Some writing has finally occurred
It's been a busy couple of weeks - of that, more soon. But I managed to make up for missing last week's prompt at still_grrr by doing two for this week. Here, FWIW, they are:
Two together, because life has been busy of late. First a drabble, for the free-for-all prompt 172.
Title: Green
Rating: G
Word Count: 100
Character: Spike
A/N: AtS S5
Strangely, it was the green he missed most from the little town. A nice, not very dank basement flat was fine and dandy - helped keep a bloke undusted, but it had no windows, and through the necrotempered glass he saw only concrete and glass.
The big dusty crater in the desert had no green left. His crypt had followed the school and the shop and that crappy teen club into the hole, along with the trees, the grass, the flowers left by the graves.
Green, the colour of regeneration, regrowth, hope. Nope. No place for that in this town.
And a makeup post for last week's prompt, black:
Title: Black-Hearted Theft
Rating G
Word Count:: 998
Characters/Pairing: Dawn and Spike
A/N: That summer, with Buffy gone, Dawn was at a loose end.
All that summer Dawn did her best to become invisible. It wasn’t hard. The Scoobies were so busy being adult and responsible she could slip under their radar, no problem.
There didn’t feel like a lot of point to it, though. Janice was away for the summer and, anyway, she couldn’t be told The Secret. The Bot made her twitch, at least in daylight hours, and Spike seemed to have become one of the grown ups, conferring with Giles, helping patrol, avoiding her eyes when he could.
Still, there was always the mall. The stores in what counted as downtown Sunnydale were so niche they offered nothing to a discerning teen. Especially since she was pretty well-known round there. But the mall, that was different. She could just hang on corners, outside stores where the cool types went. She could stroll between racks of clothes and imagine Dawn, super model of five years hence.
Above all, she could look at cosmetics, play with scents, smudge on rouge and lipstick and eyeshadow. And there were lots of neat, small things. Pocket-sized things.
The first lip gloss almost did fall into her pocket. Off the counter anyway. The store clerk noticed nothing as Dawn stooped to pick it up; too busy telling her co-worker about the latest reality show. Nobody noticed it go into Dawn’s pocket instead of back on the rack.
The next one was a tiny bottle of perfume, the sort Mom used to buy. Then a bright red lipstick, the sort she recalled Faith using. Then nail paint.
Trouble was, none of this stuff could be used back at the house. Willow didn’t see much, but Tara was quick. Tara had odd rules about young girls and cosmetics, as if she’d never been a teen herself. And even Xander would have noticed red lips of that color.
There is something very unsatisfying about having stuff you can’t use. The thrill of taking it wasn’t much to start with when the shop-workers were so bored and inattentive. It tended to go off altogether when there was nothing you could do with the stuff. Even toothpaste and nail files had limits.
Then, one night in mid-June, about four weeks into the hole that was there all the more because nobody talked about it, ever, she had an idea. A Nifty Idea, even.
The next day she slid a very carefully-chosen item into her bag, with the practised ease of the super-spy she had become. And in the evening she evaded all eyes by using a patented method of going to bed early and climbing out of the window. Memories tended to flood around this route, but she repressed them sternly and strode the short distance to a certain cemetery, where a certain vampire was going to be reminded that one Summers woman still existed and required attention.
OK, so she lacked the sort of strength that allowed people - any sort of people - to kick down a door. But she had a ferocious knock. And she got the hang of the handle in time to get the door open just before its owner did so himself. Nearly so. Call it a dead heat. He was dead and she was hot with embarrassment.
“Bit?” He didn’t sound exactly overjoyed to see her. “What you doing here at this time? Do the witches know you’re out?” To do him justice, he sounded genuinely alarmed.
“The know I’m in bed. Anything different won’t hurt them.”
“Dawn, listen to me. You know this town is dangerous at night. You mustn’t risk yourself.”
“Who cares if I do?” she muttered, mostly under her breath.
He gripped her, strong hands one on each arm “Look at me, Dawn. I care. I made a promise and I am going to keep it. You know why.”
The intensity of his eyes made her uncomfortable and she dropped her own gaze to the floor. What a mess - dust and leaves everywhere. Interesting mess.
He shook her, and again, forcing her to meet his eyes again. “Why did you come, Dawn? Don’t you realise the others would be worried stuff if they knew?”
“I came to see you, dumbass. You’ve been avoiding me since. For weeks now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Yes. Well. It’s been complicated, pet. I’ve been working with the others you know. Keeping Sunnyhell safe for puppies and cotton candy. You know.”
“All I know is you’ve been letting yourself go. I’ve noticed.”
He jerked his head in astonishment. “What in hell do you mean?”
She said nothing, just looked, until he followed her line of sight down to his own hands. Dirty, bruised and battered hands. With pink, shiny nails, ragged at the tips.
“I noticed. That day you drove for us, when you took that RV, you were wearing it. But not since. I saw you in that barn, picking chips off it. Then She came for me. And I’ve never seen it since.”
“Seen what?” unconvincingly. “My hands? You pick up a few bruises in my line. Blood tends to pool when there’s no circulation. It’ll go soon, though.”
A familiar look settled on Dawn’s face. Familiar from her mother and her sister, did she but know it, enough to give both pause and pang. She shook his loose grip from her arms and grabbed his hands in return. With a determined tug she began to tow him to the stone plinth in the centre of the room. “Sit there” He obeyed.
Cross-legged she faced him, perched, like him, on Dearly Beloved of Restfield. She arrayed her tools in front of her. All that was needed for a manicure, including the cutest miniature stakes to threaten an uppity vamp with. And, piece de resistance, the polish, juicy, thick and black. When nothing in the world was right, or could be ever again, at least one thing could be restored to its proper state. Ignoring his protests she began to recreate her vampire.
Two together, because life has been busy of late. First a drabble, for the free-for-all prompt 172.
Title: Green
Rating: G
Word Count: 100
Character: Spike
A/N: AtS S5
Strangely, it was the green he missed most from the little town. A nice, not very dank basement flat was fine and dandy - helped keep a bloke undusted, but it had no windows, and through the necrotempered glass he saw only concrete and glass.
The big dusty crater in the desert had no green left. His crypt had followed the school and the shop and that crappy teen club into the hole, along with the trees, the grass, the flowers left by the graves.
Green, the colour of regeneration, regrowth, hope. Nope. No place for that in this town.
And a makeup post for last week's prompt, black:
Title: Black-Hearted Theft
Rating G
Word Count:: 998
Characters/Pairing: Dawn and Spike
A/N: That summer, with Buffy gone, Dawn was at a loose end.
All that summer Dawn did her best to become invisible. It wasn’t hard. The Scoobies were so busy being adult and responsible she could slip under their radar, no problem.
There didn’t feel like a lot of point to it, though. Janice was away for the summer and, anyway, she couldn’t be told The Secret. The Bot made her twitch, at least in daylight hours, and Spike seemed to have become one of the grown ups, conferring with Giles, helping patrol, avoiding her eyes when he could.
Still, there was always the mall. The stores in what counted as downtown Sunnydale were so niche they offered nothing to a discerning teen. Especially since she was pretty well-known round there. But the mall, that was different. She could just hang on corners, outside stores where the cool types went. She could stroll between racks of clothes and imagine Dawn, super model of five years hence.
Above all, she could look at cosmetics, play with scents, smudge on rouge and lipstick and eyeshadow. And there were lots of neat, small things. Pocket-sized things.
The first lip gloss almost did fall into her pocket. Off the counter anyway. The store clerk noticed nothing as Dawn stooped to pick it up; too busy telling her co-worker about the latest reality show. Nobody noticed it go into Dawn’s pocket instead of back on the rack.
The next one was a tiny bottle of perfume, the sort Mom used to buy. Then a bright red lipstick, the sort she recalled Faith using. Then nail paint.
Trouble was, none of this stuff could be used back at the house. Willow didn’t see much, but Tara was quick. Tara had odd rules about young girls and cosmetics, as if she’d never been a teen herself. And even Xander would have noticed red lips of that color.
There is something very unsatisfying about having stuff you can’t use. The thrill of taking it wasn’t much to start with when the shop-workers were so bored and inattentive. It tended to go off altogether when there was nothing you could do with the stuff. Even toothpaste and nail files had limits.
Then, one night in mid-June, about four weeks into the hole that was there all the more because nobody talked about it, ever, she had an idea. A Nifty Idea, even.
The next day she slid a very carefully-chosen item into her bag, with the practised ease of the super-spy she had become. And in the evening she evaded all eyes by using a patented method of going to bed early and climbing out of the window. Memories tended to flood around this route, but she repressed them sternly and strode the short distance to a certain cemetery, where a certain vampire was going to be reminded that one Summers woman still existed and required attention.
OK, so she lacked the sort of strength that allowed people - any sort of people - to kick down a door. But she had a ferocious knock. And she got the hang of the handle in time to get the door open just before its owner did so himself. Nearly so. Call it a dead heat. He was dead and she was hot with embarrassment.
“Bit?” He didn’t sound exactly overjoyed to see her. “What you doing here at this time? Do the witches know you’re out?” To do him justice, he sounded genuinely alarmed.
“The know I’m in bed. Anything different won’t hurt them.”
“Dawn, listen to me. You know this town is dangerous at night. You mustn’t risk yourself.”
“Who cares if I do?” she muttered, mostly under her breath.
He gripped her, strong hands one on each arm “Look at me, Dawn. I care. I made a promise and I am going to keep it. You know why.”
The intensity of his eyes made her uncomfortable and she dropped her own gaze to the floor. What a mess - dust and leaves everywhere. Interesting mess.
He shook her, and again, forcing her to meet his eyes again. “Why did you come, Dawn? Don’t you realise the others would be worried stuff if they knew?”
“I came to see you, dumbass. You’ve been avoiding me since. For weeks now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Yes. Well. It’s been complicated, pet. I’ve been working with the others you know. Keeping Sunnyhell safe for puppies and cotton candy. You know.”
“All I know is you’ve been letting yourself go. I’ve noticed.”
He jerked his head in astonishment. “What in hell do you mean?”
She said nothing, just looked, until he followed her line of sight down to his own hands. Dirty, bruised and battered hands. With pink, shiny nails, ragged at the tips.
“I noticed. That day you drove for us, when you took that RV, you were wearing it. But not since. I saw you in that barn, picking chips off it. Then She came for me. And I’ve never seen it since.”
“Seen what?” unconvincingly. “My hands? You pick up a few bruises in my line. Blood tends to pool when there’s no circulation. It’ll go soon, though.”
A familiar look settled on Dawn’s face. Familiar from her mother and her sister, did she but know it, enough to give both pause and pang. She shook his loose grip from her arms and grabbed his hands in return. With a determined tug she began to tow him to the stone plinth in the centre of the room. “Sit there” He obeyed.
Cross-legged she faced him, perched, like him, on Dearly Beloved of Restfield. She arrayed her tools in front of her. All that was needed for a manicure, including the cutest miniature stakes to threaten an uppity vamp with. And, piece de resistance, the polish, juicy, thick and black. When nothing in the world was right, or could be ever again, at least one thing could be restored to its proper state. Ignoring his protests she began to recreate her vampire.