Fic: What Do You Drink, Corazon? S/B, PG
What Do You Drink, Corazon?
By Barb C.
Disclaimers: The usual. All belongs to Joss and Mutant Enemy, and naught to me.
Rating: PG
Synopsis: It's taken awhile. But every now and again, and oftener now than it used to be, she'll loosen up a bit.
Author’s notes: This story takes place in the same universe as "Raising In the Sun," "Necessary Evils," and "A Parliament of Monsters." It contains spoilers for previous stories in the series. This was written for the
schmoop_bingo prompt "Wine."
Slayer's not a big drinker. When we first met I thought it was because she was Miss Priss - didn't even have a fake ID, for Christ's sake, and what self-respecting teen Lolita hasn't one of those? Found out soon enough that wasn't the case.
For one thing, our girl can't hold her liquor worth a teaspoon of cat piss. A glass or two of bubbly, and Buffy's dancing on the tables, corrupting the virtue of innocent vampires in the shrubbery, and picking fights with Raqhon demons. Who're immaterial on this plane, so, yeah. Woman can't even start a decent bar fight.
For another, she's the sodding Slayer. Old Rupes drilled it into her head good and proper that for a Slayer, a mis-spent youth is off-limits. The Slayer gets no nights off. Evil's always afoot, virtue never rests, et bloody cetera. And if that weren't lesson enough, time and again when Buffy's taken a busman's holiday, some nasty - or one of her nearest and dearest - takes the opportunity to slide a jab through below the belt. Angelus, Finn, old Rupert himself... even your humble narrator, back in the day. Point is, the line's not a short one. In consequence, she doesn't let her guard down easy.
But you never let your guard down at all, the strain'll send you barmy, and you'll lay down your arms for good all the quicker for it. Reason Buffy's outlived every Slayer on record is, she's got more to care about - but she's also got more who care about her.
It's taken awhile. But every now and again, and oftener now than it used to be, she'll loosen up a bit. Tonight, like. Sultry summer evening. Sunset's last light gilding a sky like indigo velvet. Cicadas buzzing in the trees, crickets tuning up in the grass. Kids racketing about on the lawn. And the two of us together on the porch swing, with a pitcher of sangria and all the mixings. Ginger ale for hers, and something a bit stronger and redder for yours truly. Not much on wine as a general rule, me. Beer's my drink of choice, or whiskey if the object's getting legless as quickly as vampire constitution will allow, but Buffy makes it proper - and on nights she's feeling especially generous, there's a drop or two of blood in mine that never came from the butcher's.
And so here's my Slayer, twirling the stem of her glass in her fingers, toasting the glow of the street lamps. Sipping sweet red wine (but nothing tastes as sweet as she does, essence of Buffy tingling on my tongue - if she's drunk on the blood-red wine, I'm drunk on her, and ever shall be) and watching the stars come out, whilst she lies against me, giggling when the bubbles sting her nose. Warms my innards more'n any tipple, knowing she feels free enough with me to relax and let go. Worries will still be waiting when she's ready to take 'em up again. But for this little time, on this one night, she's tousled and soft and cuddlesome in the circle of my arms, knowing I've got her back. Least I can do.
There's times enough she's done the same for me.
END
By Barb C.
Disclaimers: The usual. All belongs to Joss and Mutant Enemy, and naught to me.
Rating: PG
Synopsis: It's taken awhile. But every now and again, and oftener now than it used to be, she'll loosen up a bit.
Author’s notes: This story takes place in the same universe as "Raising In the Sun," "Necessary Evils," and "A Parliament of Monsters." It contains spoilers for previous stories in the series. This was written for the
schmoop_bingo prompt "Wine."
Slayer's not a big drinker. When we first met I thought it was because she was Miss Priss - didn't even have a fake ID, for Christ's sake, and what self-respecting teen Lolita hasn't one of those? Found out soon enough that wasn't the case.
For one thing, our girl can't hold her liquor worth a teaspoon of cat piss. A glass or two of bubbly, and Buffy's dancing on the tables, corrupting the virtue of innocent vampires in the shrubbery, and picking fights with Raqhon demons. Who're immaterial on this plane, so, yeah. Woman can't even start a decent bar fight.
For another, she's the sodding Slayer. Old Rupes drilled it into her head good and proper that for a Slayer, a mis-spent youth is off-limits. The Slayer gets no nights off. Evil's always afoot, virtue never rests, et bloody cetera. And if that weren't lesson enough, time and again when Buffy's taken a busman's holiday, some nasty - or one of her nearest and dearest - takes the opportunity to slide a jab through below the belt. Angelus, Finn, old Rupert himself... even your humble narrator, back in the day. Point is, the line's not a short one. In consequence, she doesn't let her guard down easy.
But you never let your guard down at all, the strain'll send you barmy, and you'll lay down your arms for good all the quicker for it. Reason Buffy's outlived every Slayer on record is, she's got more to care about - but she's also got more who care about her.
It's taken awhile. But every now and again, and oftener now than it used to be, she'll loosen up a bit. Tonight, like. Sultry summer evening. Sunset's last light gilding a sky like indigo velvet. Cicadas buzzing in the trees, crickets tuning up in the grass. Kids racketing about on the lawn. And the two of us together on the porch swing, with a pitcher of sangria and all the mixings. Ginger ale for hers, and something a bit stronger and redder for yours truly. Not much on wine as a general rule, me. Beer's my drink of choice, or whiskey if the object's getting legless as quickly as vampire constitution will allow, but Buffy makes it proper - and on nights she's feeling especially generous, there's a drop or two of blood in mine that never came from the butcher's.
And so here's my Slayer, twirling the stem of her glass in her fingers, toasting the glow of the street lamps. Sipping sweet red wine (but nothing tastes as sweet as she does, essence of Buffy tingling on my tongue - if she's drunk on the blood-red wine, I'm drunk on her, and ever shall be) and watching the stars come out, whilst she lies against me, giggling when the bubbles sting her nose. Warms my innards more'n any tipple, knowing she feels free enough with me to relax and let go. Worries will still be waiting when she's ready to take 'em up again. But for this little time, on this one night, she's tousled and soft and cuddlesome in the circle of my arms, knowing I've got her back. Least I can do.
There's times enough she's done the same for me.
END