Fanfic -- BtVS
Wow. Buffy was my first fandom, and this was the first freestanding
work I ever finished in it. *sniff* I've been too maudlin lately, so
I'm posting some of my old fics to cheer myself up.
Summary: Morning after.
Author’s Notes: For Jenn! Yay!
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, being both male and a god, cannot be me, ergo I am not him, ergo I do not own Buffy or any of its characters. QED.
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG-15
Pancakes
In my life, waking up to a cold bed is normally a good thing. It means there’ve been no random demons coming in during the night. Dad didn’t stumble down here and set me on fire - okay, I think I’d wake up for that, he’s pretty loud when he’s drunk. Hell, for that matter, it means Uncle Rory didn’t get drunk enough to come down here and join me. All very, very good things, and I am properly grateful to whatever God or Gods or their feminine counterparts are out there watching over us Scoobies. Which sounds way less feminine than slayerettes, but I digress.
Waking up to a cold bed is normally a good thing, but not when, oh, it’s ‘cause it’s below freezing out and the heater didn’t kick in again. Or because some demon did crawl into my bed, but its got body cold instead of body heat. Or whatever. But especially not when I didn’t go to sleep in a cold bed. ‘Cause that means that whatever happened falls into one of three categories.
And I really don’t want it to be any of those, but it’s never been anything else. And thinking back on who was with me when I went to sleep-
Probably number one. Or three. Two? Nah, there’d be a fight. I’d wake up for that, I’m well trained.
I groan, running my tongue around my mouth. No matter how great it tastes the night before, stale sex is one of the grossest things on the planet. It probably outranks most of the slimes we freak out on at night. So I roll out of bed, snag a pair of sweatpants - just cause it still could be number two - and stumble my tired way into the bathroom. Toilet. Toothbrush. Face. Routine accomplished, I make my way back to the bed just human enough to notice something.
There’s coffee on my bedside table. Okay, so it’s more of a crate, but the important thing is that there’s coffee there. I approach cautiously, pick it up and sniff. I don’t smell any arsenic, but hey, who knows? Now that the caffeine is trickling in through my nostrils - yes, it’s that strong - I can hear stuff going on upstairs. And hey, it could be my mom, but since when does she do kitchens anyway? Or come back from family vacations early?
So I transfer the coffee to my other hand and pick up a random weapon of self-defense. Seriously, I don’t know what it’s called. I probably use it wrong, too, but soldier training doesn’t cover large spiky things so much as guns, and those tend to make too much noise. Armed and almost awake, I creep up the stairs. It’s really more of a dragging, with occasional thuds when I jump the creaky steps, but this is my head, alright? In my head, I creep. The door into the kitchen is wide open, and I stare.
It’s not a random demon attack. It’s not Mom, or Wills, or even a complete stranger, which would seem a lot more normal than this. But he’s humming Anarchy in the UK, he’s wearing just the jeans - and you know, I have nothing against morning quickies, cause those are unbuttoned just low enough to see a tuft of honey - and I had sex with the guy last night. I recognize him, okay? It’s the activity that doesn’t fit it.
Spike. William the Bloody. Captain Peroxide. Who fucks me with as much secrecy as he did Angelus, by which I mean Buffy’s the only one who hasn’t guessed. Usually at someone else’s place though, which I just is why this has never happened before. Quietly, I put down the weapon and pad in. He glances at it and grins.
“Right, pet. Because monsters normally make you pancake-breakfasts before killing you.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m human,” I shoot back, grinning. He pauses for a second, trying not to give me a meaningful look, then glances back at the batter.
“I’d’ve brought this down, you know.”
“If you brought syrup down, it’d never make it to the pancakes.”
He laughs, and I stare. He’s almost in the sunlight, the blinds drawn just enough to make it bearable for him, and he looks more like an angel than Deadboy ever did. And the words are out of my mouth before I think them.
“Will? I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He turns off the heat, saunters over, and kisses me - how he does that with this shit-eating grin on his face I’ll never know, but he does. And I can taste that he brushed his teeth too, and it’s my toothpaste so it was probably my toothbrush and I wonder for one crazy second if I should buy him a toothbrush to keep at my place, or if that would be pushing. But I’m in his arms and he’s kissing me, and that’s all I can think about until he pulls away and takes up a plate of pancakes.
“Yeah, Xan. Me too.”
Summary: Morning after.
Author’s Notes: For Jenn! Yay!
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, being both male and a god, cannot be me, ergo I am not him, ergo I do not own Buffy or any of its characters. QED.
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG-15
Pancakes
In my life, waking up to a cold bed is normally a good thing. It means there’ve been no random demons coming in during the night. Dad didn’t stumble down here and set me on fire - okay, I think I’d wake up for that, he’s pretty loud when he’s drunk. Hell, for that matter, it means Uncle Rory didn’t get drunk enough to come down here and join me. All very, very good things, and I am properly grateful to whatever God or Gods or their feminine counterparts are out there watching over us Scoobies. Which sounds way less feminine than slayerettes, but I digress.
Waking up to a cold bed is normally a good thing, but not when, oh, it’s ‘cause it’s below freezing out and the heater didn’t kick in again. Or because some demon did crawl into my bed, but its got body cold instead of body heat. Or whatever. But especially not when I didn’t go to sleep in a cold bed. ‘Cause that means that whatever happened falls into one of three categories.
That my bed-warming-partner left of their own free will. Really, really sucks, believe me.
That my bed-warming-parner left not of their own free will. Equally sucky, believe me, ‘cause that’s usually something demony and why can’t demony stay out of my bed? Humans find me resistable, what is it about having, say, green skin that makes mine look oh-so-tasty? And-
Right. That I imagined the whole bed-warming-partner thing. Which is probably the scariest - though not the most likely - because that means this whole thing’s driven me round the bend. Knocked me off my rocker. Sanity has left the building, people.
And I really don’t want it to be any of those, but it’s never been anything else. And thinking back on who was with me when I went to sleep-
Probably number one. Or three. Two? Nah, there’d be a fight. I’d wake up for that, I’m well trained.
I groan, running my tongue around my mouth. No matter how great it tastes the night before, stale sex is one of the grossest things on the planet. It probably outranks most of the slimes we freak out on at night. So I roll out of bed, snag a pair of sweatpants - just cause it still could be number two - and stumble my tired way into the bathroom. Toilet. Toothbrush. Face. Routine accomplished, I make my way back to the bed just human enough to notice something.
There’s coffee on my bedside table. Okay, so it’s more of a crate, but the important thing is that there’s coffee there. I approach cautiously, pick it up and sniff. I don’t smell any arsenic, but hey, who knows? Now that the caffeine is trickling in through my nostrils - yes, it’s that strong - I can hear stuff going on upstairs. And hey, it could be my mom, but since when does she do kitchens anyway? Or come back from family vacations early?
So I transfer the coffee to my other hand and pick up a random weapon of self-defense. Seriously, I don’t know what it’s called. I probably use it wrong, too, but soldier training doesn’t cover large spiky things so much as guns, and those tend to make too much noise. Armed and almost awake, I creep up the stairs. It’s really more of a dragging, with occasional thuds when I jump the creaky steps, but this is my head, alright? In my head, I creep. The door into the kitchen is wide open, and I stare.
It’s not a random demon attack. It’s not Mom, or Wills, or even a complete stranger, which would seem a lot more normal than this. But he’s humming Anarchy in the UK, he’s wearing just the jeans - and you know, I have nothing against morning quickies, cause those are unbuttoned just low enough to see a tuft of honey - and I had sex with the guy last night. I recognize him, okay? It’s the activity that doesn’t fit it.
Spike. William the Bloody. Captain Peroxide. Who fucks me with as much secrecy as he did Angelus, by which I mean Buffy’s the only one who hasn’t guessed. Usually at someone else’s place though, which I just is why this has never happened before. Quietly, I put down the weapon and pad in. He glances at it and grins.
“Right, pet. Because monsters normally make you pancake-breakfasts before killing you.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m human,” I shoot back, grinning. He pauses for a second, trying not to give me a meaningful look, then glances back at the batter.
“I’d’ve brought this down, you know.”
“If you brought syrup down, it’d never make it to the pancakes.”
He laughs, and I stare. He’s almost in the sunlight, the blinds drawn just enough to make it bearable for him, and he looks more like an angel than Deadboy ever did. And the words are out of my mouth before I think them.
“Will? I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He turns off the heat, saunters over, and kisses me - how he does that with this shit-eating grin on his face I’ll never know, but he does. And I can taste that he brushed his teeth too, and it’s my toothpaste so it was probably my toothbrush and I wonder for one crazy second if I should buy him a toothbrush to keep at my place, or if that would be pushing. But I’m in his arms and he’s kissing me, and that’s all I can think about until he pulls away and takes up a plate of pancakes.
“Yeah, Xan. Me too.”