Fic: Wishbone (Spike&Dawn, Spike/Buffy, Rated G)
I started this for sb_fag_ends on a March 2015 prompt: “wishbone”, then abandoned it while the Muse went on a walkabout. This month's prompt "day and night" got me back to this story. You see, it takes place at the end of the day, as the prompt says:
Title: Wishbone
Pairing: Spike&Dawn, Spike/Buffy
Continuity: Sometime after the events of “The Gift”.
Prompt: "At the end of the day"
Word count: 901
Rated: G
Dawn was staring at something on the table when Spike barged into the house, leather duster billowing dramatically behind him, screen door ricocheting back from the wall with a bang. He came and went as he pleased these days, and, well, he enjoyed making an entrance.
“Nibblet! You still up for Monty Python’s Meaning of Life tonight? Could always check what’s on the telly if you-”
The silence alarmed him, the way that Dawn failed to turn around, eyes lighting up with joy which only his presence could inspire these days. Of course, the teen was still out of sorts sometimes, so soon after her sister’s passing. He was going to have a little chat with the witches about leaving her alone in the house before his arrival, frustratingly later by a whole minute each day on account of the lengthening summer light. He thought he might flash his fangs quite accidentally, just to be extra convincing.
“Nibblet?”
Dawn wiped her eyes with the back of her hand then, but did not answer. He could practically taste the bitter saltiness that permeated the air.
Pulling a chair out to join her at the dining table, Spike surveyed the contents. A lone dish plus a plate marred the polished surface of Joyce’s over-sized antique palisander table, big enough for six, made to accommodate feasts, purchased in happier times.
“Tara roasted a chicken for dinner,” she said without preamble. It didn’t look eaten, although the carcase was cut apart, bearing slanted sawtooth grooves, as if it’d been attacked by a mad clown with a chainsaw. It recalled a random piece of cherished memory that he suppressed immediately. Right. That was probably not a movie he could share anytime soon with the Little Bit. He spotted the serrated paring knife resting on the table then, and pocketed it with a sleight of hand. His failed struggle with Doc on Glory’s tower had dogged his nightmares ever since; sharp objects near the Bit made him twitchy.
He eyed her pristine plate and touched the glassware containing the sad chicken. “And it’s gone cold. You wanna heat it up in the microwave? Or move on to popcorn?”
“I got the wishbone.” She unfurled her napkin then, and held it up for Spike’s inspection. “Break it with me?”
“Ah, back in my day, it was called a merry thought,” Spike fixed his sight on the furcula. “Maidens would clamour over it, to cast your fate on a merry thought, and predict who would find a husband first.” He arched an eyebrow, “Why, Nibblet, anxious to fly the nest?”
“Shyeah!” Dawn feigned throwing the bone at him. He flinched just to give her the satisfaction. “It’s also for general wish granting.” Then she added, eyes looking anywhere but him, “You know, totally just for laughs.”
“Totally,” he mocked, and reached out to pinch the tip offered to him.
Dawn pulled, then broke away laughing. He looked down at the short stump held between his fingers. “Luck be your companion tonight, m’lady. Have a merry thought.” With a dramatic flourish, he tipped his invisible hat to her.
Dawn closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were bright and earnest. “I wish that-”
“Don’t finish that sentence!” he said gruffly. “Haven’t you learned anything living on the Hellmouth? Never know what kind of beastie may be listening!”
Dawn shrunk back, chastised. “It’s not like you wouldn’t wish for the same thing,” she mumbled under her breath, intent on having the last word.
She should’ve known better. Spike had vampire hearing on his side, and equal stubbornness when the occasion called for it. He decided it called for it. “What? The latest Backstreet Boys album? Not bloody likely!”
Dawn shot him a hard look. “If you had one wish, anything in the world, anything at all, tell me you wouldn’t want-”
“Dawn, listen to me, and listen to me good.” With both hands on her shoulders, he turned her to force eye contact. “It’s all right to want something, but promise me you won’t turn to magic again. Some things...you’ve got to let go.”
Dawn deflated in front of him. Good. He hoped he’d got through to her the gravity of the matter by the way he called her by her given name, instead of one of the many terms of endearment he preferred.
“Things? Or...people?”
Spike ignored the question. Didn’t take a genius to suss out what she was angling for. Instead, with his voice quiet but firm, he repeated, “Promise me.”
“OK, OK! I promise!” She shrugged off his hands. “It’s not like I have any real chance if you don’t back me up.”
“Back you up, back you down. This about anything else, you know I would. Yeah?”
“Yeeeah,” she said. Then a smirk lifted up one corner of her mouth. “Extra butter on that popcorn?”
He smiled, one of relief. That he could do. “Hey, it’s your arteries,” he threw back. But he was already getting up, then moving swiftly to fish out the jar of corn kernels from the cupboard and the measuring cup from the dish rack. If he had one wish… Well, he knew her last wish, and he’d given her his word, and that was all that mattered.
‘Til the end of the world, he’d said.
Turned out, it was one bowl of popcorn at a time.
(The End)
Title: Wishbone
Pairing: Spike&Dawn, Spike/Buffy
Continuity: Sometime after the events of “The Gift”.
Prompt: "At the end of the day"
Word count: 901
Rated: G
Dawn was staring at something on the table when Spike barged into the house, leather duster billowing dramatically behind him, screen door ricocheting back from the wall with a bang. He came and went as he pleased these days, and, well, he enjoyed making an entrance.
“Nibblet! You still up for Monty Python’s Meaning of Life tonight? Could always check what’s on the telly if you-”
The silence alarmed him, the way that Dawn failed to turn around, eyes lighting up with joy which only his presence could inspire these days. Of course, the teen was still out of sorts sometimes, so soon after her sister’s passing. He was going to have a little chat with the witches about leaving her alone in the house before his arrival, frustratingly later by a whole minute each day on account of the lengthening summer light. He thought he might flash his fangs quite accidentally, just to be extra convincing.
“Nibblet?”
Dawn wiped her eyes with the back of her hand then, but did not answer. He could practically taste the bitter saltiness that permeated the air.
Pulling a chair out to join her at the dining table, Spike surveyed the contents. A lone dish plus a plate marred the polished surface of Joyce’s over-sized antique palisander table, big enough for six, made to accommodate feasts, purchased in happier times.
“Tara roasted a chicken for dinner,” she said without preamble. It didn’t look eaten, although the carcase was cut apart, bearing slanted sawtooth grooves, as if it’d been attacked by a mad clown with a chainsaw. It recalled a random piece of cherished memory that he suppressed immediately. Right. That was probably not a movie he could share anytime soon with the Little Bit. He spotted the serrated paring knife resting on the table then, and pocketed it with a sleight of hand. His failed struggle with Doc on Glory’s tower had dogged his nightmares ever since; sharp objects near the Bit made him twitchy.
He eyed her pristine plate and touched the glassware containing the sad chicken. “And it’s gone cold. You wanna heat it up in the microwave? Or move on to popcorn?”
“I got the wishbone.” She unfurled her napkin then, and held it up for Spike’s inspection. “Break it with me?”
“Ah, back in my day, it was called a merry thought,” Spike fixed his sight on the furcula. “Maidens would clamour over it, to cast your fate on a merry thought, and predict who would find a husband first.” He arched an eyebrow, “Why, Nibblet, anxious to fly the nest?”
“Shyeah!” Dawn feigned throwing the bone at him. He flinched just to give her the satisfaction. “It’s also for general wish granting.” Then she added, eyes looking anywhere but him, “You know, totally just for laughs.”
“Totally,” he mocked, and reached out to pinch the tip offered to him.
Dawn pulled, then broke away laughing. He looked down at the short stump held between his fingers. “Luck be your companion tonight, m’lady. Have a merry thought.” With a dramatic flourish, he tipped his invisible hat to her.
Dawn closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were bright and earnest. “I wish that-”
“Don’t finish that sentence!” he said gruffly. “Haven’t you learned anything living on the Hellmouth? Never know what kind of beastie may be listening!”
Dawn shrunk back, chastised. “It’s not like you wouldn’t wish for the same thing,” she mumbled under her breath, intent on having the last word.
She should’ve known better. Spike had vampire hearing on his side, and equal stubbornness when the occasion called for it. He decided it called for it. “What? The latest Backstreet Boys album? Not bloody likely!”
Dawn shot him a hard look. “If you had one wish, anything in the world, anything at all, tell me you wouldn’t want-”
“Dawn, listen to me, and listen to me good.” With both hands on her shoulders, he turned her to force eye contact. “It’s all right to want something, but promise me you won’t turn to magic again. Some things...you’ve got to let go.”
Dawn deflated in front of him. Good. He hoped he’d got through to her the gravity of the matter by the way he called her by her given name, instead of one of the many terms of endearment he preferred.
“Things? Or...people?”
Spike ignored the question. Didn’t take a genius to suss out what she was angling for. Instead, with his voice quiet but firm, he repeated, “Promise me.”
“OK, OK! I promise!” She shrugged off his hands. “It’s not like I have any real chance if you don’t back me up.”
“Back you up, back you down. This about anything else, you know I would. Yeah?”
“Yeeeah,” she said. Then a smirk lifted up one corner of her mouth. “Extra butter on that popcorn?”
He smiled, one of relief. That he could do. “Hey, it’s your arteries,” he threw back. But he was already getting up, then moving swiftly to fish out the jar of corn kernels from the cupboard and the measuring cup from the dish rack. If he had one wish… Well, he knew her last wish, and he’d given her his word, and that was all that mattered.
‘Til the end of the world, he’d said.
Turned out, it was one bowl of popcorn at a time.
(The End)