titchy little stories
I was taking drabble and ficlet requests yeterday for the International Day of Slash. Over in the original post you'll find a Chas/John (Hellblazer) drabble and a Wesley/Giles ficlet. The others, I'm posting here.
Wesley/Spike, for taffimai, set during AtS s5 after Spike becomes corporeal again. The prompt was "brawl."
Tempest-Tossed
Wesley loves storms. The battering-ram winds, the brutal lightning, the rain like an over-ended sea, elements displaced and tumbling. He loves the hot-and-cold of fear, and how the world afterwards is trampled and yet cleansed.
And Spike, in his tornado-fury of delight, is a storm. So Wesley laughs at the slivered glass, the groaning half-conscious men, the barman calling 911, the favorite haunt he can never come back to.
"I can feel," Spike whispers, kissing Wesley against cracked paneling. "I can touch."
Wesley aches for gales, for ruin, for the calm that only comes after shattering. He says, "Touch me."
***
Giles/Oz ficlet, for pinkdormouse, who asked for formalwear and a music discussion.
The Night Before
When Giles comes back from the toilet, Oz is sitting at the kitchen table, taking the varnish off his nails again. Scowling at them, when usually his decorations make him playful. Oz loves to tinker--with recipes, computer programs, the organization of their books, but most of all with his own body.
"I liked that color," Giles says. The copper reminded him of Oz's hair, or rather Oz's hair in its natural state. At the moment, Oz's hair is a strawberry blonde that makes Giles think of campfires and rafts, tire swings on a riverbank, crickets chirping. An iconic American boyhood, straight out of a film.
Oz soaks another cotton ball in acetone and starts on his left hand. "I kinda - I think I want to look normal. Instead of weird."
The skin around Oz's nails is red and rough. After he bit the nails themselves to painful nubs, he started on his cuticles. "Who, exactly, do you want to look normal for?"
The last of the copper now dissolved away, Oz looks up. He's smiling, but it's the way people smile in the waiting rooms of hospitals. "You know. Whole damn world."
"I didn't know we'd invited that many people." Giles kisses his thumb, then has to rub his mouth to take the chemical taste away.
"It's dumb. I know."
"Oz-"
"Wait." Oz slides his hands up and down Giles' arms, and Giles waits. Words aren't the burden and distress they used to be, for Oz, but they're still hardest for him when he needs them most. "Here's what I mean. It's you and me, and, yeah, vows and stuff. But it's us. I don't want other things, like, partycrashing. Don't want to be a big gay statement."
"You always paint your nails. Well, often."
"Wear leather pants, too. And scuffed-up boots and girls' shirts with purple flowers. But not tomorrow."
"No, not tomorrow." Their suits are hanging in the bedroom, with all the windows open to get the dry cleaning smell out. Giles has been over them twice for spots, wrinkles, loose threads. "Though it would be quite a wedding if you did."
"Gayest gay wedding ever." Oz takes a long, slow breath and rolls his shoulders. "Record-setting, even."
"We'd have to work a bit harder for that. Hmmm. I could wear a frock."
That gets a laugh, and Oz leans back, appraising him from head to toe. "Nice white silk, since you're got that taffeta problem."
"Elton John could perform the ceremony. And we'd have a song from George Michael."
"Frankie Goes to Hollywood, if we're gonna be old school."
"Bowie. We'll go right past 'old school' to the classics." The first lines of "Lady Stardust" come into Giles' head, and he sings them quietly.
"I could almost go for that," Oz says.
"No." Giles tugs Oz's wrist until he gets up and settles on Giles' lap. "It's a sad song."
"Picky." Face pressed against Giles' shoulder, Oz goes quiet and still. It feels almost like relaxation, but his back's unyielding under Giles' hand, his breathing a little too quick.
Strange, how getting something you've wanted for years can wear the nerves as raw as unhappiness does. "Oz," Giles says. "We're already married, in the real way. You and me, till death us do part." He kisses the top of Oz's ear. "The rest is just formalities."
"Yeah." Oz lifts his head and kisses him, hard. "Let's go to bed."
That's the answer, or the best one they're likely to find. Sex and sleep, and then tomorrow. "Early start on the honeymoon?" Giles asks.
"Nah, man." Oz is smiling and beautiful. "Bachelor party."
Notes: This is Jazzverse (set sometime after the legalization of gay civil unions in Britain in December 2005) but not necessarily Jazzverse canon. Giles and Oz do get married in the Jazzverse as Gloss and I have envisioned it, but I don't know if it happens quite like this.
*****
Wesley/Spike, for taffimai, set during AtS s5 after Spike becomes corporeal again. The prompt was "brawl."
Tempest-Tossed
Wesley loves storms. The battering-ram winds, the brutal lightning, the rain like an over-ended sea, elements displaced and tumbling. He loves the hot-and-cold of fear, and how the world afterwards is trampled and yet cleansed.
And Spike, in his tornado-fury of delight, is a storm. So Wesley laughs at the slivered glass, the groaning half-conscious men, the barman calling 911, the favorite haunt he can never come back to.
"I can feel," Spike whispers, kissing Wesley against cracked paneling. "I can touch."
Wesley aches for gales, for ruin, for the calm that only comes after shattering. He says, "Touch me."
***
Giles/Oz ficlet, for pinkdormouse, who asked for formalwear and a music discussion.
The Night Before
When Giles comes back from the toilet, Oz is sitting at the kitchen table, taking the varnish off his nails again. Scowling at them, when usually his decorations make him playful. Oz loves to tinker--with recipes, computer programs, the organization of their books, but most of all with his own body.
"I liked that color," Giles says. The copper reminded him of Oz's hair, or rather Oz's hair in its natural state. At the moment, Oz's hair is a strawberry blonde that makes Giles think of campfires and rafts, tire swings on a riverbank, crickets chirping. An iconic American boyhood, straight out of a film.
Oz soaks another cotton ball in acetone and starts on his left hand. "I kinda - I think I want to look normal. Instead of weird."
The skin around Oz's nails is red and rough. After he bit the nails themselves to painful nubs, he started on his cuticles. "Who, exactly, do you want to look normal for?"
The last of the copper now dissolved away, Oz looks up. He's smiling, but it's the way people smile in the waiting rooms of hospitals. "You know. Whole damn world."
"I didn't know we'd invited that many people." Giles kisses his thumb, then has to rub his mouth to take the chemical taste away.
"It's dumb. I know."
"Oz-"
"Wait." Oz slides his hands up and down Giles' arms, and Giles waits. Words aren't the burden and distress they used to be, for Oz, but they're still hardest for him when he needs them most. "Here's what I mean. It's you and me, and, yeah, vows and stuff. But it's us. I don't want other things, like, partycrashing. Don't want to be a big gay statement."
"You always paint your nails. Well, often."
"Wear leather pants, too. And scuffed-up boots and girls' shirts with purple flowers. But not tomorrow."
"No, not tomorrow." Their suits are hanging in the bedroom, with all the windows open to get the dry cleaning smell out. Giles has been over them twice for spots, wrinkles, loose threads. "Though it would be quite a wedding if you did."
"Gayest gay wedding ever." Oz takes a long, slow breath and rolls his shoulders. "Record-setting, even."
"We'd have to work a bit harder for that. Hmmm. I could wear a frock."
That gets a laugh, and Oz leans back, appraising him from head to toe. "Nice white silk, since you're got that taffeta problem."
"Elton John could perform the ceremony. And we'd have a song from George Michael."
"Frankie Goes to Hollywood, if we're gonna be old school."
"Bowie. We'll go right past 'old school' to the classics." The first lines of "Lady Stardust" come into Giles' head, and he sings them quietly.
"I could almost go for that," Oz says.
"No." Giles tugs Oz's wrist until he gets up and settles on Giles' lap. "It's a sad song."
"Picky." Face pressed against Giles' shoulder, Oz goes quiet and still. It feels almost like relaxation, but his back's unyielding under Giles' hand, his breathing a little too quick.
Strange, how getting something you've wanted for years can wear the nerves as raw as unhappiness does. "Oz," Giles says. "We're already married, in the real way. You and me, till death us do part." He kisses the top of Oz's ear. "The rest is just formalities."
"Yeah." Oz lifts his head and kisses him, hard. "Let's go to bed."
That's the answer, or the best one they're likely to find. Sex and sleep, and then tomorrow. "Early start on the honeymoon?" Giles asks.
"Nah, man." Oz is smiling and beautiful. "Bachelor party."
Notes: This is Jazzverse (set sometime after the legalization of gay civil unions in Britain in December 2005) but not necessarily Jazzverse canon. Giles and Oz do get married in the Jazzverse as Gloss and I have envisioned it, but I don't know if it happens quite like this.
*****