This is my first post of the day! *checks clock* Early day, that is. I won’t be around in the afternoon/evening, so my posts are going to get clumped together sometime before noon. Alright, I’m starting off with some fic.
Title: Poetry In Motion.
Summary: Just a few snippets of Spike and Buffy through the years, from beginning to end. It’s probably hard to follow at first, but each section is a different time frame. They sort of connect with each other. Or at least I’m hoping they do.
A/N: I just wanted to say a quick thanks to Diya for looking this over and offering up her suggestions and corrections. *hugs*
“Here kitty, kitty,” Spike taunted, eyes searching the cemetery for who he knew was already there. There was this intoxicating thump, thump noise sounding off in the distance, serving as a honing beacon, drawing him closer to her. The ‘her’ in question being the Slayer. Some blonde, sassy little thing, just barely out of puberty. The killer of his kind, in annoying cheerleader form.
As Spike got nearer, he realized she wasn’t alone. He recognized the presence of another vampire, and wondered if maybe it was his pathetic poof of a grandsire. When the trees parted and he could see over the shorter of masoleums, he was somewhat disappointed to find that it was just the Slayer and a random vampire playing out some piss poor excuse of a fight. Her moves were sloppy, way too self-assured, whereas the vamps were just downright embarassing. Seriously, who made this git? Or, better yet, who made the git and didn’t bother to stake him out of his misery?
“Is that all you got?” the Slayer was belting out, standing there with her hands on her hips. Was staring down at the vampire as it lay uselessy at her feet, more than helping her along. Might as well just hand itself over on a silver bloody platter.
Spike felt a twinge of pity for it when the Slayer drove her stake home, piece of drift wood to the heart, before he remembered that– oh yeah, he didn’t particularly care.
“Well, well,” he drawled, finally stepping out of the shadows. Was marginally pleased as she spun around, caught off guard. “If it isn’t Sunnydale’s favorite form of population control.”
“Spike,” she practically growled, her body coiled tight in preparation for a battle. She was pissed, and all it took was his mere presence. How touching. She smiled, then, though it was cold and mocking. “You know what they say: one person can make a difference…”
“Must be true then.”
Opposite of her, he was entirely calm. He had the upperhand, and both knew it. Sure, on several of their previous encounters she’d managed to knock him on his ass a few different times, but the air tonight was different; shifted more in his direction. He’d been caged in the factory for a week (a bloody long one at that) taking care of Drusilla. Working with mindless wankers who were about as useful as Angelus on his good days. Been trying to keep himself from going mad from the monotony of it. He needed to get out. Needed to feed, and not from some whiny, sniveling sorority pledge hand-delivered to him. Besides, it was tiring hearing the same ol’ bleeding lines about, “Oh, God, please don’t kill me. Please, let me go. I swear won’t tell anyone about this” in the comfort of his own home. Not to mention the fact that when you live a hundred plus years, dining in sort of loses its appeal.
It was only a matter of pure luck and coincidence that Spike had found the Slayer tonight. He’d had himself a decent sized meal in one of the more upstanding alleyways of Sunnydale, then contentedly made his way back to the factory with all intent to tend to Drusilla. Came across the cemetery and figured, what the hell, a little sweep might be fruitful. Oh, and fruitful it was.
The Slayer arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, lips pursing dangerously. “Is there a point to this staring contest, or we gonna fight already?”
“Oh, we’re gonna fight,” he purred, lips twitching just so. “Just thought you could use a breather beforehand.”
She hoisted her chin upwards. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Could give you another few minutes… Last ones on Earth and all. Wanna make them last, don’t you?”
She broke forward without a sound, stake leading the way, and Spike barely had time to dodge her attacking blow. Just did, jumping back before spinning on his heels, following her forward movement. She’d swung back around just as quick, fists raised and ready, looking considerably more riled than the five minutes before.
“No need to be so hasty, Slayer.”
“See, and I have this little thing called job efficiency. It usually works best when I’m not holding a conversation with the intended slayee in question,” she snapped.
He laughed out loud at that. “That what I am to you? A slayee?”
She shrugged, all casual and indifferent. Like it was every day she was faced with a vampire of his stature. “I was going for the whole slayer/slayee angle. It seemed fitting.”
Spike took a step forward, his grin widening when her fists raised back into their defensive ready-for-battle position. “Is that what you call your boyfriend, Slayer? Is he your slayee, too? Or does that not apply to him out of bed?”
On cue, she hardened. Eyes become narrow slants, heart started dancing about wildly. Little baby was getting pissed, well and truly. “As much as I love our chats–”
“C’mon, now. Not even gonna answer my question? How’s that for fair?”
“Here’s what you keep getting wrong: we’re enemies, Spike. There is no fair. There’s actually this great lack of fair. Well, unless you’re pro-me killing you…”
“Funny, though,” he continued anyway, taking yet another step closer. Close enough to feel that anger radiating off of her in waves, that barely detectable rush of fear thrum through her body. “I never pegged Angelus the submissive type.”
“If you’re trying–”
“He was always more the take-charge, no-nonsense type. Or,” he said, switching tactics. He was right up on her now, little more than a handful of inches between them. “Is he still playing Mr. Sensitivity? That whole act works for some girls, you know. The tortured soul, the atonement. Gets ’em weak in the knees.”
“You’re wasting your breath here, Spike.”
“Don’t need to breathe, now do I?” His eyes ran slowly up and down her body, his look growing hungrier with each passing inch. There was nothing exceptionally beautiful about her, nothing you wouldn’t find in some girly magazine full of other teen pop princesses, but he was captivated all the same. He nearly laughed out loud when he saw her eyes spark when he finally met them again, but managed to hold it in. “Speaking of dear ol’ granddad, where is the great, prancing Poof? I’d’ve thought patrol time was cuddle time for you two.”
“Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”
“Do you?” Spike shot back.
The Slayer started to frown, stake wavering ever so slightly. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Why the rush?”
“Could you stop with the annoying rebuttals? Seriously! Me: Slayer, you: vampire. Fighty things happen, not… talky.”
“What’s the matter?” Spike drawled, hand running down his body to rest at the waistband of his jeans, fingers casually hooking through the belt loops. “Distracted?”
“Shut up, Spike.”
“And she comes out swinging!” he laughed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Nothing got the adrenaline flowing like the potential for a spot of violence, and the fact that he was in the beginning stages of one of them bloody freaking glorious fights with the Slayer? Oh, Spike wanted to play. Wanted to stretch this out and make it last, to revel in every punch, every kick, every knock to that upturned face of hers.
“Go to hell,” she shot back, offering up little more than a right nasty glare.
Spike was disappointed. Here he was looking for a good, equal (well, relatively, in any case) fight, and she’s not even up to par. And from the way she kept glancing around the darkened school campus, those beady eyes darting every which way, he could tell she wasn’t giving Spike the full attention he deserved.
“Now, now,” he started mockingly, hand fluttering up to spread over his heart. “Thought we were gonna be all civil about this? Thought we could at least have a proper conversation?” He shrugged suddenly, foot flying out and landing squarely at her stomach, the force of it lifting her up and immediately sending her airborne. “Your way it is.”
She flew several feet before coming down, skidding along the concrete, and Spike couldn’t help the proud grin that spread across his face at seeing her do so. Little Buffy liked to play it tough, but what it came down to, more than strength even, was tactic. Spike had the century-plus worth of experience under his belt, not to mention his natural abilities. Betty here had a handful of years, most of which were spent submerged in the protective bubble of her Watcher and friends.
Slowly she rose, and Spike felt his good mood increase, tenfold. Slayer was in pain. Slayer was in pain caused by him. Suddenly he had a whole new outlook on life. Simple pleasures and all that rot.
“What is it now?” she bit out, standing on shaky legs. Feet spread shoulders length apart, fists raised and ready. Eyes blazing in that boringly predictable way. “Break-up number three with Drusilla? Poor Spikey has to get his rocks off elsewhere?”
Spike’s jaw clenched. Tightly. Bitch always aimed below the belt, taking the cheap shots. And what the fuck did she even know about his and Dru’s relationship?
“Watch your mouth, little girl,” he warned, game face emerging. Play time was over.
She flung her hair over her shoulder, a move made pointless as the sweat-soaked strands clung to her forehead. “Or, what? You’ll leave town and come back next month, same lame cycle all over again?”
He slinked forward a few steps, reveling in the way she was endlessly tensing as he erased the gap between them. “Careful what you wish for, Slayer.”
“Wish?” she snapped back, only mildly incredulous. “The only thing I wish is that you were dust.”
“If wishes were horses,” he sing-songed.
Flash of tan skin and a stake was suddenly whisked out from beneath her jacket, clutched defensively the next second. “What do you know? Wishes just happen to be horses.” A small, dangerous smile spread across her face as she lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Or, you know, a stake.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
And with those words of foreboding, she lashed out, pointy elbow landing heavily and making contact with his face.
“Hey!” Spike cried out, rubbing the sore spot at the side of his head the Slayer’d just whacked. No real force or malice behind it, but it stung just the same. And besides, it was the principle of the matter– what in the great hell had his mere and entirely innocent presence done to warrant such a smack? All he’d been doing was sitting on the couch, box of Wheetabix in hand, catching up on his talk shows. Aside from the casual remark or four about the Slayer and her soldier, he was minding his own damn business.
“Why are we letting him out again?” she asked her watcher, standing in front of Spike with her hands folded across her chest.
“You mind moving?” Spike shot back, glaring at the 5-foot nothing bint in front of him, his view of the television blocked.
She smiled sweetly. “Not really.”
“Buffy,” the Watcher sighed from the kitchen nook, no doubt still in a state of annoyance Spike had earlier caused. What? It’s not like this house was vamp-friendly! We’re talking hours upon endless hours of torture, the Watcher’s idea of a grand ol’ time spent buried nose deep in a stack of dusty books, panting and pawing over hidden text and translations. Spike had to make his fun where he could, not his fault that Rupert didn’t mention beforehand that the scotch was off-limits.
Or, okay. So he mentioned it once or twice, but like Spike gave two flying fucks about uppity Rupert the Librarian and his house rules? And if Rupes was so keen on those sodding scriptures he shouldn’t have left them out in the open. Paired up with Spike’s lighter and the aforementioned alcohol, it was only scientific interest (and a small amount of boredom) that had Spike testing whether or not they were flammable.
Which they were.
The Slayer was still in front of him, hands clutched at her hips in annoyance. “Giles, you do remember that he’s evil, right?”
“Bloody right I am,” Spike couldn’t help but agree, pleased with her admission. And it was so selflessly given.
“I know he’s kinda in the fangless stages of life,” she continued with a spare glance thrown his way, voice hardening when they locked eyes, “but he’s still a vampire. Who you’re playing host to.”
The Watcher came into view, glass of wine in hand. And, yeah, wine. Sodding pansy. “Well–”
“Well nothing!” the Slayer cut in, scooting around the couch and hurling herself with those stompy, Chosen One steps towards Giles. “He should be dust. Not…” She gestured wordlessly for a few seconds towards Spike. His eyebrows rose in anticipation. Yes? The Slayer was saying? “This,” she finally settled on. Which, to be honest, was a tad on the disappointing side. And here he was expecting to be insulted.
Bored with the redundant conversation playing out behind him, he focused once again on the TV. Not that there was actually anything of interest on, but it helped pass the time. And he had a lot of time to pass. To a depressing, what-great-evil-did-I-possibly-commit-to-deserve-such-a-fate? extent. Never mind the obvious answer.
“Besides, when did you become Boarding House to the down-and-out pathetic?” the Slayer was still complaining, whiney little edge to her voice. “I know it’s been a while since we had one of them heart-to-heart Slayer/Watcher conversations, but we usually stake his kind, Giles.”
“Buffy,” the Watcher sighed again, this time his tone a little more forceful. Which immediately caused Spike’s attention to do a complete 180. Oh, was Rupes going to scold the Slayer?! Maybe set her in the corner for a time-out? Because that was far more amusing than anything worth flipping through on the telly. “Try to understand that he’s… he’s indisposed–”
“Hey!” Spike shouted, swinging his body around to glare at Giles. “Could do without the name-calling.”
“He can’t even harm anyone,” the Watcher continued, reasonable and placating.
“Yes, but what is he doing? Here? Still? He’s like a stray dog! Feed him once and you’ve got yourself a new pet.”
Well now that was just offensive. Spike jumped to his feet, more than a little outraged. “Let me go, then! Think this is all my idea, playing pet vamp to you and yours?! You got a problem with it– more than fine by me.”
Were it not daytime, he would’ve stormed out of there in an impressive (if not dramatic) manner, leaving behind the Morality Brigade for places else. Harm’s crypt, Willy’s, a hole in the ground with reasonable to moderate covering… As it was, Mr. Sunshine was still hanging fatally in the sky, not a bloody cloud in sight, so Spike merely settled for flinging his arms across his chest.
“Spike,” the Watcher said, breathing his name out as a frustrated sigh. “Sit down.”
Not bloody likely! Who the hell did these mortals think they were, always ordering him around, barking out their bleeding demands–
Oh, hell. It wasn’t even worth his attention anymore. Spike plopped back down onto the couch, grumbling in objection purely for his egos sake, and grabbed the remote control. Passions was coming on soon, and damn if he was going to miss it because the Wicked Bitch of the West had to show up, prissy and holier-than-thou as ever.
“And he obeys, just like the good little dog he is,” he heard the Slayer snicker.
Acting on instinct alone, pain from the chip be damned, Spike hurled the remote control behind him, destination: Slayer forehead.
Buffy easily caught the stake Spike had flung at her, bringing it down and dusting the vampire that had managed to crawl on top of her from behind. Even as its dusty pieces were falling in a shower of ashes around her, a reminder of her close call, she took a moment to throw a glare Spike’s way, none-too-pleased. “What are you doing here, Spike?”
The grin on his face was entirely self-servicing. “Saving you, from the looks of it.”
She clambored to her feet, frowning as she brushed dead leaves and dirt off of her. “You didn’t save me,” she snapped back, looking amazingly pissed off, despite Spike’s heroic efforts.
His jaw dropped at her denseness. “I didn’t… Slayer?! I just saved your sodding life! Arrived in the nick of time, tossed you the bloody stake–”
“I didn’t need your help!”
He took a moment to gape incredulously at her before his mouth snapped shut, his good mood shifting quickly into anger. “Right, so I suppose you had everything under control? I just walked in on time-out, is that it?”
“I was handling it,” she muttered, stalking off towards the cemetery entrance.
Spike was quickly at her heels, not quite ready to let this conversation drop. “You were about to become a nighttime snack.”
“I wasn’t…” She stopped suddenly, whirling around to face him. “Is there a reason you’re here? Or is this some fun new game of annoyance you’ve picked up? Because I could really do without the nightly visits.”
“Which is so glaringly obvious from earlier’s life-or-death encounter,” he drawled back dryly, before shrugging and looking away. “And in any case, it’s not like you’ve got dibs on this place. It’s public property.”
She stared at him for several long, drawn out seconds. “That’s your argument? It’s public property?” Off his wide-eyed look of agreement, she snorted. “And just when I think you couldn’t fall any lower– Spike breaks out the ‘It’s a free country’ speech! Well, let me one-up you: I was here first. Meaning, in words you’ll understand, get out of my sight.”
Neither the growl of her words or the way she immediately spun and haughtily continued forward were a hinder to Spike. Truth be told, all it served to do was further provoke him.
“I get it,” he continued as he followed after her, his voice light and mockingly sympathetic. “Swearing off the other half for good. God, Finn really did a number on you, didn’t he? Or maybe that was Angel…”
That had her movement, predictably enough, coming to an abrupt halt. She was deadly still, and Spike wondered for the briefest of seconds if maybe he crossed a line. Slayer was still sour after her big bleeding tragic break-up with the soldier, and he knew to a painful degree exactly what it was like to have salt rubbed in the still-open wound when you were trying to heal from the pain of it all.
Come to think of it, Buffy here was the one usually pouring the salt into that wound, so what the hell was he feeling guilty for? Not his fault that the rustic solder boy had been finding his pleasures elsewhere– that elsewhere coming from two-bit vamp whores, which held an irony all of its own. And it’s not like Spike hadn’t done a damn good thing in showing her! So, what? He was supposed to sit idly by, let that git lead the Slayer on?
Well, yeah. Probably, given the fact that he was a vampire. One who, by nature, should’ve reveled in every bit of pain the Slayer was in, physical or not. But he couldn’t… Not when he knew the Slayer already had more than she could handle on her plate; sick mum, kid sis to tend to, house to play. She didn’t need the dead weight that was Finn.
And not when it cleared his own path to the Slayer. These recent feelings Spike had for her, unrelenting and twisted as they were, were real. Realer than anything he’d felt in a while. If the Slayer had to go through a little heart-ache for her to realize that he had a perfectly willing shoulder to cry on, so be it.
“You know what, Spike?” she was saying, turned around and facing him again. Instead of the look of murder he was fully expecting (and already in a state to placate), the Slayer was dangerously calm. “Believe me when I say that is none of your business.”
“Right,” he decided, “Cold and frigid as ever. And you wonder why they all up and leave you–”
Spike’s head snapped back from the force of the punch Buffy threw, a river of crimson already dripping from his nose as he collapsed to the ground, landing on his back. He wiped the blood away, laughing humorlessly. Trust the bitch to aim for the nose. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he warned as he started to rise, his voice low, rumbling with the anger that bubbled so dangerously close within.
She swung her hair behind her shoulders, the little that was left of it after going all Felicity on him. “Go home, Spike.”
He hoisted himself back up in one smooth, lithe motion. Closed the gap between them until he was only a hairsbreadth away. Not touching her, but damn near well enough. Dropped his voice even lower. “Is that what you really want, Buffy?”
Said it with the smirk. With those eyebrows rose fully, knowing already that what she wanted was him. Smelt it before he even saw her. The Slayer working herself into a horny little frenzy out on patrol tonight.
“Get away from me,” she answered instead, jaw clenching. As if she fully expected him to back down.
He took another step forward, this time pressing himself into her. Let her feel that it wasn’t just her itching for a fun round of fucking– he was all set and ready to go. Which only made her falter, those eyes of hers widening. “You sure that’s what you want?”
Weakly she pleaded for him to stop, that delicious little protest falling so pointlessly from her mouth.
Her eyes fell shut as he leaned forward, his mouth going to her ear. One of his hands started to take a slow trail down her arm, fingers grazing sensually over the soft skin. She shuddered under his touch, her body melting further against his, and he couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “Stop what?”
Wrong thing to say, apparently, because she suddenly pried him off of her. Every bit of Slayer strength went into the move, making him stumble a few uncoordinated steps back. She looked far more in control when he met her eyes again. “I mean it, Spike. Go home.”
He wasn’t detered in the least. “Nope. Can’t do that.”
“Fine. Then I will.” She spun around on her heels and stomped off towards the entrance of the alley.
Spike hung around and watched her go, his hunger for her deepening with each step she took, with each foot that separated them. He stayed back to let her think that she’d shaken herself of him for good, that she was all safe and sound and not the least bit in a situation that would wholly compromise those more moral of virtues.
Just before she’d reached the end of the alley, when he was sure she was probably congratulating herself on a problem well prevented, he set off. Prowled forward, hot on her heels. Caught up to her in no time, grabbing her from behind. She let out a squack of surprise as he pushed her to the side, throwing her into the brick wall of the abandoned warehouse to their right before slamming his own body into hers.
There was another oomph of protest, but it was quickly swallowed by his mouth latching onto hers. Any and all of her complaints died down the instant their lips met, turning themselves into needy, desperate whimpers that echoed his own need for her. Her hands wrapped eagerly around his neck, clutching him closer, as he pushed his body more firmly into hers in response, flattening her against the wall.
“Spike,” she gasped, breaking the kiss to throw her head back. Sounded all throaty and breathless, fueling his own arousal.
His mouth drifted to her neck with the open invitation, sucking and kissing a slow, steady trail. Biting down with blunt teeth in ways that he knew got her off. He wasn’t entirely stupid enough to gloat about how easily she succumbed, at least not now. Maybe later when she was strutting away from him, trail of her sullied virtues at her heels and her head held high, the “Would never, could never”‘s getting tossed over her shoulder in disgust.
“I need…” she started, then trailed off, grabbing at his hair to pull him back up to her.
He obliged, groaning into her mouth when her hand snaked down between their bodies, unzipping him. Freeing him the next second, those small, demanding fingers wrapping around him. Amazed him every time; the way she took charge and set the rules. The way she made it her game no matter who started it. His forehead fell against her shoulder as he pushed into her hand, mind numb to all things but the feel of her palm around him, sweaty and hot, steadily driving him mad.
Eventually she started to grow more desperate under him, her body rubbing against his. He got the picture, grabbing the lacy ends of her skirt and lifting it upwards. The skirts, Spike liked. A hinder on patrol, things a bloody hazard all on their own, but it was quick and easy access. And Spike was nothing if not a sucker for quick and easy, especially when it came to this slip of a girl in front of him. He pushed the fabric upwards to his liking, nudging her legs open with his. Moved in for another kiss, groaning again as she pushed herself onto the tips of her booted toes, legs falling apart even wider….
“Finally,” Buffy sighed, looking more than a little content.
Spike fell back a few steps, the back of his legs hitting the cot behind him. “Finally?”
She started to cross the basement. “Everyone’s asleep upstairs.”
“Oh. Right.” He sank onto the mattress, tossing the amulet he’d been holding off to the side. He was slightly surprised when she sat down next to him, but he managed to keep it from showing. Instead he painted on his look of boredom, wanting to keep things between them as platonic as possible. “So, the troops? They all roused?”
“Currently? No. Tomorrow morning? Consider them bestirred.”
His eyebrows shot skyward and he couldn’t help but smile. “Fancy word. You sound confident.”
“I feel confident,” she shot back, as if tomorrow’s meeting with the First and a Hellmouth full of ubervamps was a nightly patrol, nothing more. “We’re going to win this thing, Spike.”
“That the official line?”
“Yup. Front page news and everything.”
“Must be true then.”
Spike chuckled, settling more comfortably against the wall. Hard to do with Buffy so close. He was painfully aware of the fact that her leg kept brushing up against his, that their shoulders were touching. Side to side. Been a long time since he’d had this kind of casual contact with her. Didn’t feel right, but he didn’t dare move.
“So what do you think it does?”
He cast her a sideways glance, surprised to find her already staring at him. “Specifically speaking?”
She started to smile. “The amulet Angel gave us. You think it’ll actually do anything?”
He broke away from the strong hold of her eyes to stare at the bauble in question. “You mean your boyfriend didn’t give you a run-down of what to expect?”
“First off? The ‘boyfriend’ thing stopped being cute the second I noticed your Angel drawing. And… no, he didn’t tell me what it actually did. I got the impression he didn’t know, hence the big lack of question-asking on my part.”
“So, lemme get this straight…” Spike slowly started, meeting her eyes again. “Angel prances back into town on his white horse–”
“There was no prancing–”
“Full of romantic gestures and bearing forth sparkling fashionware… Then just ups and leaves without so much as a set of instructions for the bloody thing?”
She blinked. “Pretty much.”
Spike snorted. “And then the spineless pet vampire living in the Slayer’s basement decides that, yeah, he’ll wear the sodding necklace. Never mind the unflattering things it does to his skin color–”
Buffy pushed up and off the wall, turning her body fully towards his to glare at him. Looked pissed off, the air around them thickening right along with her anger. “Who said anything about spineless? Did you miss the big speech I gave before? Because I’m pretty sure I used the word champion once or twice.” She started to scoot forward, inching her way off the bed. “If that doesn’t mean anything to you, fine–”
He grabbed her arm before she could go anywhere. “Don’t,” he said, not caring how pathetic and pleading he sounded. Dammit, he was doing this all wrong. He just wanted her company. Didn’t want her sympathy or her pity or whatever the hell else she might be feeling towards him– he just wanted this. Wanted it like it was before, when she let him hold her in his arms. When they fell asleep together.
She jerked her elbow out of his arm, but stayed put. “I don’t know what else to say to you, Spike. I don’t know what to do. If you think that’s how I feel about you, after everything we’ve…”
“I don’t,” he insisted, leaning forward to catch her eye.
“You just said–”
“Call it a moment of stupidity,” he cut in. Gave her a soft smile, going for appeasing. “I have ’em often. Mostly around you.”
That seemed to settle her anger. She pushed back until she was against the wall again, this time with a few inches separating them. Felt like there was an open admission hanging between them, only he didn’t know to what. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either.
There was a long stretch of silence before Buffy finally spoke again.
“So… purple’s a non-flattery Spike color?”
She was smiling, which made him smile. He recognized this for the olive branch that it was, and took it. “Topping the list– well, besides maybe yellow…”
Her face scrunched up. “You in yellow. Wow, that is bad.”
“No need to rub it in,” he muttered, earning another one of them smiles.
“Color clashing aside… you’re really okay with wearing it?”
Spike started to tense. “Why?” he asked, as casually as he could manage. “You’re changing your mind?”
“We don’t know what it does, Spike. For all we know, it… beckons forth Elizabeth Taylor. Scary? Yes, but I’m really thinking the Ubervamps would be less than impressed.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Death by diva. Scary way to go.”
“Says the guy who’d be doing the beckoning. I just… I want you to be sure you know what you’re doing. You don’t have to wear it, you know. We have weapons– that big scythe/stake hybrid thingy. We have the spell–”
“And what’ll I do, then? Hang around and offer my whole-hearted but physically lacking support? No thanks. I got my role in this.”
“Yes, but this thing,” she said, casting a wary glance towards the amulet, “it’s like… the ‘pretty jewelry’ equivalent of Unsolved Mysteries. It’s–”
“Volatile, yeah. Heard you the first time. You don’t think I know what that means?”
“I made my choice, Buffy.”
She settled more firmly against the wall, arms falling to her sides. “Okay,” she said, satisfied with his answer. For the time being, in any case. “At least we can look on the bright side…”
“And what would that be?”
“At least it isn’t yellow.”
A/N the second: When Diya read this over, she was confused as to what the actual purpose of it was. To which I replied, “Erm… nothing?” I just threw together 6 different ficlets and made it a more larger one. There’s nothing beyond that, no… course that you were supposed to follow from the beginning where’d you see feelings changing for each other. It was more of a, “Hey, who needs 6 ficlets? I know! I can just merge them into one! That’ll work!” So… yeah.
(Also? I apologize profusely for the cheese-factor of that last part.)
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/19861.html