I've been writing fic again.
Written for this week's prompt at sb_fag_ends
Buffy wears a lot of heavy coats and thick woollens. The practical reason for this, I read the other day, was that no stuntwoman was as tiny as SMG, and the baggy clothes evened things up a bit. But it got me thinking - here in England we've had a week we would call "really warm", with temperatures in the high sixties, US-style. Very unusual for mid-April, and doomed to end this weekend. According to Wikipedia, though, that is really cold for, say, Torrance, CA. It's all about what one is used to. And that gave rise to this. S6, not long before Riley appeared to bugger things up. You have to squint at the timeline a little to fit this, but you can manage that, can't you? Please?
Prompt: 1. Sighting on the shoreline
Rating: PG
Length: 975 words
Spike had never understood why Buffy’s wanted all her thick coats and woolly jumpers. (OK, sweaters in the local lingo. Didn’t see why they couldn’t use English. Bloody tossers.) Winter wasn’t so much a thing in SoCal - he was with Giles on that one, pissed off with bloody eternal sunshine, though he had a better reason for disliking it than the Wanker.
No, here it was always t-shirt weather. OK, for him it was always leather duster weather, but a bloke had an image to maintain, y’know? Point was, though, even in March it was as hot as England ever got, most years. And he remembered all that childhood compulsory sea bathing. In the bloody North Sea at that. She had no bloody idea what ‘cold’ meant. Freezing? He’d grant it wasn’t roasting hot at midnight, but it was a bloody long way from freezing. He could tell her tales of his schooldays, breaking the ice on his washstand bowl before he could wash, morning or night. That’s what ‘freezing’ meant.
There was only so much of this rant that Buffy was prepared to put up with. Fifty-two degrees was cold. And she was very glad of her snuggly coat, warm gloves and scarf, thank you very much. Especially since the axe she was carrying made it impossible to stuff her hands in the pockets of said snugglesome coat. “Spike. I get it. You had to walk to school barefoot in the snow. Uphill at that. Both ways. But now? You have no body temperature! What gives you the right to complain about my feeling cold?”
He paused. Only for a moment. “Slayer, I’m telling you the cold is in your head, right? If I could stick it back then, you can stick it now. And look at the moon! Look at the stars. Look at the waves crashing on the rocks and sand! Nice metaphor, that.” Here he leered and did that thing with his tongue. No, Buffy was not influenced by that. Not a single bit.
“There is no sign of the demons you promised me. The wind is coming in right off the ocean. It’s had thousands of miles to pick up speed and it’s going right through me, not round. I have had enough of this and I just want to go inside.“
“Slayer, we roll in the sand, I promise I can get you heated up. You know you want to” He gave her that look. The one he knew worked on her so well.
Not this time. “Spike, shut up. Listen carefully. I. Am. Cold. We have been on this beach for an hour, it is nearly midnight, it is still practically winter and I have a sister and a hot drink I need to see. Now.”
His shoulders hunched forward and his head dropped. The lower lip even pushed out a little too. “If you say so, Slayer.” The effect was wrecked as he peeked up through those ridiculous eyelashes, his eyes deep and dark in the moonlight.
“I do say so. Now stop the Princess Di pity-me look and stop trying to get me out of my winterwear. It’s so not going to happen.”
There was a barely a moment then before the demons struck. A crackle on the seaweed behind them was enough warning to make the pair separate. Spike half-turned, his right shoulder close to her left, his free hand hefting the sword he’d been mainly using to poke at the sand. Buffy glanced over her right shoulder, checked he had her back and focussed on the extra-large slime thing rushing from that side. Bickering over, they slipped instantly into the companionable teamwork she tolerated him for. Slamming demons into a pulp was so much more her thing than innuendo-laden chitchat.
As Buffy sliced her axe down into Snotman, Spike beheaded one of his brothers, whirled as he followed through, jerked the sword back and impaled the third demon neatly.
That should have been enough, but the sodding thing continued to writhe, starting to force its way up the blade, claws grasping for his neck. “Bit of help here, Slayer?” Spike grunted, “If you’ve stopped admiring your kill?” He tried twisting his weapon to make the hole bigger, but that only seemed to make the beast angrier. And to slide closer towards him. Its breath was freezing, literally, as it grunted and strained, and the temperature of the sword plummeted. Sodding endothermic snot demons. The more active its struggles, the more heat is sucked in from the air around it.
Buffy jumped round and took in the sight of a vampire with a demon popsicle. Now let him say it wasn’t cold. Coolly, she stepped back, judged the distance, then slashed the axe down, between Spike and his adversary, then curving up to bisect the head. “I always said an axe was better for the chopping.” she said exactly as he yelped, “Watch the head, Slayer! I don’t do so well without one either!”
Fight over, she was breathing heavily. He stepped into her space. “Still feeling cold, Buffy?” Yes, that really was a purr.
She swallowed, for a brief second trying to hold onto her dignity. Then she giggled and abandoned the attempt. “No, Spike. You might even say I’m hot right now.”
“You’re always hot to me, pet.” He leaned closer, and brushed her lips with his.
Her axe hit the sand and bounced. A faint clang followed, as his sword landed on top. A keen ear might have heard the faint crunch of the sand seconds later, and an even fainter pop as a button flew off Buffy’s coat and their bodies pressed ever closer together.
Spike pulled his head back a fraction, to allow her a breath. He smirked before diving back for more. One layer down. The rest would follow.
As always, I crave comments and feedback.
Buffy wears a lot of heavy coats and thick woollens. The practical reason for this, I read the other day, was that no stuntwoman was as tiny as SMG, and the baggy clothes evened things up a bit. But it got me thinking - here in England we've had a week we would call "really warm", with temperatures in the high sixties, US-style. Very unusual for mid-April, and doomed to end this weekend. According to Wikipedia, though, that is really cold for, say, Torrance, CA. It's all about what one is used to. And that gave rise to this. S6, not long before Riley appeared to bugger things up. You have to squint at the timeline a little to fit this, but you can manage that, can't you? Please?
Prompt: 1. Sighting on the shoreline
Rating: PG
Length: 975 words
Spike had never understood why Buffy’s wanted all her thick coats and woolly jumpers. (OK, sweaters in the local lingo. Didn’t see why they couldn’t use English. Bloody tossers.) Winter wasn’t so much a thing in SoCal - he was with Giles on that one, pissed off with bloody eternal sunshine, though he had a better reason for disliking it than the Wanker.
No, here it was always t-shirt weather. OK, for him it was always leather duster weather, but a bloke had an image to maintain, y’know? Point was, though, even in March it was as hot as England ever got, most years. And he remembered all that childhood compulsory sea bathing. In the bloody North Sea at that. She had no bloody idea what ‘cold’ meant. Freezing? He’d grant it wasn’t roasting hot at midnight, but it was a bloody long way from freezing. He could tell her tales of his schooldays, breaking the ice on his washstand bowl before he could wash, morning or night. That’s what ‘freezing’ meant.
There was only so much of this rant that Buffy was prepared to put up with. Fifty-two degrees was cold. And she was very glad of her snuggly coat, warm gloves and scarf, thank you very much. Especially since the axe she was carrying made it impossible to stuff her hands in the pockets of said snugglesome coat. “Spike. I get it. You had to walk to school barefoot in the snow. Uphill at that. Both ways. But now? You have no body temperature! What gives you the right to complain about my feeling cold?”
He paused. Only for a moment. “Slayer, I’m telling you the cold is in your head, right? If I could stick it back then, you can stick it now. And look at the moon! Look at the stars. Look at the waves crashing on the rocks and sand! Nice metaphor, that.” Here he leered and did that thing with his tongue. No, Buffy was not influenced by that. Not a single bit.
“There is no sign of the demons you promised me. The wind is coming in right off the ocean. It’s had thousands of miles to pick up speed and it’s going right through me, not round. I have had enough of this and I just want to go inside.“
“Slayer, we roll in the sand, I promise I can get you heated up. You know you want to” He gave her that look. The one he knew worked on her so well.
Not this time. “Spike, shut up. Listen carefully. I. Am. Cold. We have been on this beach for an hour, it is nearly midnight, it is still practically winter and I have a sister and a hot drink I need to see. Now.”
His shoulders hunched forward and his head dropped. The lower lip even pushed out a little too. “If you say so, Slayer.” The effect was wrecked as he peeked up through those ridiculous eyelashes, his eyes deep and dark in the moonlight.
“I do say so. Now stop the Princess Di pity-me look and stop trying to get me out of my winterwear. It’s so not going to happen.”
There was a barely a moment then before the demons struck. A crackle on the seaweed behind them was enough warning to make the pair separate. Spike half-turned, his right shoulder close to her left, his free hand hefting the sword he’d been mainly using to poke at the sand. Buffy glanced over her right shoulder, checked he had her back and focussed on the extra-large slime thing rushing from that side. Bickering over, they slipped instantly into the companionable teamwork she tolerated him for. Slamming demons into a pulp was so much more her thing than innuendo-laden chitchat.
As Buffy sliced her axe down into Snotman, Spike beheaded one of his brothers, whirled as he followed through, jerked the sword back and impaled the third demon neatly.
That should have been enough, but the sodding thing continued to writhe, starting to force its way up the blade, claws grasping for his neck. “Bit of help here, Slayer?” Spike grunted, “If you’ve stopped admiring your kill?” He tried twisting his weapon to make the hole bigger, but that only seemed to make the beast angrier. And to slide closer towards him. Its breath was freezing, literally, as it grunted and strained, and the temperature of the sword plummeted. Sodding endothermic snot demons. The more active its struggles, the more heat is sucked in from the air around it.
Buffy jumped round and took in the sight of a vampire with a demon popsicle. Now let him say it wasn’t cold. Coolly, she stepped back, judged the distance, then slashed the axe down, between Spike and his adversary, then curving up to bisect the head. “I always said an axe was better for the chopping.” she said exactly as he yelped, “Watch the head, Slayer! I don’t do so well without one either!”
Fight over, she was breathing heavily. He stepped into her space. “Still feeling cold, Buffy?” Yes, that really was a purr.
She swallowed, for a brief second trying to hold onto her dignity. Then she giggled and abandoned the attempt. “No, Spike. You might even say I’m hot right now.”
“You’re always hot to me, pet.” He leaned closer, and brushed her lips with his.
Her axe hit the sand and bounced. A faint clang followed, as his sword landed on top. A keen ear might have heard the faint crunch of the sand seconds later, and an even fainter pop as a button flew off Buffy’s coat and their bodies pressed ever closer together.
Spike pulled his head back a fraction, to allow her a breath. He smirked before diving back for more. One layer down. The rest would follow.
As always, I crave comments and feedback.