July
Title: July
Setting: Post Chosen/NFA. Wherein Spike and Buffy live in Edinburgh
Rating : Pretty tame PG
A/N : My very lame Seasonal Spuffy Entry:) This is the start of a bigger (but not too big) fic titled How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Xander Harris, which will hopefully be done by free-for-all day.
July
She's standing in front of him in full warrior pose; arms folded, jaw set and with that fiery look in her eye, the one she wears when she wants answers. She’s bloody gorgeous like this, all strong and determined, with the power just rolling off her in waves.
She’s also blocking his view of the telly.
“So,” she says. “There's nothing about this invitation that strikes you as remotely strange?”
“No,” he responds calmly from the sofa, reluctantly hitting the mute button. “Rupert's having a shin-dig is all. Not exactly sounding alarm bells here Buffy. Now just sit down and tell me what’s got you so worked up.”
“Are you asking me to sit down because you care, or is it because you’re missing your shows?”
“Bit of both really.”
She finally relaxes and drops down beside him. “We’re going.”
“Figured as much. I’ll mark it off in my diary then shall I?”
“No. We’re going now.”
Despite his lack of concern she won’t be convinced and within an hour the local Watcher’s at the door. Jim hands over the keys to his three-door Fiesta and wishes them a safe trip, cheekily pointing out the button for the sunroof.
It's a seven hour drive down to London and Buffy takes the first leg on account of the summers nights being so long now. Would only be four if he'd let her drive. If he'd driven they could have left later, he wouldn't have had to miss Eastenders, and he'd be enjoying his daily dose of misery right about now. Instead he's jammed in the tiny back seat, covered in seven layers of blankets and trying to ignore the smell of Jim's golf shoes.
She pulls over the minute the sun sets and he's not exactly surprised when he realises they've only made as far as Carlisle. For the rest of the trip all she does is talk about Giles and his party. The one they'll be arriving forty-eight hours early for because there's ‘just no way in hell Giles would be holding a Fourth of July hoe-down’.
She's right, of course, but they won’t find out for another two days. When they finally reach the flat, they find it empty and she uses her spare key to let them in. There's a note from the man himself pinned to the fridge. Giles has been called away on business and won’t be back until the day of the party.
“See,” he taps the note with his fingertip, “told you we would've had time for a quickie on the motorway.”
He's feeling a little vindicated, but Buffy just rolls her eyes and then settles down to worry some more.
The others arrive over the course of the day and they're all on the same wave-length.
“He's definitely hiding something,” Dawn says confidently, and Willow and Xander agree. “He still calls me a 'bloody colonial' for putting milk in my Earl Grey.”
“Maybe it's an apocalypse?” he suggests sarcastically and it sets them off into a wild flurry of research. When they finally rule out the chances of it being one of those, he casually pulls out a fag and turns it over in his hand.
“Could be something else entirely,” he says slowly, as all eyes turn towards him.
Buffy doesn't give him the usual 'light up and die' look. She looks at the cigarette, and her face falls.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “Maybe he's...sick.”
Now he feels like he's kicked a puppy or something equally annoyingly cute.
“Or maybe,” he says softly, tilting her chin up, “it's just a party.”
Turns out they're all wrong, and the crafty devil just knew the best way to get them all together. It's not a party, not an apocalypse, and definitely not cancer. It's a twenty-six year old political activist named Julie.
Buffy lets him drive all the way back to Edinburgh but he doesn't mind so much. He's got a job contract in his shirt pocket and his girl's happy. So much so, she's almost bouncing around in the passenger seat. He flashes her his best smile and lets his left hand drift over to her thigh. She's smiling at him now, so he pulls over.
“Spike,” she sighs happily, leaning over to kiss him deeply. Looks like he might just get that motorway quickie after all. “I still can't believe Giles is going to be a dad!”
Or maybe not.
Setting: Post Chosen/NFA. Wherein Spike and Buffy live in Edinburgh
Rating : Pretty tame PG
A/N : My very lame Seasonal Spuffy Entry:) This is the start of a bigger (but not too big) fic titled How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Xander Harris, which will hopefully be done by free-for-all day.
July
She's standing in front of him in full warrior pose; arms folded, jaw set and with that fiery look in her eye, the one she wears when she wants answers. She’s bloody gorgeous like this, all strong and determined, with the power just rolling off her in waves.
She’s also blocking his view of the telly.
“So,” she says. “There's nothing about this invitation that strikes you as remotely strange?”
“No,” he responds calmly from the sofa, reluctantly hitting the mute button. “Rupert's having a shin-dig is all. Not exactly sounding alarm bells here Buffy. Now just sit down and tell me what’s got you so worked up.”
“Are you asking me to sit down because you care, or is it because you’re missing your shows?”
“Bit of both really.”
She finally relaxes and drops down beside him. “We’re going.”
“Figured as much. I’ll mark it off in my diary then shall I?”
“No. We’re going now.”
Despite his lack of concern she won’t be convinced and within an hour the local Watcher’s at the door. Jim hands over the keys to his three-door Fiesta and wishes them a safe trip, cheekily pointing out the button for the sunroof.
It's a seven hour drive down to London and Buffy takes the first leg on account of the summers nights being so long now. Would only be four if he'd let her drive. If he'd driven they could have left later, he wouldn't have had to miss Eastenders, and he'd be enjoying his daily dose of misery right about now. Instead he's jammed in the tiny back seat, covered in seven layers of blankets and trying to ignore the smell of Jim's golf shoes.
She pulls over the minute the sun sets and he's not exactly surprised when he realises they've only made as far as Carlisle. For the rest of the trip all she does is talk about Giles and his party. The one they'll be arriving forty-eight hours early for because there's ‘just no way in hell Giles would be holding a Fourth of July hoe-down’.
She's right, of course, but they won’t find out for another two days. When they finally reach the flat, they find it empty and she uses her spare key to let them in. There's a note from the man himself pinned to the fridge. Giles has been called away on business and won’t be back until the day of the party.
“See,” he taps the note with his fingertip, “told you we would've had time for a quickie on the motorway.”
He's feeling a little vindicated, but Buffy just rolls her eyes and then settles down to worry some more.
The others arrive over the course of the day and they're all on the same wave-length.
“He's definitely hiding something,” Dawn says confidently, and Willow and Xander agree. “He still calls me a 'bloody colonial' for putting milk in my Earl Grey.”
“Maybe it's an apocalypse?” he suggests sarcastically and it sets them off into a wild flurry of research. When they finally rule out the chances of it being one of those, he casually pulls out a fag and turns it over in his hand.
“Could be something else entirely,” he says slowly, as all eyes turn towards him.
Buffy doesn't give him the usual 'light up and die' look. She looks at the cigarette, and her face falls.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “Maybe he's...sick.”
Now he feels like he's kicked a puppy or something equally annoyingly cute.
“Or maybe,” he says softly, tilting her chin up, “it's just a party.”
Turns out they're all wrong, and the crafty devil just knew the best way to get them all together. It's not a party, not an apocalypse, and definitely not cancer. It's a twenty-six year old political activist named Julie.
Buffy lets him drive all the way back to Edinburgh but he doesn't mind so much. He's got a job contract in his shirt pocket and his girl's happy. So much so, she's almost bouncing around in the passenger seat. He flashes her his best smile and lets his left hand drift over to her thigh. She's smiling at him now, so he pulls over.
“Spike,” she sighs happily, leaning over to kiss him deeply. Looks like he might just get that motorway quickie after all. “I still can't believe Giles is going to be a dad!”
Or maybe not.