[Fic] The Gold Wrapped Box (Spike, OC, Spike/Dru) PG-13
Title: The Gold Wrapped Box
Author:Ersatz Fiction
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Spike, Original Character, Spike/Dru implied.
Word Count: 607
Summery: It was a joke, surely. Pre-series.
AN: Written for whedonland 's Holiday free for all using the prompt 'Gift Mix Up'. This is the first, non-gift, non-jossvers big bang thing I've done in weeks, and oh, did I need the break.
--
The box was wrapped in a shimmery gold paper, frond like print curving over the print. The sliver bow that was knotted on top lay discarded on the floor.
“This is a prank,” his wife said, “some kind of tasteless joke.”
“I’ll take it back,” he said, grabbing the poker from the fireplace to push the top of the box back on. Someone had fetched a paper bag, and he pushed the box in. His daughter handed him his coat, the camel hair one, and wrapped the new silk scarf around his neck.
Taking the bag by the lip, careful not to let the package touch him in any way, he hurried out the door, the wind chilling his face as he stepped into the waiting cab. On the ride to the department store, he repeated to himself that it was just a joke. That thing in the box wasn’t real.
The inside of the department store was madness, crowds of harried shoppers with bags over their arms. Somewhere a child was screaming, a high pitched screech and he wished he could make such a noise in public. At the elevator, several sharply dressed men and women waited. He just managed to slip in, riding down to the basement.
How he ended up at this gift wrapping counter, at the far coroner of the basement, separated off the main floor, he didn’t know, only it remained as empty as it did the previous night.
It was the same old woman, with the oddly colored eyes and the deep wrinkles around her mouth, standing amidst the shiny papers and ribbons and labels. The only other person around was a young hoodlum, clearly agitated with the old women.
“-Do with this? Because I don’t, an' my girl will tan my hide if tomorrow isn't perfect.”
“I’m sorry sir, but we are not responsible for your lost items.”
Of course! This was the hoodlum’s box. He looked the type, with his unnaturally shaded hair and distressed pants and his dark makeup.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching the counter, “I think I have your gift by mistake.”
He put the paper bag up on the counter. Up close, the paint around the man's eyes and the scratches on his cheek made the hoodlum look even more thuggish. Until he ripped off the paper bag and looked in the box. Then his face softened, and he felt a twinge of sympathy, because even this thug lived in fear of disappointing his lady. Covering the box, the young man handed him an identically wrapped box, the gold paper hanging in shreds and stained a little on one corner.
“Can’t thank you enough, mate. Would have been a very rough Christmas without this."
"Do you want that gift wrapped?" the old women asked.
"No, best do it myself. Don't want anymore mix ups."
While the old women wrapped his gift, he watched the hoodlum saunter off. The old women didn't charge, and he took his neatly wrapped gift, sliver with green holly leaves, and hurried out of the department store.
Snow had started to fall in huge flakes, and he took a moment to take in sight, the storefronts and cars dusted in white. Hailing a cab, he thought that the city looked almost tame, like a rough table covered in a cloth. He though of returning home, of hanging his coat up and slipping into his pajamas. He though of his wife's face, when she opened her gift.
What he did not spare another thought to: the hoodlum's package, its expensive ring and bracelet placed on an uncanny replica of a severed hand.
Fin
Author:Ersatz Fiction
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Spike, Original Character, Spike/Dru implied.
Word Count: 607
Summery: It was a joke, surely. Pre-series.
AN: Written for whedonland 's Holiday free for all using the prompt 'Gift Mix Up'. This is the first, non-gift, non-jossvers big bang thing I've done in weeks, and oh, did I need the break.
--
The box was wrapped in a shimmery gold paper, frond like print curving over the print. The sliver bow that was knotted on top lay discarded on the floor.
“This is a prank,” his wife said, “some kind of tasteless joke.”
“I’ll take it back,” he said, grabbing the poker from the fireplace to push the top of the box back on. Someone had fetched a paper bag, and he pushed the box in. His daughter handed him his coat, the camel hair one, and wrapped the new silk scarf around his neck.
Taking the bag by the lip, careful not to let the package touch him in any way, he hurried out the door, the wind chilling his face as he stepped into the waiting cab. On the ride to the department store, he repeated to himself that it was just a joke. That thing in the box wasn’t real.
The inside of the department store was madness, crowds of harried shoppers with bags over their arms. Somewhere a child was screaming, a high pitched screech and he wished he could make such a noise in public. At the elevator, several sharply dressed men and women waited. He just managed to slip in, riding down to the basement.
How he ended up at this gift wrapping counter, at the far coroner of the basement, separated off the main floor, he didn’t know, only it remained as empty as it did the previous night.
It was the same old woman, with the oddly colored eyes and the deep wrinkles around her mouth, standing amidst the shiny papers and ribbons and labels. The only other person around was a young hoodlum, clearly agitated with the old women.
“-Do with this? Because I don’t, an' my girl will tan my hide if tomorrow isn't perfect.”
“I’m sorry sir, but we are not responsible for your lost items.”
Of course! This was the hoodlum’s box. He looked the type, with his unnaturally shaded hair and distressed pants and his dark makeup.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching the counter, “I think I have your gift by mistake.”
He put the paper bag up on the counter. Up close, the paint around the man's eyes and the scratches on his cheek made the hoodlum look even more thuggish. Until he ripped off the paper bag and looked in the box. Then his face softened, and he felt a twinge of sympathy, because even this thug lived in fear of disappointing his lady. Covering the box, the young man handed him an identically wrapped box, the gold paper hanging in shreds and stained a little on one corner.
“Can’t thank you enough, mate. Would have been a very rough Christmas without this."
"Do you want that gift wrapped?" the old women asked.
"No, best do it myself. Don't want anymore mix ups."
While the old women wrapped his gift, he watched the hoodlum saunter off. The old women didn't charge, and he took his neatly wrapped gift, sliver with green holly leaves, and hurried out of the department store.
Snow had started to fall in huge flakes, and he took a moment to take in sight, the storefronts and cars dusted in white. Hailing a cab, he thought that the city looked almost tame, like a rough table covered in a cloth. He though of returning home, of hanging his coat up and slipping into his pajamas. He though of his wife's face, when she opened her gift.
What he did not spare another thought to: the hoodlum's package, its expensive ring and bracelet placed on an uncanny replica of a severed hand.
Fin