Title: Monaboyd: The Musical (Act I)
Author: Serpentis lord_alexander
Pairing: Monaboyd and, well, weird stuff going down here.
Rating: This is a PG13. It'll get higher.
Summary: Billy isn't a usual Slayer but he's good at his job, even though short skirts and halternecks don't suit him. However, when everyone spontaneously starts to sing, things start getting even weirder. What is this musical sensation? Can Sean Bean sing? What has Elijah got to do with this? Who is the sexy demon? And, most specifically, will Billy be lured by the Darkness that is Hollywood?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not mine. Not even mine in the Buffyverse.
Feedback: harmonises beautifully.
Author's Notes: All Singing and All Dancing, and we have both here. Marvellously choreographed and everything, how wonderful *grins* I said I'd link to the original songs, and here you are.
Actually, people have taken off the MP3's, so I'll have to link you to this until I find somewhere that has the songs as a website download, and not on Blubster or anything. You can download them off there, if you're really desperate. It's free, after all *grins* Original lyrics for the songs are here
Previous Chapter: Overture
Being a Slayer - no, The Slayer, let's focus on that The there - meant that every day was a night shift. After all, it was deeply unfashionable for any beasties to come out in daylight, it went against tradition, and there was the tiny problem that some of them melted. But then, there were always some sprightly, forward-thinking demons who loved the sunlight, having bleached hair and tans that would have reduced a human to a sort of wrinkled walnut. They tended to be called 'starlets' and were a strange form of succubus that prized making short, fat powerful men who wore bad toupees into their sex slaves. It, indeed, meant that the upper echelons of the film industry were a magnet for overweight midgets with bald spots. At least they got some sex; if they didn't, there would probably be an apocalypse of slim horny humanoid females with impressive sets of implants.
After all, there was always an apocalypse. There was practically one every month, like clockwork. Oh no! End of the world! Again. It got rather tired after a while, especially as these tended to be false alarms. But it broke up the monotony of the usual stabbing vampires through the heart with sticks and lopping their heads off with Mr Shiny, so they were welcomed in the way that elderly relatives were. They might be senile and smell of wee, but they always gave over a fiver and tales of when they were knickerless can-can dancers between the wars.
Cemeteries were the usual place that vampires fledged, but then there weren't that many of them in the inner London environs, and so Slaying had become a rather commuting affair to Highgate, or one of the Victorian cemeteries like Kensal Green. Billy had saw himself as rather an executive Slayer, apart from the small problem that the Claymore wouldn't fit in a briefcase, and wearing suits meant less manoeuvrability. It looked professional, though, and there were those amongst the undead and demon community, the usual bloodsucking leeches of zombie lawyerdom and tax inspector ghouls, who appreciated a little common courtesy. But usually, Billy stuck to jeans and a shirt, preferably one that was dark enough not to show brain and blood, and boots.
Always nice boots. Not that he had a boot fetish, but damn, he had great boots. Tonight it was the turn of the ten hole Doc Marten safety boots, complete with steel toecaps and Airwear soles. It gave Billy, short little Slayer of weeness, an extra inch in height and an extra bounciness when he needed to kick something in the head. Or heads, as it might be. You never knew these days.
Along the winding paths, and it really was a handsome graveyard, this one. There'd been a railway line laid just for it, for coffins to be sent along from St Pancras, because if Looked Better. The Victorians did death well - Dom had said that, and he should know, considering he was a Victorian when he was Turned. Where was that bloody vampire's supposedly natural repression? Where was that part of his brain that didn't mention anything below the waist, and wanted to be tied up by Sherlock Holmes and flogged with his deerstalker? Dom, though he was over one hundred years old in vampire terms, was a thoroughly modern vampire. He even liked Bon Jovi, for Chrissakes.
"Every single day the same arrangement..."
Billy almost stopped in his tracks. It was that sodding tune, that one that had been echoing around his head, and...there were lyrics. Lyrics, interesting ones, fascinating actually, and now he was singing along. And with every note, every syllable, it became more and more sensible, nay, normal, to be standing in the middle of Kensal Green, amongst the Victorian crypts, and singing.
"I'll go out and face my foe.
Still I must admit this strange engagement
Doesn't feel so right, plays on all my woe."
Obviously, something was going to try and stab him. No one could sing in a few acres of cemetery, populated by the more traditional vampire - as opposed to the upwardly mobile vampires who moved west and became advertising executives - and not have something wonder what the fucking hell the Slayer was taking. So it was going to happen that a vampire would leap out from behind some artistically arranged and very well lit headstones and attempt to have a wee dram. But then? It turned even more surreal, because the fight seemed to be choreographed! The fledgling, strategically earthy around the shoulders, rushed him, Billy spun him around, and he continued with the singing as if it was the most normal thing in the entire world.
"I've been trying, well," and the vampire was smacked in the gob by a fairly nifty Glaswegian punch, "to surf this swell,
And showing...fucking hell – " It was impressive how Billy moved with a vampire who was half a foot taller than him and had the ability not to breathe and therefore run out of oxygen. He measured the kick better than any drunk in Sauchiehall Street, slammed a steel toe into the creature's crotch, and used the momentum to throw him over his shoulder.
"I've been going through the motions,
Walking through the part."
And the next part was beautiful, oh, it was joyous and wonderful and damned well classy. The vamp, which if it had been alive would have been winded but wasn't so wasn't, charged towards Billy from the rear, and he staked the sod without looking back. Innuendo obvious, of course, but then Billy hated vampires. He wasn't going to shag one. Apart from...well, fine. That one time. Okay, the several times over a number of years. That had been perfectly reasonable until Vampire Viggo of the cheekbones and broody broodness had Gone A Bit Weird. Okay, he was attractive, and sexy, and broody (it needed mentioning again) and Danish, and a vampire, but really, did he have to get so upset when they took his Equity card away? He'd lost his reasoning right there and then, had turned evil, had teamed up with Dom who was always up for a Slayer bashing session, until the had his Equity card forcibly restored and then everything had been perfectly peaceful. It was strange how much power was linked to that status. But that had been five series before, and therefore Billy was well out of the relationship. Anyway, how could he possibly have ever loved a man who wrote poetry that was akin to Vogon, and brooded (it had to be mentioned more than three times)?
"Like I've only gone and lost my heart."
Nonchalant, because that was a good kill, even for him, Billy wandered along the grassy paths still singing. It was so natural now for everyone else to be joining in some set piece that must have been foreplanned by evil and nefarious things unknown.
"I was always brave and true Glaswegian -
Now I cannot stand the heat."
Out of the corner of his eye, there was an amusing tableau created that consisted of two vampires, a satyr, three metres of rope, an attractive man, and a tree. While it sounded like a kinky sex game, it was still in the early stages of foreplay; the human lashed to the massive oak while half-naked, the horny goat-man probably already turned on, and suspiciously whispering vampires. It put Billy in some strange mind of a seditious meeting, and, of course, he was right. Of course not all meetings are seditious and kinky, but this one happened to be both, to the fascination of those in the vicinity, which consisted of the four sex-buddies and Billy.
And, of course, one sniff of the Slayer and they were wanting him to come and have a little frolic with them. They bounded forward, with obvious erections and squeals of excitement, rather like a gaggle of Nathan Lanes.
"Crawl out of the dark, you'll find this fighting..." Billy preferred to undertake his patrol without being molestered, and he punched one of the vampires, which went down not in the way it wished for, but in the more painful and whimpering manner of the complete wuss.
"Just is my defeat!" Another punch. Really, this did grow a little tedious for those watching, and therefore there was a change of tempo and singer, the first vampire leaping up and singing in a thrilling and operatic tenor.
"He ain't got us beat!"
Literally, sadly for the Slayer, who got a fist in the face which knocked him down, shudderingly enough, so he was flat on his back on a freshly dug grave. That...wasn't hygienic, but then it could have been worse. It could have been unfilled. It could have been dug up. He could have gone straight through the coffin into the corpse, and really, that would play havoc on his clothes. But then it was a perfect opportunity to get some more choreographed moves in. Billy lay there, prone, pale flesh gleaming in the moonlight, arms crossed across his chest, and Mr Shiny thrust into the soil next to his head.
That was...convenient. Mr Shiny hadn't been there before.
Somewhere there was a lull in the music and crickets chirped - even though they weren't an indigenous species to this part of London.
"Oh they noticed...neat." It provoked a sigh, as if the weight of the world were on Billy's shoulders, and, well, it was. Him being the Slayer and all.
Next to the grave, but at a tasteful distance to allow a long camera shot, the demon and the vampires were indulging in some fairly fancy footwork. If this wasn't a musical, James Bond, or Star Wars, they'd have finished the Slayer off before arseing around with dancing. However, this was the former, and therefore there had to be some visual representation of 'triumph' in modern dance before slaughter got underway. It gave Billy a second or two.
"He is known to spork the troll and orc
But lately he's a dork –
He's just going through the motions..."
The satyr drifted into faint descant, which was painful, and Billy grabbed opportunity by the horns - not the Satyr's horns, of course - sprang up from the grave and was wielding Mr Shiny like some enraged Highlander with a personal grievance and a touch of blood lust. Which, in all honesty, Billy was, if you took an American view of geography. Off with a head, and there was one less vampire terrorising the dead of Kensal Green in that ineffectual way of there not being that many humans to kill, and the gravedigger tended to notice the lines of desperate vamps following him.
The second vampire, relieved of having to do a duet, looked rather pleased to be able to sing that Billy was "faking it so well." Of course, this was taken to mean that the Slayer was pretending to still be on form, rather than having anything to do with orgasm.
Since he'd come back from professional death, Billy hadn't been the same. Something had happened to make him less...human, less able, less empathetic and therefore he was A Lesser Actor. As if angry for this, he barged the vampire out of the way, and stabbed the satyr who took up the tune. That was pure professionalism, that was.
"He's not even half the man he - " and as the horny goat-man fell over dead, he managed to just squeeze the rhyme out. "Hell!"
With them out of the way, Billy managed to actually get some singing of his own done for once, and he wandered towards the tree where there was that rather attractive man lashed. Oddly enough, he looked rather like the young Michael Ball, in a cameo piece, when he was Raoul in Phantom of the Opera in the late eighties.
"Will I never feel affected?
Walk through life always rejected?"
Slicing through the ropes, it became abundantly clear that Michael Ball was in an unbuttoned white silk shirt and tight trousers, and really, that was enough to have anyone wanting to be shagged against a tree. Indeed, there was the offer there, given to Billy.
"How can I thank you?"
"Forget it," the Slayer snapped, and he threw the sword away to go and pose melancholically on a gravestone. Really, the lighting was beautiful.
"I don't want to be
Going through the motions,
Like I'm made of stone -
I don't even know,
Emotions never show.
I'm just feeling kind of
The last word was made even more artistic as the remaining vampire came at him, got staked, and was dusted so cleverly that the residue formed a sparkly little cloud around the Scotsman.
The Magic Box dreamed in the early morning rush hour pollution, and the Slayer arrived wearing a smog mask and wielding a bicycle helmet like he was Ben Hur. He hadn't actually cycled anywhere, for he had no bike, but such was the difficulty of forcing Elijah to go to college that Billy wore safety gear for his own protection from flailingly grumpy pseudo-teenage arms. The smog mask was just a fashion statement, or, as everyone else put it, Billy was such a shortarse that he breathed in more CO2 than anyone else could.
Everyone else was there already, apart from Elijah.
This always happened. Billy set his alarm early and then promptly slept through it. He blamed it on Sean's tempting him with drink, and some heavy late night slaying, but everyone knew he'd been up with the Yorkshireman playing on the Return of the King Playstation game, and purposely trying to kill Orli. Not that Billy didn't like Orli, but it was Legolas' death squeals and girly limp wrists and nancing running motion that made everyone beg to play with the sprite, then send it out weaponless to get bitchslapped. Orli didn't find it amusing, but then he didn't understand since he was still learning to try and have a sense of humour and to not take things so literally. A thousand years as a Vengeance Demon and tormenting humanity meant that he found interacting with people a little difficult still. Indeed, all those human nuances, such as sarcasm and irony, had passed him by in the greater scheme of things, and he often still needed jokes explaining.
It was like living with a German, like Blackadder said.
Craig, positively vibrating with some inner bouncing health, shimmied over holding a stuffed mongoose. Apparently, the small creature was possessed and attacked anything that looked like a snake.
Ian had stopped wandering around naked very shortly after it was purchased.
"Elijah stop clinging to the walls and actually fuck off?"
"Finally. The little bastard bit me."
He took succour in a sugared doughnut, just as Sean was doing. Obviously hungover, the blond was staring into the depths of the blackest coffee that had ever been made, and moodily scrumming up baked goods. It looked as if the profiteroles were already laid waste to, and there were a frightening lack of custard tarts.
"You'll get fatter, sweetie," Orlando reminded his not at all fat bridegroom, before he started counting the money in the till again. It was like some strange tic. Other people tapped their fingers or twitched. Their resident ex-demon played with loose change and fivers. He was rather obsessed with money, though, to the point where he'd ended up clinging to Ian in an attempt to stop him taking their profits to the bank, screaming that the cashiers didn't love the money as much as he did. No one quite understood why money held such a place in Orlando's heart, apart from Sean, who explained that since money was inanimate, and it had rules, unlike humans, then it could be tamed.
Everyone was perky. Billy hated them; they can't have sung. Bastards. So he decided to launch in feet first.
"Anyone end up singing last night then?"
Ian's doughnut hand paused. Orlando lost count of the tuppences. Sean gobbed coffee across the seventeenth century manuscript he was trying to read. Craig looked as taxidermied as his mongoose. David fell off the ladder leading up to the mezzanine.
"Fuckin' hell!" Sean could always be guaranteed to break a silence, if he was in the mood, with a profanity.
Ian waved half a doughnut around, projectile showering everyone with sugar. "I was in my hotel, then there was a guitar and room service were doing an intricate ballet routine, and someone was playing the ukulele."
"And David and me sang about dish washing!"
"With an entire verse about taramasalata!
"Sean and I had an argument in choral rounds!"
Everyone looked like faintly poached gaping guppies before breaking into a babbling chaos of strange rhymes, and how a certain Greek dish rhymed with 'doesn't matter,' 'fried fish in batter,' and even 'nuggets like atomic matter.' Ian, though, being sensible, asked the obvious question.
"So what did you sing about, dear boy."
Now that was a knotty and difficult question. How was he supposed to say that he sang a cheerful little ditty about being depressed and feeling that life was an emotional desert? Billy might have been feeling as if everything was trying to destroy him, but then...what could his friends do? They were never to know the cause, what they'd done in bringing him back from professional death. If they knew - if they knew then everything would be destroyed; there would be no more friendship. They'd never be able to look Billy in the face again without that terrible ice-flare of guilt clouding their expressions.
"I can't remember...but it seemed normal to me at the time."
"We should start investigating," David pondered, before turning to stare at the books that were stacked and piled and filling every available space possible. "With the books? Do we have books on this?" David sweetly believed that books could answer literally anything.
Craig patted his lover's bum, making the redhead jump with surprise. "We should have a think about it - we don't want it happening...oh, bollocks!"
Ian, as he'd eaten the rest of his doughnut, was polishing his glasses as he began to sing. He had a decent voice, rather Jazz Club. Smoky, and bluesy, and Billy suddenly had the urge to giggle as the thought of Ian in a flapper's dress, feather boa, and smoking a cigarette out of a holder came to mind. There were far too many feathers on the head dress mind.
"I've got a theory
That it is PJ!
A heinous script!
No, something isn't right there."
It was an excellent thought. Their erstwhile and Hobbity director was the sort to spring this on them. Indeed, Billy had come to the conclusion that Peter Jackson was some sort of demon, but he wasn't sure which one he was going to narrow it down to. Short, fat New Zealanders weren't the usual disguise for anything hellish, but then you only had to look at Craig to see that there were two of them. Billy was always forgetting that Nosy Parker was not Australian, and he'd had it pointed out to him on several occasions that David was the one descended from convicts, not him.
"I've got a theory," sang Craig, and it was painful.
"Some writer's writing
And we're all stuck inside his wacky slashy nightmare."
Of course he'd sing that. He loved the internet, Craig knew all about slash. He'd been the one that had shown Elijah the Dom/Lij stuff, knowing full-well that Doodle - Dom's nickname for the short American - had quite the crush on the vampire. Craig was a bit of a bastard quite a lot of the time, unfortunately for those who had to live with him, but it had got worse since he'd become more and more addicted to magic. David was despairing.
Sean piped up. "I've got a theory we should work this out." The others, apart from a bemused looking Billy, joined in for a little harmonisation, and really, whoever had worked out the descants and how the voices were to fit together really was impressive.
"It's getting eerie
What's this cheery singing all about?"
The Yorkshireman stole back the lyrics.
"It could be Shelob!
That evil Shelob!"
Sean wasn't keen on spiders, but really, blaming her for all of this singing and dancing frenzy? That was a bit rich, but he had the grace to blush and attempt to back-pedal. If Dom had been here, Sean would have been done for in the sense that the Mancunian would have shouted and listed every good point about spiders that he could remember, since he had an affinity with the horrible things, and therefore Sean would have had to listen to an endless lecture on the eight legged beasties. Billy, quietly, thought that the vampire's collection of insects and arachnids was because he had no friends.
"Which is ridiculous cos spiders they are Sauron's friends and hairy legg'd and squicky bad but are so dead and aren't around and I'll be over here..."
The oddness continued courtesy of the second part of that strange, bizarre relationship.
"I've got a theory, it could be Hobbits!"
Those bloody crickets chirruped again.
In the Lord of the Rings films, Legolas never has much to do with the Hobbits. That was because he was freaked out by them after Elijah, Billy, Dom and Sean Astin had Hobbit Piled him one afternoon, and Orlando had been found rocking back and forth under an overturned wheelie bin, muttering about furry feet wanting to eat his brains, his lovely blond wig all tangled and one of his ears missing. It had mysteriously turned up on Ebay, and, just as mysteriously, Dom took them all out to dinner the day after the auction finished.
The awkwardness was broken by diplomatic David, but his "I've got a theory" was immediately drowned out as the music changed from the rather perky and happy to Alanis Morisette rock chick mode. And, of course, only Orlando could add anything to this. Lights flashed, from somewhere there was dry ice, there was nifty wobbling camera work and a little bit of air guitar from the ex-demon as he pranced and pelvic thrusted and Mick Jaggered.
"Hobbits aren't just cute and really they just aren't sweet!
They've got them stary eyes and hairy little feet!
And what's with all the mushrooms?
They spend all of their time half-stoned!
It must be Hobbits!" The tune morphed back into happy bounciness.
"...Or other midgets."
"I've got a theory we should work this fast - " sang Craig hurriedly, voicing the opinion of the masses, and he was joined by Ian.
"Because it clearly could get serious before it's passed."
"I've got a theory..." David, bless him, tried again but this time was interrupted by Billy, who had a very pretty voice and everyone ended up swaying along to what he was singing. It all made such perfect sense to do so, like it was perfectly normal to be singing at each other, and for random acts of staging to take place.
"It's only singing" He coped with the key and tune change admirably.
"What can't we do if when we're united?
What's so awful we cannot fight it?
We all know him
The same big Bad
It's wearing thin!"
Such emotion! Such pulling together! Such inspiration! Everyone joined in at that, swaying around and waving baked goods as if they were lighters. If Dom had been there, or Elijah, they could have stolen their Zippo's, but they had to make do with doughnuts, the bottom pieces of pastry from custard slices, and, in Craig's flashy case, juggling doughballs.
"What can we do if we can't beat it?
We'll think of something soon – we mean it.
We have to try
To kill the song.
We must defeat -"
"Or sing along!" Billy added, with a faint smile on his sweet mouth.
With Ian echoing the lines, they made a desperate dash to the climax of the piece.
"What can't we do if when we're united?
What's so awful we cannot fight it?
There's nothing we can't face..."
And, of course, the closing like was Orli's.
"...except for Hobbits."
The ensuing silence saw most of the people gathered around the table slowly glow scarlet and put down/eat/throw away the bakery treats they'd been wielding for the past four or something minutes. David, naturally embarrassed and therefore no one knew why he was going out with flashy, chatty, embarrassing Craig, looked as if he wanted not just the earth but the entire universe to swallow him up. Craig, in reply, was looking psyched.
Sean ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "That. Was weird."
"Nah, it was fun. Again! Again!" It was almost tempting to turn Craig into Tinky Winky. He was practically there already, and Billy knew for a fact that he had the red handbag. It was partially to piss off the New Zealander that he asked the salient questions.
"So, how to we kill it? Is it just us? If it's just us, we're off to the hospital, you ken?"
No one seemed able to answer it, especially as the tune had been rather catchy, so people were still singing snatches of the song. As usual, it was up to the Slayer himself, and he strode to the shop door, opening it and stepping into the street for some air.
The first thing that was noticeably wrong was that there seemed to be an Irish formation dance troupe jigging down the middle of Jamaica Road. Since it wasn't St Patrick's Day, Billy admitted that it was slightly odd. As were the greengrocers doing what looked like some sort of erotic pineapple-based dance. Everyone coming from the tube station was swinging around lamp posts a la Gene Kelly. And then there was the man with the dry cleaning bag. He was overweight, and wore glasses, and held that bag aloft like it was the Holy Grail. The metal hanger glittered in the sun, and behind him where other people, men and women, brandishing articles of clothing that perfectly matched and didn't clash. It was a triumph of technical planning and choreography, especially as they slipped into a dance routine which involved lots of group waving of the clothes as the man sang.
"They got...the bloodstains...out!"
In a roar of triumph, the entire street joined into to refrain.
"They got the bloodstains out!"
Cue somersaulting, tumbling, and more waving of items that looked like they weren't even dry clean only.
Billy retreated into the safety of the shop, closing the door and leaning against it.
"It's not just us."