What You Wish For (a Spike & Dru ficlet)
This was written for lilithbint, who requested in the nekid_spike community's Aug. 9 “Claim Your Fantasy” challenge that she’d like a fic in which Spike wants a sane Dru. Eeeeek!
Title: What You Wish For
Author: sockmonkeyhere
Characters: Spike, Drusilla
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Mutant Enemy.
Rating: PG
Setting: upstate New York, 1969
What You Wish For
“Dru, Poodle, I appreciate that the invisible budgies have invited you to their dance, but you’re blocking my view of the telly.”
Drusilla pays him no mind; she dips and sways, waving her arms languidly, and uses the glowing TV screen as a footlight. Spike dips and sways, too, in an attempt to see around her. But it’s no use, and he slumps back into the Barcalounger in defeat and exasperation. It’s such a nice, comfy house they’ve liberated from the original owners (who now reside, sans body fluids, behind the lawnmower shed), with fabulous amenities like shag carpeting and the hi-fi stereo and this big color television…which would be a pleasure to watch if she would just. bloody. move.
“Twitter-twitter-twitter. Lovely little birdies, flitting all about us! Look, my William, this one’s wearing a tiara and performing the Mexican Hat Dance.” Her tie-dyed skirt swirls, her loose, long hair flies in her face, and her bare feet prance and kick. “When the mooooooon / is in the Seventh House…”
Spike waits, patient but increasingly more annoyed. He absently flips back and forth the ruby-colored pendant dangling from the necklace that Dru had found in the bedroom and made him wear. There’s no fear of Mister and Missus Comfy House rising and demanding their property back, as they’re missing some fabulous amenities like their heads, but he and Dru have only got about two days, tops, before friends and family and neighbors and the authorities will begin to notice the couple’s absence. And if this budgerigar party goes on indefinitely…
Usually he finds her flights of fancy vastly entertaining, but at times like these he wishes -- well, he wishes that she were a bit more sensible. Like that bloke on the program he’s trying to watch, the one with the soup-bowl ‘do and the wonky eyebrows.
The ruby pendant in his hand suddenly glows.
--------------------------------------------
~four days later~
“Look, you’re a witch doctor, right? Your job is to sort out things like this! Find out how to reverse this spell, or how to reload the stone with more wishes!” Furious, Spike thrusts the pendant necklace in the old black conjure-man’s face once more. Drusilla, cool, calm, and collected in a polyester double-knit dress from J.C. Penney’s -- A-line, with yellow dome buttons on the placket detail and a neat matching pillbox hat and jacket -- watches him expressionlessly.
“She’s -- she’s no damn fun anymore! Won’t joke; won’t dance; won’t drop acid…”
Dru clasps her hands behind her back. “I merely pointed out that d-lysergic acid diethylamide would severely impair our sense of awareness and perception, and thus could compromise our safety.”
“Refuses to do it any way but Missionary Style…”
“I consented to break with my normal cycle of Pon’farr; however, I must insist that certain elements of decorum be kept.”
“And she just sips at her food now! Won’t completely drain anyone; won’t even join me in a merry chase ‘n’ torture! Says she’s against mass slaughter. Where’s the joy in that?”
“To hunt a species to extinction is not logical.”
“You’ve gotta fix her, Granddad. It’s driving me insane. Put her back the way she was, and liven her voice back up, and get her to dress in something that doesn’t look like Queen Elizabeth picked it out, and give her some damned imagination. And for the love of all that’s unholy, MAKE HER STOP CALLING ME ‘CAPTAIN’!”
~end~
Title: What You Wish For
Author: sockmonkeyhere
Characters: Spike, Drusilla
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Mutant Enemy.
Rating: PG
Setting: upstate New York, 1969
What You Wish For
“Dru, Poodle, I appreciate that the invisible budgies have invited you to their dance, but you’re blocking my view of the telly.”
Drusilla pays him no mind; she dips and sways, waving her arms languidly, and uses the glowing TV screen as a footlight. Spike dips and sways, too, in an attempt to see around her. But it’s no use, and he slumps back into the Barcalounger in defeat and exasperation. It’s such a nice, comfy house they’ve liberated from the original owners (who now reside, sans body fluids, behind the lawnmower shed), with fabulous amenities like shag carpeting and the hi-fi stereo and this big color television…which would be a pleasure to watch if she would just. bloody. move.
“Twitter-twitter-twitter. Lovely little birdies, flitting all about us! Look, my William, this one’s wearing a tiara and performing the Mexican Hat Dance.” Her tie-dyed skirt swirls, her loose, long hair flies in her face, and her bare feet prance and kick. “When the mooooooon / is in the Seventh House…”
Spike waits, patient but increasingly more annoyed. He absently flips back and forth the ruby-colored pendant dangling from the necklace that Dru had found in the bedroom and made him wear. There’s no fear of Mister and Missus Comfy House rising and demanding their property back, as they’re missing some fabulous amenities like their heads, but he and Dru have only got about two days, tops, before friends and family and neighbors and the authorities will begin to notice the couple’s absence. And if this budgerigar party goes on indefinitely…
Usually he finds her flights of fancy vastly entertaining, but at times like these he wishes -- well, he wishes that she were a bit more sensible. Like that bloke on the program he’s trying to watch, the one with the soup-bowl ‘do and the wonky eyebrows.
The ruby pendant in his hand suddenly glows.
--------------------------------------------
~four days later~
“Look, you’re a witch doctor, right? Your job is to sort out things like this! Find out how to reverse this spell, or how to reload the stone with more wishes!” Furious, Spike thrusts the pendant necklace in the old black conjure-man’s face once more. Drusilla, cool, calm, and collected in a polyester double-knit dress from J.C. Penney’s -- A-line, with yellow dome buttons on the placket detail and a neat matching pillbox hat and jacket -- watches him expressionlessly.
“She’s -- she’s no damn fun anymore! Won’t joke; won’t dance; won’t drop acid…”
Dru clasps her hands behind her back. “I merely pointed out that d-lysergic acid diethylamide would severely impair our sense of awareness and perception, and thus could compromise our safety.”
“Refuses to do it any way but Missionary Style…”
“I consented to break with my normal cycle of Pon’farr; however, I must insist that certain elements of decorum be kept.”
“And she just sips at her food now! Won’t completely drain anyone; won’t even join me in a merry chase ‘n’ torture! Says she’s against mass slaughter. Where’s the joy in that?”
“To hunt a species to extinction is not logical.”
“You’ve gotta fix her, Granddad. It’s driving me insane. Put her back the way she was, and liven her voice back up, and get her to dress in something that doesn’t look like Queen Elizabeth picked it out, and give her some damned imagination. And for the love of all that’s unholy, MAKE HER STOP CALLING ME ‘CAPTAIN’!”
~end~