Fic
When sb_fag_ends ran the 2014 Halloween challenge I seem to have posted most of my contributions only there - trying to get them posted too fast. I've been looking over some of them in the last few days and editing/extending them before posting to AO3. As LJ is still my spiritual home, though, I thought I'd put them here too.
All the usual disclaimers apply, characters and recognisable features belong to Joss, no infringement intended, he said we could play with them. All are Spuffy, as the original location rather implies.
What Buffy Sees in Him
Rating: general audiences
371 words.
Originally titled Looking at Him, now extended. Post-series.
She doesn’t tell him she thinks he looks cuter now than he did back then. His brown curls are soft without the gel, and don’t break off as easily as they did when they glared white. There’s a little beer belly. Probably a blood and garlic wings belly, to be fair, but she steers her thoughts away from that direction. It’s soft and quite unlike the rock-hard six-pack he used to have, but it’s hers to stroke and nobody else’s.
Vampires don’t age. That’s the rule and the explanation for youthful looks and inextinguishable energy. Except she knows they do, and not just with the whole soul thing. She’s watched Angel get older and more solid as he has accepted the cares of caring for others. She’s seen the sharp planes of his face soften, not with age but with the certainty of his mission and the self-built family he’s surrounded himself with. It shows he’s moved on too, which has made the changes in herself easier to address.
Her other vampire is not so much older as … settled. There’s nothing like the same restlessness or rage in him as there used to be. He smiles more, laughs a lot more, and without the cruelty and snark that used to be the norm. He even wears colours, subtle ones, some of them in paler hues. There are still occasions when he asks her to help with the eyeliner, and she agrees, for old time’s sake. He explains that doing it for himself was never fun since a mirror was no use, and he’d spent long hours training with Dru to get the look right, but was never sure it was, because you couldn’t exactly trust the crazy bint to notice if it was smudged anyway. She does it carefully, but it’s never more than a day or so before it’s gone again, and the stretches in between applications have been getting longer.
The cutest thing of all she won’t be telling him, though. She just melts into a puddle when she sees him wearing the specs. He feels safe and happy enough to wear them in front of her, to read and write. He doesn’t even know how adorable that is.
Stoned
Rating: Teen and up
760 words
Original title, now somewhat extended. Season 7, LMPTM
Giles was wary of magic McGuffins, however much he had had to make use of them professionally. The Prokaryote stone reminded him far too much of a vampire’s thrall in its effects, and if there was a sort of fitting irony in watching this particular vampire enthralled by the memories aroused by it, listening to his one-sided conversations palled very quickly. He seemed to switch from a wet ponce to the vicious animal Giles knew was always just under the surface and, confusingly, back again. There seemed to be moments that were almost touching, with an unidentified woman, and then a mother-figure, and some sort of sex-siren, and moments which were only just the right side of scary because he was at no risk of escape, and in too much torment even to try. The talking really didn’t seem to go anywhere and did nothing to resolve his overriding anxiety.
His anxiety sat back on her ankles, gazing intently at the writhing creature. After Spike had gone silent (blessed relief), she had reached for him, and only quick thinking had allowed Giles to grab her hand and prevent her touching him. “Buffy, I know you are worried,” he said, “but breaking a mesmeric trance induced by supernatural elements could have unforeseen deleterious consequences.”
She shook her head and glanced at Willow for enlightenment. “It could hurt his mind, breaking a trance suddenly,” she explained.
“I think the G-man had it right on that one,” Xander interrupted, “I don’t think we have too much need to worry about that.”
“Xander,” Giles tried to keep his voice severe, “I said that for Spike’s benefit. Would you prefer to have a tame vampire or a dangerously crazed one?”
Xander subsided, though Buffy thought she caught, “And the difference is?” beneath his breath.
These guys might have been her oldest and dearest friends in Sunnydale, but right now they were really not being the helpfullest buddies ever. She opened her mouth to point this out when Spike shuddered and writhed, his eyes jerking open as his intense gaze followed something invisible to all but him.
He started muttering, too faintly for her to hear most of it. The language seemed tangled, outdated and just plain weird. Her eyes, balls of honey. Angel's harps her laugh. Angel? What had he got to do with it? Was he with Drusilla and the rest of that gang somewhere inside his head? What were they doing and who were they doing it to? Buffy didn’t like to think about those days, when the Scourge of Europe had been 50% composed of her own future vampire lovers, and it gave her the wiggins to think they were so important his mind jumped straight there.
Lots of other things wigged her out more as the experiment proceeded, though. When he vamped out and the vile thing slid away from his eye it was almost a relief. It was not easy to have Spike so physically close, (so very physical) but to have him there and not there, trapped in some world of his past, a world she had no possible part in, that was much, much harder. Her decision to remove the chains, even against the advice of Giles and the clear, vicious hatred of Robin, was a pretty much automatic one after that. Whatever their past, he was no animal to be caged up, not now, not after the journey, the ordeal, the return, all for her sake.
She pointed out to Giles that the prophylactic stone wasn’t working. Spike gave her an odd smirk at that. Oh, Buffy language causes unintentional hilarity again. As she leaned in to him, though, only she caught his words.
“Learned something, pet. Learned your eyes are better by far. Learned to see you in comparison. I dare not presume, not now, not any more. But I know what you are.”
She mulled that one over for the next hour, while the practicalities of sorting out her men friends - and keeping some of them apart - dragged on. When she finally had the chance to ask him, he shook his head, as if he could barely recall his own words. Not so very strange, considering what he’d been put through. She fixed her gaze on his eyes, watching him struggle to focus, then narrow his brows, before meeting her look.
“Know what you are, pet. The best. That’s all. Not mine. Never could hope for that now. But you’re the one, in all the world. The one who makes it worth staying in it.”
A Song in His Heart
Immediately post OMWF
General audiences
395 words
Original title, extended and edited.
Back in the crypt the string orchestra finally stopped playing and it looked as if the whole ridiculous thing was finally over. No invisible marching band outside either, and no rock guitar downstairs in his sleeping lair.
Just as well it was finished and nobody he gave a shit about hurt. Weird that builder boy had caused it, but no hope at all that he’d lose even a smidgeon of his smug self-righteousness, or that Demon Girl would shut up about their retro song. Who bloody cared, now it was over? Something was up between the witchlets, even he could tell that. And the stuffy librarian was looking even more strained than usual.
So, a good result all round. Nobody hurt, everybody sad. Except him. And his Slayer.
OK, yes, she was sad, in a whole ripped-out-of-heaven sort of way. But nothing that was Spike’s fault, not this time. That was good, very good, right? You could even say he'd saved her life, in a non-heroic sort of way he was absolutely going to make a big deal out of, even so. More kisses, for a starter. A bloke deserved a reward, after all.
He paused to dwell on the taste of her lips, the touch of her hands holding him to her, the feel of her warm body pressed against his cold one. Oh yes. A feller could unlive on that for a very long while. The thought of more? Icing on a particularly delicious cake.
He hadn’t sung a drippy love song either - no stupid serenades of the sort that pillock William would have written. No Victorian arias or lieder of the sort his Mum had had him taught to sing, and, thank all the powers, no bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. OK, he’d asked her to piss off out of it if she didn’t want him, but it could have been much, much worse. She joined him of her own accord and sang to him as she kissed him, which was proof she really wanted him, right?
In all the demon-induced frenzy and hilarity, he’d come out ahead. His girl had kissed him, willingly, under no spell, and not as a reward or thanks. Things could only get better from here on in.
Humming a jaunty ditty, he turned in to bed. Tuned in to life with his girl, you might even say.
Comments feed my ego Muse and are much appreciated.
All the usual disclaimers apply, characters and recognisable features belong to Joss, no infringement intended, he said we could play with them. All are Spuffy, as the original location rather implies.
What Buffy Sees in Him
Rating: general audiences
371 words.
Originally titled Looking at Him, now extended. Post-series.
She doesn’t tell him she thinks he looks cuter now than he did back then. His brown curls are soft without the gel, and don’t break off as easily as they did when they glared white. There’s a little beer belly. Probably a blood and garlic wings belly, to be fair, but she steers her thoughts away from that direction. It’s soft and quite unlike the rock-hard six-pack he used to have, but it’s hers to stroke and nobody else’s.
Vampires don’t age. That’s the rule and the explanation for youthful looks and inextinguishable energy. Except she knows they do, and not just with the whole soul thing. She’s watched Angel get older and more solid as he has accepted the cares of caring for others. She’s seen the sharp planes of his face soften, not with age but with the certainty of his mission and the self-built family he’s surrounded himself with. It shows he’s moved on too, which has made the changes in herself easier to address.
Her other vampire is not so much older as … settled. There’s nothing like the same restlessness or rage in him as there used to be. He smiles more, laughs a lot more, and without the cruelty and snark that used to be the norm. He even wears colours, subtle ones, some of them in paler hues. There are still occasions when he asks her to help with the eyeliner, and she agrees, for old time’s sake. He explains that doing it for himself was never fun since a mirror was no use, and he’d spent long hours training with Dru to get the look right, but was never sure it was, because you couldn’t exactly trust the crazy bint to notice if it was smudged anyway. She does it carefully, but it’s never more than a day or so before it’s gone again, and the stretches in between applications have been getting longer.
The cutest thing of all she won’t be telling him, though. She just melts into a puddle when she sees him wearing the specs. He feels safe and happy enough to wear them in front of her, to read and write. He doesn’t even know how adorable that is.
Stoned
Rating: Teen and up
760 words
Original title, now somewhat extended. Season 7, LMPTM
Giles was wary of magic McGuffins, however much he had had to make use of them professionally. The Prokaryote stone reminded him far too much of a vampire’s thrall in its effects, and if there was a sort of fitting irony in watching this particular vampire enthralled by the memories aroused by it, listening to his one-sided conversations palled very quickly. He seemed to switch from a wet ponce to the vicious animal Giles knew was always just under the surface and, confusingly, back again. There seemed to be moments that were almost touching, with an unidentified woman, and then a mother-figure, and some sort of sex-siren, and moments which were only just the right side of scary because he was at no risk of escape, and in too much torment even to try. The talking really didn’t seem to go anywhere and did nothing to resolve his overriding anxiety.
His anxiety sat back on her ankles, gazing intently at the writhing creature. After Spike had gone silent (blessed relief), she had reached for him, and only quick thinking had allowed Giles to grab her hand and prevent her touching him. “Buffy, I know you are worried,” he said, “but breaking a mesmeric trance induced by supernatural elements could have unforeseen deleterious consequences.”
She shook her head and glanced at Willow for enlightenment. “It could hurt his mind, breaking a trance suddenly,” she explained.
“I think the G-man had it right on that one,” Xander interrupted, “I don’t think we have too much need to worry about that.”
“Xander,” Giles tried to keep his voice severe, “I said that for Spike’s benefit. Would you prefer to have a tame vampire or a dangerously crazed one?”
Xander subsided, though Buffy thought she caught, “And the difference is?” beneath his breath.
These guys might have been her oldest and dearest friends in Sunnydale, but right now they were really not being the helpfullest buddies ever. She opened her mouth to point this out when Spike shuddered and writhed, his eyes jerking open as his intense gaze followed something invisible to all but him.
He started muttering, too faintly for her to hear most of it. The language seemed tangled, outdated and just plain weird. Her eyes, balls of honey. Angel's harps her laugh. Angel? What had he got to do with it? Was he with Drusilla and the rest of that gang somewhere inside his head? What were they doing and who were they doing it to? Buffy didn’t like to think about those days, when the Scourge of Europe had been 50% composed of her own future vampire lovers, and it gave her the wiggins to think they were so important his mind jumped straight there.
Lots of other things wigged her out more as the experiment proceeded, though. When he vamped out and the vile thing slid away from his eye it was almost a relief. It was not easy to have Spike so physically close, (so very physical) but to have him there and not there, trapped in some world of his past, a world she had no possible part in, that was much, much harder. Her decision to remove the chains, even against the advice of Giles and the clear, vicious hatred of Robin, was a pretty much automatic one after that. Whatever their past, he was no animal to be caged up, not now, not after the journey, the ordeal, the return, all for her sake.
She pointed out to Giles that the prophylactic stone wasn’t working. Spike gave her an odd smirk at that. Oh, Buffy language causes unintentional hilarity again. As she leaned in to him, though, only she caught his words.
“Learned something, pet. Learned your eyes are better by far. Learned to see you in comparison. I dare not presume, not now, not any more. But I know what you are.”
She mulled that one over for the next hour, while the practicalities of sorting out her men friends - and keeping some of them apart - dragged on. When she finally had the chance to ask him, he shook his head, as if he could barely recall his own words. Not so very strange, considering what he’d been put through. She fixed her gaze on his eyes, watching him struggle to focus, then narrow his brows, before meeting her look.
“Know what you are, pet. The best. That’s all. Not mine. Never could hope for that now. But you’re the one, in all the world. The one who makes it worth staying in it.”
A Song in His Heart
Immediately post OMWF
General audiences
395 words
Original title, extended and edited.
Back in the crypt the string orchestra finally stopped playing and it looked as if the whole ridiculous thing was finally over. No invisible marching band outside either, and no rock guitar downstairs in his sleeping lair.
Just as well it was finished and nobody he gave a shit about hurt. Weird that builder boy had caused it, but no hope at all that he’d lose even a smidgeon of his smug self-righteousness, or that Demon Girl would shut up about their retro song. Who bloody cared, now it was over? Something was up between the witchlets, even he could tell that. And the stuffy librarian was looking even more strained than usual.
So, a good result all round. Nobody hurt, everybody sad. Except him. And his Slayer.
OK, yes, she was sad, in a whole ripped-out-of-heaven sort of way. But nothing that was Spike’s fault, not this time. That was good, very good, right? You could even say he'd saved her life, in a non-heroic sort of way he was absolutely going to make a big deal out of, even so. More kisses, for a starter. A bloke deserved a reward, after all.
He paused to dwell on the taste of her lips, the touch of her hands holding him to her, the feel of her warm body pressed against his cold one. Oh yes. A feller could unlive on that for a very long while. The thought of more? Icing on a particularly delicious cake.
He hadn’t sung a drippy love song either - no stupid serenades of the sort that pillock William would have written. No Victorian arias or lieder of the sort his Mum had had him taught to sing, and, thank all the powers, no bloody Gilbert and Sullivan. OK, he’d asked her to piss off out of it if she didn’t want him, but it could have been much, much worse. She joined him of her own accord and sang to him as she kissed him, which was proof she really wanted him, right?
In all the demon-induced frenzy and hilarity, he’d come out ahead. His girl had kissed him, willingly, under no spell, and not as a reward or thanks. Things could only get better from here on in.
Humming a jaunty ditty, he turned in to bed. Tuned in to life with his girl, you might even say.
Comments feed my ego Muse and are much appreciated.