off the disc, and placed it on the turntable.
“To the voodoo child, of course.” He dropped the needle and waited for the music to begin again.
“Not following you, Dru. Can say goodbye to any child you want, though. Whoever you like.”
“Goody! We’re going on a boat ride!”
He finally realized that he was going to have figure out what was going on, and turned to face her with a sigh.
“Darling, where are we going, exactly?”
They caught a night ferry to the Isle of Wight, packed with kids. As dinner cruises go, it was ideal. Warm breeze. Crowding. Noise. Free love. Easy disposal of the empties over the side. Once arrived, Dru calmly led him across the island to the backstage area, looking briefly into the eyes of the security guards, as they passed. The fellow with the clipboard checked them off the list with less than a blink. Right useful, when she wanted to be, his Dru.
When she glided into the featureless room, the guitarist was sprawled on a tatty couch, mahogany amid various gray-faced individuals. He looked spent, but as soon as Dru entered, he rose, and reached out to her.
“You’re already here,” he rasped, exhausted.
“No, dear heart, today is not the day. We’ve come to say goodbye. Only right and proper, to say farewell to him who speaks the worlds.” She smiled, in full vamp face, took his outstretched hand and placed it above her heart.
Spike noticed that nobody else seemed to take notice of them. The ‘60s were really getting on his nerves. All this mystical bollocks was just de rigueur anymore. Tiresome, really.
“I’ve been seeing you, been writing you, been playing you. I thought I was dreaming…”
“Oh, but you were. Dream a little longer, child.”
Her demon faded away, and she returned his hand to him. He sat back down, and Drusilla sat beside him, speaking confidentially. Spike looked around for something to occupy himself while Dru granted this audience. Nothing really came to mind. These pathetic excuses were too strung out to be any fun. He sighed.
Before he knew it, the quiet conversation was winding down. Dru removed her silver choker, tied the red ribbon carefully around Jimi’s neck, and kissed him softly on the cheek. He touched the necklace wonderingly, then fumbled in the couch cushions a bit and pressed something into her hands. She rose, held out her hand to Spike, and out they went, her skirts swirling.
They watched the performance from the wings. At least, Spike did. Drusilla wasn’t so much watching as experiencing, which was the whole point, Spike thought. Hendrix, altogether more serene and powerful than the one they’d just left, walked on stage and lit up the sky with sound. Spike, like everybody else, couldn’t look away. At one point, the music stopped and a quiet “I've been dead a long time,” whispered over the sound system. Then Jimi stepped back from the mic and his guitar slashed back to life. When it was over and the band had left the stage, Dru pressed something into Spike’s hand.
“Burn it down, Spike. It needs a pretty fire.”
So he did. The stage blazed long enough for a grand exit. Goodbye, 1960s.
In a few weeks, the musician was dead. Spike figured there was no point in listening to another guitar solo for the rest of his existence. Lighting another cigarette, he admired his prize from Wight.
He was bloody fond of that lighter.