Awwww....
This was just a dispairagingly adorable bit of a Spuffy RP I was writing earlier. I actually teared up writing this! Thought I'd share.
He watched the slow progression of her finger up and down her glass, memories of what that hand could do to him flooding to the surface of his thoughts. He looked at the mahogany of the bar, splattered with condensation here and there, the wood peppered with various napkins, straws, and your usual bar things. He forced his mind to find them fascinating, needing to focus on anything other than specific parts of her body. And then he heard a most surprising sentence that made him look up at her sharply, holding back his smile so as not to seem presumptuous or over-excited.
“You’re thinking of staying?” he asked, and nodded casually. “Yeah, seems right, I mean…We could use you. Los Angeles may not be an official Hellmouth, but it’s scary in it’s own right. And that’s coming from me. I don’t so much scare easy.”
He sipped at his drink again, needing to find his common sense scattered somewhere near the bottom of the glass. “As for Dawn, I don’t know what to tell you. I know she loves you and misses you, but she’s always gonna have that Little Sister chip on her shoulder. She wants to grow up and experience, and she’s always going to see you as what’s keeping you from letting her do that. If Joyce was still around, she’d be taking it out on her rather than you.” Bloody hell, he hadn’t mentioned Joyce’s name in so long.
“Did they…ever tell you I brought flowers that night? For your mum? They didn’t want me hanging about and figured I was just doing it to try to get into your knickers, so they probably didn’t even tell you. I liked your mum,” he said, nostalgia easily bringing back the smiling face of one of the few women who’d been consistently nice to him. “Always put those little marshmallows in my chocolate when I asked. Even when…that first night, when she damn near killed me trying to protect you…” He smiled. “I respected her. I do have a thing for strong women.” He met her eyes again, giving her a fond look.
This was what he’d been talking about. Dawn had lost her confessor, the one she could whine to on a regular basis. Spike had, too. It was nice to have her back. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Saving the world, yet again, living to tell about it. Taking care of Dawn as well as you have. You’re doing great, Buffy,” he said reverently, suddenly feeling an immense well of pride at having once been her lover and close friend, and even to be sitting here now with her. She was, as always, a wonder to him.
He watched the slow progression of her finger up and down her glass, memories of what that hand could do to him flooding to the surface of his thoughts. He looked at the mahogany of the bar, splattered with condensation here and there, the wood peppered with various napkins, straws, and your usual bar things. He forced his mind to find them fascinating, needing to focus on anything other than specific parts of her body. And then he heard a most surprising sentence that made him look up at her sharply, holding back his smile so as not to seem presumptuous or over-excited.
“You’re thinking of staying?” he asked, and nodded casually. “Yeah, seems right, I mean…We could use you. Los Angeles may not be an official Hellmouth, but it’s scary in it’s own right. And that’s coming from me. I don’t so much scare easy.”
He sipped at his drink again, needing to find his common sense scattered somewhere near the bottom of the glass. “As for Dawn, I don’t know what to tell you. I know she loves you and misses you, but she’s always gonna have that Little Sister chip on her shoulder. She wants to grow up and experience, and she’s always going to see you as what’s keeping you from letting her do that. If Joyce was still around, she’d be taking it out on her rather than you.” Bloody hell, he hadn’t mentioned Joyce’s name in so long.
“Did they…ever tell you I brought flowers that night? For your mum? They didn’t want me hanging about and figured I was just doing it to try to get into your knickers, so they probably didn’t even tell you. I liked your mum,” he said, nostalgia easily bringing back the smiling face of one of the few women who’d been consistently nice to him. “Always put those little marshmallows in my chocolate when I asked. Even when…that first night, when she damn near killed me trying to protect you…” He smiled. “I respected her. I do have a thing for strong women.” He met her eyes again, giving her a fond look.
This was what he’d been talking about. Dawn had lost her confessor, the one she could whine to on a regular basis. Spike had, too. It was nice to have her back. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Saving the world, yet again, living to tell about it. Taking care of Dawn as well as you have. You’re doing great, Buffy,” he said reverently, suddenly feeling an immense well of pride at having once been her lover and close friend, and even to be sitting here now with her. She was, as always, a wonder to him.