Fic: Second Verse, Same As The First, S/B, G
Second Verse, Same As The First
By Barb C
Disclaimers: The usual. All belongs to Joss and Mutant Enemy, and naught to me.
Rating: G
Pairing: B/S
Synopsis: This is the closest I will ever come to songfic.
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 "Singing."
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-oh
I wanna be sedated
It's three AM, and Buffy's watching Spike. And Spike's dancing round the baby's room in a precariously-belted pair of black cotton pajama bottoms, barefoot, bare-chested, rocking their wailing daughter in his arms. He's not quite as good a dancer as he thinks he is - good at the slow, swaying romantic stuff, or old-fashioned things like the waltz or the foxtrot, but give him something with a beat to it and Spike's... well, kinda dorky. He is a hundred and fifty-plus-year-old white guy, after all.
But hey. If there's anything that can overcome dorky dancing, it's the allure of a man who's willing to deal with a fretful baby. The Old Spice Guy has nothing on Spike.
"Just put yourself to sleep, allow your mum and me the same, hurry hurry hurry before we go insane - " Connie's red and tear-streaked face screws up around her tiny button of a nose, her mouth opens in a howling O of infant rage, but the wails are starting to break up into hiccupy static. "Oi, Poodle, that the best you can do? Your old Dad can make faces too - "
And he slips into game face, baring his fangs in a grin that's still full of the same starry-eyed, besotted love it held on the day he helped bring her into the world. Connie's miniature fist bops him on the nose, and Spike laughs, spinning her round one more time. "I can't control my fingers I can't control my brain - wotcher, Poodle, here comes the tickle monster - Oh no no no no no - "
Connie's wail turns into a shriek of laughter as her father blows fangy raspberries on her bare belly, and Spike extends a hand. "Take it away, Slayer!" And it's the middle of the night and she's had three hours of sleep and she's too damn tired for this, but Buffy takes it anyway, and they're spinning around the room together with Connie caught between them, belting out the chorus to a song she doesn't even like with dizzy, lunatic glee.
When they stagger to a stop, Connie's out like a light, her fuzzy chestnut head cradled against Spike's shoulder. "Is that it?" Buffy whispers. She can't hear heartbeats, but the rhythm of her daughter's breathing is soft and familiar.
Spike cocks his head, listening. "Think so," he whispers back, just as wary. They've had false alarms before. But Connie doesn't stir, and Spike lowers her back into the crib with infinite care, humming the chorus: Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go...
They stand there for a moment, as Buffy strokes her daughter's wispy curls. Hurricane Connie - Buffy hopes she'll downgrade to tropical storm by the time she hits the terrible twos, but she's not holding her breath. And yet, when she's like this... "She's got your taste in music."
Spike chuckles, nearly silent. "And your right hook."
Buffy wraps her arm around his waist, and Spike wraps his arm around hers, and together they walk out into the hall, hips bumping. She'll be asleep before she hits the pillow, Buffy's certain. As they reach the door of the master bedroom, there's a noise behind them. When they turn, Billy's standing in the hallway, tousled hair and rumpled jammies and big yellow eyes full of the reproachful hope of a sadly neglected big brother. The daunting effect of game face blunted, just a little, by the fact that he's sucking his thumb.
"Mommy? I can't sleep."
The End
By Barb C
Disclaimers: The usual. All belongs to Joss and Mutant Enemy, and naught to me.
Rating: G
Pairing: B/S
Synopsis: This is the closest I will ever come to songfic.
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 "Singing."
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-oh
I wanna be sedated
It's three AM, and Buffy's watching Spike. And Spike's dancing round the baby's room in a precariously-belted pair of black cotton pajama bottoms, barefoot, bare-chested, rocking their wailing daughter in his arms. He's not quite as good a dancer as he thinks he is - good at the slow, swaying romantic stuff, or old-fashioned things like the waltz or the foxtrot, but give him something with a beat to it and Spike's... well, kinda dorky. He is a hundred and fifty-plus-year-old white guy, after all.
But hey. If there's anything that can overcome dorky dancing, it's the allure of a man who's willing to deal with a fretful baby. The Old Spice Guy has nothing on Spike.
"Just put yourself to sleep, allow your mum and me the same, hurry hurry hurry before we go insane - " Connie's red and tear-streaked face screws up around her tiny button of a nose, her mouth opens in a howling O of infant rage, but the wails are starting to break up into hiccupy static. "Oi, Poodle, that the best you can do? Your old Dad can make faces too - "
And he slips into game face, baring his fangs in a grin that's still full of the same starry-eyed, besotted love it held on the day he helped bring her into the world. Connie's miniature fist bops him on the nose, and Spike laughs, spinning her round one more time. "I can't control my fingers I can't control my brain - wotcher, Poodle, here comes the tickle monster - Oh no no no no no - "
Connie's wail turns into a shriek of laughter as her father blows fangy raspberries on her bare belly, and Spike extends a hand. "Take it away, Slayer!" And it's the middle of the night and she's had three hours of sleep and she's too damn tired for this, but Buffy takes it anyway, and they're spinning around the room together with Connie caught between them, belting out the chorus to a song she doesn't even like with dizzy, lunatic glee.
When they stagger to a stop, Connie's out like a light, her fuzzy chestnut head cradled against Spike's shoulder. "Is that it?" Buffy whispers. She can't hear heartbeats, but the rhythm of her daughter's breathing is soft and familiar.
Spike cocks his head, listening. "Think so," he whispers back, just as wary. They've had false alarms before. But Connie doesn't stir, and Spike lowers her back into the crib with infinite care, humming the chorus: Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go...
They stand there for a moment, as Buffy strokes her daughter's wispy curls. Hurricane Connie - Buffy hopes she'll downgrade to tropical storm by the time she hits the terrible twos, but she's not holding her breath. And yet, when she's like this... "She's got your taste in music."
Spike chuckles, nearly silent. "And your right hook."
Buffy wraps her arm around his waist, and Spike wraps his arm around hers, and together they walk out into the hall, hips bumping. She'll be asleep before she hits the pillow, Buffy's certain. As they reach the door of the master bedroom, there's a noise behind them. When they turn, Billy's standing in the hallway, tousled hair and rumpled jammies and big yellow eyes full of the reproachful hope of a sadly neglected big brother. The daunting effect of game face blunted, just a little, by the fact that he's sucking his thumb.
"Mommy? I can't sleep."
The End