Fanfic: Coffeehouse Chaos (The Odd Couple Series 4/7)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Coffeehouse Chaos
Series: The Odd Couple 4/7
Author: Avarice and Darcy
Rating: PG (warning for bad poetry)
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Spoilers: -
Summary: Spike annoys Angel at a Coffeehouse's poetry night, and insults copious beatniks and hippies.
Word Count: 2071
Date First Posted: 2000
Date Revised - 13-05-2011
Beta: -
Awards: -
Notes: In retrospect, this is amusing as it was written quite a few years before Fool For Love, and finding out that the original William was a failed poet.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.

(Angel and Spike walk along a darkened semi-busy street)

SPIKE: Come on, can't you even hint at where we're going?

ANGEL: Where's the fun in just telling you?

SPIKE: Well, it might dull down what I'm going to do once we get there if you let me know...

ANGEL: (slows his pace slightly) Why... what are you going to do?

SPIKE: (grins) Where's the fun in just telling you?

ANGEL: Can't you even give me a hint?

SPIKE: Weeell... it always depends on the circumstances. Sufficed to say, you won't like it very much.

ANGEL: I had a feeling you'd say that.

SPIKE: So tell me where we're going and I'll make it easy for you, pet.

ANGEL: Not a chance.

SPIKE: (pouts sullenly) Fine. Let whatever I do be on your gelled head.

ANGEL: You don't scare me.

SPIKE: (points accusingly) I want you to remember this moment, so later on as you think back to this exact exchange, you recall I gave you the opportunity to get off the hook, Hairboi.

ANGEL: I'm shaking.

SPIKE: I can see that. (muses) I wonder if there's any treatment for vampires with Parkinson's?

ANGEL: (elbows Spike) Act your age, not your IQ.

SPIKE: I would if you led by example...

ANGEL: Shush, we're just about there.

SPIKE: But we can't be going anyplace around here! There's only... flouncy designer stores and bloody food 'emporiums' and- (realisation hits) No.

ANGEL: (innocently) No?

SPIKE: (stops) You heard me.

ANGEL: (stops) Actually, I don't think I did.

SPIKE: I know you're an effin' poof, but you can't be serious!

ANGEL: (begins walking again) Scared of a little culture?

SPIKE: It's not culture, it's an excuse for black polo-neck sweaters, bare feet and drinking 'healthy' herbal concoctions!

ANGEL: (still walking) What? Speak up!

SPIKE: (gets louder) I said-

ANGEL: (getting further and further away) Look, I can't hear you!

SPIKE: (yelling) Then stop walking away!

ANGEL: What?

SPIKE: Argh! (runs up to Angel) I'm going to hammer my point into your hardened head if it kills me.

ANGEL: Can I say two things?

SPIKE: Yes.

ANGEL: One- You're al-

SPIKE: -ready dead. Yes, yes, very perceptive. And the second thing?

ANGEL: (pushes Spike into a doorway) You can whinge inside.

SPIKE: What? (looks around) Oh bloody hell...

ANGEL: (follows Spike into the coffee house) Hell doesn't have low-fat latte's.

SPIKE: It figures you'd like some pansy-arse drink like that.

ANGEL: (takes off his coat and hangs it on a rack) Aren't you going to take off your coat?

SPIKE: (surreptitiously wraps his duster around himself tighter) No thanks. I'm not going to be staying here that long.

ANGEL: (stops Spike from leaving) You'd be more comfortable without it.

SPIKE: (mumbles) I'd be more comfortable in a sodding church.

ANGEL: Come on. If you take it off, I'll buy you a drink.

SPIKE: Your idea of a drink doesn't involve alcohol, though.

ANGEL: I'm sure not everything in here is foreign to your tastebuds... provided you have any left.

SPIKE: Nothing wrong with my tastebuds. They just tend to protest when subjected to nancyboy mixed drinks and pissweak milked-out coffee. Give me black coffee or give me death.

ANGEL: I already gave you death.

SPIKE: Regular bloody clown tonight, aren't you?

ANGEL: (holds his arm out) Coat? I promise, it's just for a little while.

SPIKE: (sighs dejectedly and takes his duster off ever-so-slowly) You're going to regret this.

ANGEL: No I won't.

SPIKE: Luv, all the shagging in the world is going to make up for me having to listen to fuckin' poetry from beatnicks and hippies, all of which should be dying. And at my hands.

ANGEL: (puts his hand under Spike's elbow and leads him further into the place) Come on. There's a black couch over there we can sit on.

SPIKE: Oh goodee. (looks at the sign) This place is called 'Aroma's'? Fucking great.

ANGEL: What's wrong with the name?

SPIKE: We're in a place named after a smell, Angel. Why don't they just call it 'Stink' and be done with it? It'd describe the poetry nicely.

ANGEL: You haven't even heard any yet.

SPIKE: Do I need to? Look around you, mate. These people are freaks!

ANGEL: (looks around) They're not so bad...

SPIKE: (snorts) Not if you're you.

ANGEL: (sits down on the couch) So you're saying I'm a freak, is that it?

SPIKE: That's about the general gist of it. (flops down on the couch and pats Angel on the leg) Triple shot of Sambuca Espresso in a short black thanks, Peaches.

ANGEL: (orders Spike's drink and a mochacino for himself from a passing waitress. Spike grumbles and fiddles around in his pockets for his cigarettes)

ANGEL: I don't see why you're grumbling... I had to sit through that telecast of soccer the other night... it was much worse than this.

SPIKE: Piffle. Just because you couldn't tell the difference between Man. U. and Liverpool.

ANGEL: What's the point? There was a lot of running and kicking... no-one scored and the fans rioted anyway.

SPIKE: (throws hands up in disgust) You have no idea, do you? The riot's the best and most traditional part. Nobody goes to watch the game anymore, it's the fighting! Who'd want to see a whole heap of blokes kicking a ball around a field when they could just as easily see Diego Marradonna nut David Beckham.

ANGEL: (takes his drink from the waitress and hands Spike his) I love the smell of tear gas on an English Soccer Fan.

SPIKE: I'll drink to that.

ANGEL: (rolls his eyes and clinks glasses, and takes a sip) You know, you're the only one to ever boo when the firetrucks show up.

SPIKE: They spoil half the fun. People work hard at setting those grandstands ablaze. Buzzkill's the lot of 'em. Same for the paramedics and referees. Riot police with truncheons, on the other hand... (grins evilly and downs half his drink) Can we leave yet?

ANGEL: The poetry hasn't started.

SPIKE: Then what's that incessant whining in my ears? Oh, it's you. Bollocks.

ANGEL: (glares) If you were half as cute as your insults, you wouldn't have such a problem getting laid.

SPIKE: (slides his hand between Angel's legs) Didn't seem to have a problem last night.

ANGEL: (grabs Spike's wrist) You stopped your gums flapping long enough for me to shove something in your mouth. That's all that was.

SPIKE: (uses other hand to tickle Angel under the chin) that's what they all say...

ANGEL: ... and then they let the Shetland pony go...

SPIKE: (tears hand away from Angel) Heartless bastard. You knew I loved that pony.

ANGEL: I swear, he was thinking of you the whole time. Look can we please listen to some poetry?

SPIKE: Find a poet amongst these Mod posers and I'll blow you right now.

ANGEL: (moves to unzip his fly) Swallow or spit?

SPIKE: Gargle. (grins lasciviously)

ANGEL: (closes his eyes and shakes his head, muttering) No matter how low I stoop in an attempt to win, there's always a lower rung. Why do I even try?

SPIKE: Because you're arrogant.

ANGEL: That's rich coming from Mr Egomaniac 1890-1990. Must've killed you to give up your title.

SPIKE: Nah... I'm shagging Little Miss Egotistical every Wednesday, I've still got a bit of sway in the Egomaniacal Circles

ANGEL: Liar. Cordelia'd never touch you.

SPIKE: Touché, mon petite crème brûlée.

ANGEL: (lays a hand on Spike's thigh, his tone getting slightly strained) I just want to listen to some poetry, then we can go home and you can start scratching the curtains or marking the furniture or something.

SPIKE: (looks off into the crowded coffee house) I wonder if the beret changes the taste....

ANGEL: (smacks Spike gently to shush him as a small man in a black turtleneck vest and yes, a beret, gets up on stage) Quiet now. Please?

SPIKE: (grumbles and lights a cigarette. Angel smiles in approval and pats Spike's thigh softly)

ANGEL: (sotto) Thankyou

SPIKE: (ignores Angel and blows smoke rings at some girl’s beehive hair)

ANGEL: (the little man on stage clears his throat and sits on the stool in front of the microphone, under a soft yellow spotlight)

{{Slippery snails glide their way,

through tomorrow,

over today,

little green pellets,

slide on by,

die little snail,

die die die }}

SPIKE: NOT DEAD ENOUGH, MATE! SQUASH THE BUGGERS!!

ANGEL: (Angel smiles apologetically to the man on stage and cuffs Spike)

SPIKE: (leans back in chair and mumbles) bloody pansy-arsed Satre-Nietzche reading hippies. (the crowd, despite Spike's outburst clicks their fingers in a show of approval. Spike looks on in disgust)

SPIKE: (groans) Bloody hell Angelus, these people don't even clap. Guess they don't have the coordination it takes to make their separate hands meet.

ANGEL: (glares) Have to find fault with everything, don't you?

SPIKE: I didn't have to look for the fault! It threw itself in my face and yelled 'Here I am!'

ANGEL: (moves dangerously close to Spike) I'll be in your face if you don't take it easy.

SPIKE: (squeezes Angel's thigh) Is that a promise?

ANGEL: More like a threat.

SPIKE: (walks fingers up Angel's leg) Well you know I get off on both, pops.

ANGEL: (takes deep shuddering breaths and pulls back, muttering to himself) It's not worth letting the demon out for... just... take it easy, won't be long now... it'll all be over soon...

SPIKE: (mutters) always did treat sex like a race. (the little man gets off stage to be replaced by a tall skinny man with no shoes and yes, a beret)

{{In my house

There was a stair }}

SPIKE: (mutters) 2 storey place then, was it?

{{Where it lead

I know not where }}

SPIKE: (mutters) because you're a moron.

{{Up in the attic

Down on the ground

Follow the stair

Around and around }}

SPIKE: (mumbles) Follow it right out the door, you frog leg eating mod trash.

{{Push open the door

Climb on the stair }}

SPIKE: (grumbles) Short arse.

{{My grandmother came in

But alas she was dead }}

SPIKE: (lights up) this is sounding good.

{{Dead as a post }}

SPIKE: (sits up) even better!

{{But i got a trust fund

With 50% net gross }}

SPIKE: (stands up) Then buy yourself some shoes, you sodding hippy! (Angel yanks Spike back down onto the couch. Spike yelps)

ANGEL: I see you've set aside this time especially to humiliate yourself. What are you trying to prove, here?

SPIKE: Any idiot with the ability to rhyme could get up there and be a god....

ANGEL: I doubt you could.

SPIKE: You wanna bet?

ANGEL: (taken aback slightly) You wouldn't.

SPIKE: (grins evilly) Oh, but I would.

ANGEL: (snorts contemptuously) Sure.

SPIKE: Want me to prove it? I will... (Gets up and walks to the stage, yanking the shoeless hippy from the microphone)

ANGEL: (hisses) Spike! Get down from there!

SPIKE: (Adjusts the microphone, sees Angel begin to panic and blows a kiss in his direction) This is dedicated to the Angel that came into my life and took me swiftly from behind... (Angel shakes his head emphatically. Spike gets a faux sappy look on his face) and has the power to force a grown man to his knees.

ANGEL: (Angel looks pleadingly at Spike) Spiiiike...

SPIKE: (clears throat and does various vocal exercises) maaa meee mooo maaaa... ready now... ahem.

{{There once was a girl called Buffy.

Who was, in fact, rather slutty.

Spike ripped out her lungs,

And hung them on rungs,

And used her smushed entrails as putty. }}

(Angel sits open-mouthed as the crowd clicks their approval, and Spike bows somberly. Angel leaps off the couch and drags Spike offstage, heading for the door)

ANGEL: I think I've had enough poetry for tonight, don't you?

SPIKE: But Angel, I'm a god!

ANGEL: (grabs their coats) God is dead, Elvis is alive, and you are dust particles.

SPIKE: No wait! (tries to run back inside) I've got another one about the cheerleader! And the witch!

ANGEL: (barrels him out the door, face dark) Save it.

SPIKE: And that bloody corn-fed, Slayer-fucked army prick! And the whelp! God do I have a poem about that loser! And-

(Angel inhales deeply, sounding more like a sob than a breath, and drags Spike down the street)

~finis