Hello! Yay for ten years of Seasonal Spuffy! *tosses confetti*
My entry this time is a prequel of sorts to my fic from the previous round, Bed Wrinkles in Time. You don’t have to have read that one to follow this.
“The First of Those Horrible Conversations”
Standard disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, just the story.
The Slayer was soused.
Spike had had a bit of a soft spot for drunken Buffy ever since he’d first encountered her. Not because — or not just because — of the faces she made after she took a shot, but because either the booze itself or the permission drunkenness gave her brought her emotional guard down. The armour she always wore, even around those she loved — especially around those she loved — fell away. Then whatever it was that happened to be hiding beneath the polished facade, which had probably prompted the drinking to begin with, showed through.
Whatever it was might aggravate him beyond the telling, but still, better to get it all out and dealt with, he supposed.
“I’m going to die,” she was saying now.
Of course, she was volatile when she was drunk, but what was new there?
“I am. You’re going to live forever, while I’m going to get older and older, and slow, and even shorter than I already am — ”
True, not everything that came out of her mouth when she was drunk was momentous. This insecurity was no surprise to him. No woman who didn’t want to be taller habitually wore four inch heels. Buffy certainly didn’t need the stilettos to make her legs look shapely.
” — and then I’m probably going to get nutty — ”
He suppressed a snort.
” — and then I’m going. to. die.” This she said emphatically. Apparently she had spotted the light in his eyes, and felt he was not grasping the seriousness of her argument.
“Love,” he pointed out gently, “since when have I ever let a little matter like sanity put me off?”
“She was really pretty, and I won’t be.” She’d thought he’d only meant Drusilla, and really, that was for the best.
“‘Course you will.” He tried to chivvy her out of her sulk. “Foxiest old lady in the nursing home you’ll be, and you know it.”
“Spike! I’m going to die some day!” Really distressed, now.
He shrugged. “So will I.”
“Vampire. We may not age, but we can still be killed. Right easily, in fact. Bit of sunlight, fire, a slight beheading… you stake us nightly yourself. Sooner or later, I’ll be dust like the rest. Sooner, the way I like to unlive.”
And then he had his arms full of Slayer, squeezing the un-breath out of him.
Surely she’d recognized his mortality before, even though it was of a different sort than hers. If years of her own dusty threats hadn’t done it, his own Hellmouth-closing demise should have done.
And yet, here she was tipping a tragic face up at him, jabbing him hard in the floating ribs like him not being there had never occurred to her, telling him he wasn’t allowed to die.
Enough to make a bloke warm in the sternal region, it was. Enough to thaw the cold dread that filled him whenever he let himself think of her death. That being the reason he refused to think of it.
“Mutual, you silly bint,” he told her.
“Don’t think I don’t know you distracted me,” she muttered into his shirt.
“Not for a moment.” He closed his eyes and breathed her in — warm, boozy Buffy smell, alive.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/524333.html