Devon And The Naked Lunch
"---de Quincey regularly used opium," said a familiar voice, as soon as Oz came into the back room of the Bronze. "Laudanum, they used to call it. Put it in bottles, like cough syrup. Fine ladies drank it like Diet Coke, back in the day."
"Wild," said Devon's voice. "I read Burroughs. He was one fucked-up dude. But you know, Angel, when you think too much about it, it really harshes your mellow."
"I'm just sayin' that it isn't new, " came the familiar voice, which, yes, did belong to Angel, and fuck Oz if the vampire wasn't smoking a fattie while Devon was peering into the mirror and putting on mascara.
"Hey, you want some of this stuff? Make your eyes look dangerous, dude," Devon said, waving the mascara tube. "Hey, Oz."
"Burroughs," began Angel heatedly, "Burroughs was still on methadone until he died. He was an idiot. You couldn't get a decent conversation out of him because he wanted to save all of his gems," Angel did air quotes, "for his books.. Burroughs." He snorted.
Oz, nonplussed, began unstrapping his guitar. It was kind of ridiculous to tell Devon not to corrupt a vampire, for Vishnu's sake, and there was Angel lying out his ass about all the stoners he'd known.
"Sir Walter Scott wrote 'The Bride of Lammermoor' while he was stoned," Angel was saying.
"Did he?" Devon said, without interest. "Sounds like a K-hole. Don't bogart the toke, my friend. Here." He took the doobie and gave Angel the mascara.
Angel looked at it helplessly. "I don't have a reflection," he said, giving Oz a hopeful stare that would have done Willow proud.
"You're wasted, " Oz said ruefully, uncapping the wand.
"And you need to catch up," Devon said. He stood behind Angel, holding his shoulders, as Oz applied the mascara on to Angel's long, long, lashes.
It all turned out to be just another Wednesday night at the Bronze. During the break between the two sets, Devon disappeared with his twins, and Angel and Oz smoked the rest of the doobie in the men's room, and made out in the bathroom stall.
Oz kept thinking that an ageless immortal should have better things to do with his time than snog a wolf-boy, but, apparently not.
"But I like wolf-boys," Angel protested, so, hey, Oz was thinking out loud again. Angel was so stoned that his eyes looked all black and he kept tilting his head sideways, blinking at Oz, all during the second set. Little drunk girls kept coming up and asking Angel to kiss them, from where he stood next to the stage, and he did, but he'd always go back to staring at Oz.
Kinda made Oz a little hot and itchy.
So when Angel flung himself into the passenger seat of the van, and slammed the door, Oz got in, and drove them, not to the big mansion house, but to the beach.
Because, hey, if you were gonna blow the biggest baddest monster in Sunnydale, then why hide inside?
"I like the beach," Angel said dreamily. "We need to come back."
"You need to front some money for the hash," Oz said, sleepily.
"Next time," Angel said.