Spoilers: School Hard.
Summary: Spike goes to Woodstock and gets high from feeding on a flowerperson.
Word Count: 491
Written For: mirrored_illusions’s prompt ‘Buffyverse, Spike, eating the hippie back in the 70's,’ at fic_promptly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BTVS, or the characters. They belong to Joss Whedon.
Woodstock was a trip, in more ways than one. Great music, all the peace and free love crap, and easy pickings to boot. Hunting had never been simpler or required less effort. With so many people around, most of them willing to slip away into the darkness for a quick roll in the hay, Spike barely had to try. ‘Course, you had to be careful who you fed off, wouldn’t be smart for a vampire to get so spaced out they forgot to go to ground during the day, but even knowing that, he’d had to find out what it would be like to feed on someone who was high, just to say he’d done it.
She was tasty too, his flowerperson; said her name was Aurora, or something like that, when he’d met her briefly earlier, and when he saw her again, lying there, staring up at the stars, she kind of reminded him of Drusilla. She was so out of it she didn’t put up a fight when he bit into her neck, actually seemed to enjoy it, and after he drained her dry… Wow, what a blast!
“Far out! This is so cool!” He wasn’t sure if he said the words out loud or not, and honestly, he was too stoned to care. He couldn’t look away from his hands. When he moved them, they left a string of afterimages burned into his retinas; it was like they were made of rainbows. How long had it been since he’d seen a rainbow; a century? More? He waved his hands around, but they were moving in slow motion, dazzling him with their light. They made patterns in the air, like smearing paint across glass, and sparks flew from his fingertips. His hands were so beautiful he wanted to cry, or maybe laugh. Perhaps he did both; the colours turned blurry, melting together, running in streams across his vision. At some point he fell over onto his back, hands above his face, silhouetted against the night sky and trailing streamers of coloured light, captivating him. He felt like he could reach up and pluck the stars from the sky; there was no distance his hands couldn’t reach. He could cup the whole universe in them and never let it go.
When his head finally cleared, dawn was approaching and he needed to find somewhere to hole up until night fell again. A good six hours must have passed, but while he’d been lying there, hypnotised by his own hands, time hadn’t existed, and neither had the rest of the world. He’d been floating, weightless. It had been a stupid risk to take, a slayer could have come along and ended him without him noticing, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, wondering if what he’d experienced was anything like how Dru saw the world in her insanity, her disconnection from reality. If it was, he could almost envy her.