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tamy_blue
DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose".
Sumary: Do you know The Who's song "Behind Blue eyes"? How many times did you think this song talks about Spike? Well, this is a little AU fic about that. Pete Townshend did write that song thinking in Spike.
Author's babling: Please, english is my second or third language, so don't be too hard with me. I swear I'm trying my best.
Please, feedbacks are my drug. I need them to know if I should keep working on this, or just shut the f*ck up. So let hear your outraged screams! Thank you!
July1964,No.90 Wardourstreet,Soho,London. (Spike's POV)
The local makes honor to its fame. It´s been hard to find it, since they changed their usual direction only a few months ago. 'Not bad', you say to yourself looking around you, 'at least does not seem to have lost its original spirit'. You don't know if it is due to its relatively recent opening, but in the Marquee tonight there is no room for anyone else.
Nursing your beer you make your way through the tumult with effort, until you get in the first row, in front of the stage.
The first to go on-stage, between voices and dense gray smoke of cigarettes, is a young guitarist. He's tall, ungainly, with a prominent nose, dark and long hair up to the shoulder that hung down over his face. Stupidly 'his' memory bites you like a snake, hissing irritated in your blood, but you numb the pain drinking again. Not this evening, you think angrily.
The band begins to play and has not yet spent two minutes when you scream enraptured. God, they are great, brutal, chaotic. The music envelops, transports you beyond your senses, it collapses them. It makes you howl, and your voice is lost in the clamor of the premises; all the presents there are like wild wolves instinctively responding to the Night's call.
The vocalist faces you with his overly cocky voice, spitting even some of the words, daring you. In the background, the drummer plays with your pulses but the best of all is without a doubt, the guitarist. He walks up and down the stage, jumping, prisoner of a delicious frenzy. Chords created by his fingers float before you, over you, inside you as dense drops of poison. In one of his laps, he stands in front of you; forehead sweat pearled, eyes dazed, running his right arm against the strings in a manic whirlwind.
You lose the notion of time and space. You're barely aware of what you do; you think you can hear yourself screaming. Sometimes you feel that you're dancing in unison of those around you, prisoners as you are, of the madness that emanates from the scenario, like blood from a wound.
Your throat roars hoarsely when the drums shatters, a drumstick pass at full speed near your head. It is incredible. Those fellas are gods. Their music is a masterpiece, its staging; an ode to the disaster, the chaos, a catharsis destructive that culminates when the guitar clatters against the ground.
The dark musician dropped what little remains of his instrument once the music has stopped, and looks around as if he didn't know where he is. For a second your eyes meet, and although you know that is impossible, during that fleeting moment, it's like you can see in the bottom of his dilated pupils the shadow of your own lost soul.
