Idle Hands
I decided to leave the traffic offence fic up to somebody else - but if I did write it, it would be a smutty all-Human with police officer Buffy and bad boy Spike (an inverse-gender twist on a ditzy blonde batting her eyelashes and getting out of the ticket). I blush too much at writing smut, so maybe somebody else will do it!
Set in S4 after Something Blue but before Hush. PG-ish.
Lyrics appropriated and modified from Barry Manilow's 'Mandy'
Idle Hands
.
.
Spike was bored.
Bored, bored, bored, BORED.
Bored of sitting around the Watcher’s apartment like the impotent - er, temporarily incapacitated - demon that he was. Half-prisoner and half-refugee, hiding from a group of gits playing at GI Joe.
Did he mention he was bored?
The weeks of enforced passivity were wearing on him. No longer tied up, Spike was staying in of his own accord because he was… afraid (no)… nervous (not blood likely)… cautious. That was it, he was being cautious, until this whole chip thing was solved.
At least he was free to roam about the flat.
Still bored.
What Spike craved was bloodshed and violence, but since that seemed to be out of the sodding question for the foreseeable future, he would settle for a spot mayhem.
Or he could satisfy some of his other baser urges. He wouldn’t turn down another go around with Bu… the Slayer, but since she wouldn’t come anywhere near him other than to pop him in the nose, he didn’t think he’d be able to convince her to squirm around in his lap again.
He hated her. No mistake about it. But the snogging and the questing fingers and the squirming in his lap had been… nice. A repeat wouldn’t be half bad, if only to relieve his chronic boredom. No other reason, mind you.
Except, not really an option what with how bitchy she was being to him.
Which meant he was back to mayhem.
Only problem was, he didn’t know how he was going to achieve it.
He’d already gone through all of the old man’s things, read his private diaries, rearranged his books, hidden the records he planned to nick when he left, drank most of the good stuff and eaten the snacks. The telly was no longer holding his interest, and the Slayer wasn’t around to torment until her perky little bosoms heaved in exasperation and her blood pounded enticingly.
Looking longingly at the door he was… cautious… about exiting, Spike berated himself for being such a ponce.
An undusty ponce who will solve this little chip problem sooner or later, he reminded himself. Better than being recaptured, yeah?
Right. Back to boredom. And the quest for mayhem…
Maybe it was time to learn a new skill. What could he add to his repertoire of evil? Spike could already pick a lock, beat someone to a bloody pulp, hotwire a car, empty a bloke’s pocket, cheat at poker, finger a pretty bird into oblivion (as the Slayer could now attest although she undoubtedly would never admit it), annoy the hell out of all and sundry with his clever wit, and murder with impunity. What was left?
Embezzlement? Probably had to have a job first.
Tax evasion? Ditto.
Forgery? Now there was an idea…
.
.
The Watcher was the obvious choice to practice on. Plenty of handwriting around to study. It didn’t take much before he could write without his usual Victorian flourishes, but losing the backhanded slant of a southpaw took a fair amount of effort. Still, Spike had what he felt was a passable imitation of the bloke’s handwriting within a day.
Oooh, Big Bad, he mocked himself. Scary.
Except he really didn’t have anything else to do.
So, on to the mayhem. Such as it was.
His first opportunity came the next evening. A good Samaritan called in a tip about a house with a nest of vamps, and Giles dutifully recorded the address on a notepad to pass on to the Slayer. When the Watcher went to the loo, Spike quickly rewrote the address, changing it to a house that he happened to know was home to a pair of cranky old widows he had had the misfortune of trying to prey upon in his weakened state.
The Slayer came back from her assignation later that night, shaking the address at Giles, fuming and spitting about old women who had beat her about the head with their handbags. Spike stifled his laughter as Giles peered at the notepaper, insisting that he had written down the correct location and questioning his Slayer’s ability to locate an address. She kicked him in the shin and left in a rage (pretty little bosoms heaving), telling him to deal with it himself next time.
Obviously his first attempt at forgery had passed muster.
Spike decided to try his hand at Willow’s… hand… next.
Had he mentioned he was bored?
The redhead had left a stack of written notes mixed in with the piles of research books on the table. Two days later, Spike had his second attempt ready. When the witch wasn’t looking, he snuck a tube of lipstick out of her bookbag and went to the bathroom, coating his lips with the muted shade and then pressing what he hoped was a feminine-shaped kiss onto the letter he’d written. He folded it carefully, wiped the lipstick from his mouth, and slipped the tube back without her ever noticing.
When Xander and Anya arrived, Spike unobtrusively tucked the note into the boy’s back pocket and wondered if he’d be lucky enough to see the fireworks.
He was.
Anya came bolting out of the bathroom from whence she and the boy had disappeared, waving Spike’s letter hysterically in the air as Xander tried frantically to calm her and Giles stared with bewilderment. The vampire slouched lower in the chair, booted feet propped on the coffee table and hands laced behind his head as he observed their meltdown with glee.
Buffy and Willow entered at that moment, and Spike’s grin grew wider. Anya whirled on Willow, her incoherent shouting becoming a deadly hiss as she read aloud from the paper she clutched.
“Xander,
I can’t forget the way your lips felt on mine. Now that Oz is out of the way, we’re free to be together like we’ve always wanted. Meet me tonight at my house and I’ll remind you just how good we are together.”
Now that was fun.
.
.
Spike tackled Buffy’s handwriting next. He’d hidden away the wedding planner they’d created before she could destroy it. Not for sentimental reasons. For evil, nefarious purposes, just such as this.
His didn’t yet have anything in mind, but he presumed it would be worth the wait. In the meantime, he had another idea to keep him occupied.
.
.
An unfinished letter from Giles to the Council he claimed to no longer have contact with brought the next bit of mayhem. Could Spike help it if the old man was getting forgetful and had left it tucked inside a book he’d set aside for the Slayer to look at? Spike certainly had nothing to do with the fact that the Watcher had called his Slayer immature, irresponsible, poorly educated and tending towards pudgy. Or that he’d begged for a replacement with all due haste.
He was almost disappointed that no one cottoned on to it being him. What was the point of being an evil genius if you didn’t get any recognition for it?
Although he rather wished he’d thought his last attempt through a bit more. The Slayer hadn’t been back since, and he (almost) missed her. Mostly because he was bored. Obviously.
Willow stopped by one morning to pick up the book bag full of homework Buffy had left behind when she’d stormed out. It was several days later before the Slayer burst into the flat demanding to know if she could have been put under a spell to make her write things she didn’t mean, blushing furiously as she stammered out an explanation to the Watcher she’d refused to speak to for a week.
Was it the vampire’s fault if her intended beau was an insecure git who had told her in no uncertain terms to keep her crazy, lying, slutty self away from him? What was a TA doing trying to date one of his students anyway? If this Riley wanker didn’t like what Buffy had written about Spike in the journal she had been required to keep for her psych class, well then that was his problem, not Spike’s. The vampire couldn’t help it if the Slayer wanted him so badly that she had to describe it in detail in her journal. And he certainly couldn’t help it if he had a very good idea of just what the Slayer would fantasize about.
He also couldn’t help it if the descriptions in Buffy’s journal had caused him to wank off several times since, thinking of her hot, responsive little body. That was just a side effect of being evil. Nothing to worry about there.
.
.
They still didn’t get it. Couldn’t remember he was evil. Couldn’t connect the dots. The Slayer and her pack of chums obviously deserved the suffering he was doling out for being such imbeciles. He’d managed to tear their little group apart in under three weeks.
Forgery was fun.
And plenty evil after all.
The piece de resistance was waiting on the kitchen counter, tucked in amongst the other mail waiting to be sorted.
Yeah, it had been years since Spike had seen his writing. ‘Round about a century or so, to be precise. But he could remember that careful lettering well enough, and he didn’t think bitty Buffy was bright enough to detect the difference anyway.
When she arrived the next day to see if Giles had made any progress on researching the mystery of her journal, her Watcher shrugged and handed her the letter with a confused expression.
One look at the return address, and Buffy had completely forgotten about the oddity of receiving a letter at her Watcher’s house. Spike rubbed his hands together in evil anticipation as she ripped it open, then hungrily watched her face go from excited to puzzled to distraught as she read the letter, mouthing the words to himself along with her.
.
Dearest Buffy,
I can’t tell you how distressed I was to hear the news. I thought ours was a forever love.
Of course, I can’t really blame you for wanting to be with Spike. He is a handsome devil, and if you’ve discovered just how talented his tongue is, then I know you are lost to me.
Maybe you’d be interested in a three-way? I know Drusilla enjoyed letting me take her through the back door while Spike lavished her with attention. It would allow us to be together without me losing my soul again, if that’s what you’re worried about. I could never be perfectly happy knowing you have been with Spike.
I should have never left you, but I know it’s too late to fight for you now. I’ll always love you.
.
OH Buffy!
.
I'm standing on the edge of time
Walked away when love was mine
Caught up in a world of uphill climbing
The tears are in my eyes
And nothing is rhyming, oh Buffy
Well you came and you gave without taking
And I went away, oh Buffy
And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking
And I need you today, oh Buffy
.
Your ever faithful servant, Angel
.
Well that was just too easy. As the Slayer raised her glistening eyes to stare blankly at him in confusion, he slid his own back to the telly, feigning boredom, ignoring her, ignoring the sneaking suspicion that he hadn't enjoyed that quite as much as he'd thought he would.
When she let out a choked whimper, he ignored her even harder. It had nothing to do with him at all.
.
.
But he couldn’t claim to be bored anymore.
.
.
Set in S4 after Something Blue but before Hush. PG-ish.
Lyrics appropriated and modified from Barry Manilow's 'Mandy'
Idle Hands
.
.
Spike was bored.
Bored, bored, bored, BORED.
Bored of sitting around the Watcher’s apartment like the impotent - er, temporarily incapacitated - demon that he was. Half-prisoner and half-refugee, hiding from a group of gits playing at GI Joe.
Did he mention he was bored?
The weeks of enforced passivity were wearing on him. No longer tied up, Spike was staying in of his own accord because he was… afraid (no)… nervous (not blood likely)… cautious. That was it, he was being cautious, until this whole chip thing was solved.
At least he was free to roam about the flat.
Still bored.
What Spike craved was bloodshed and violence, but since that seemed to be out of the sodding question for the foreseeable future, he would settle for a spot mayhem.
Or he could satisfy some of his other baser urges. He wouldn’t turn down another go around with Bu… the Slayer, but since she wouldn’t come anywhere near him other than to pop him in the nose, he didn’t think he’d be able to convince her to squirm around in his lap again.
He hated her. No mistake about it. But the snogging and the questing fingers and the squirming in his lap had been… nice. A repeat wouldn’t be half bad, if only to relieve his chronic boredom. No other reason, mind you.
Except, not really an option what with how bitchy she was being to him.
Which meant he was back to mayhem.
Only problem was, he didn’t know how he was going to achieve it.
He’d already gone through all of the old man’s things, read his private diaries, rearranged his books, hidden the records he planned to nick when he left, drank most of the good stuff and eaten the snacks. The telly was no longer holding his interest, and the Slayer wasn’t around to torment until her perky little bosoms heaved in exasperation and her blood pounded enticingly.
Looking longingly at the door he was… cautious… about exiting, Spike berated himself for being such a ponce.
An undusty ponce who will solve this little chip problem sooner or later, he reminded himself. Better than being recaptured, yeah?
Right. Back to boredom. And the quest for mayhem…
Maybe it was time to learn a new skill. What could he add to his repertoire of evil? Spike could already pick a lock, beat someone to a bloody pulp, hotwire a car, empty a bloke’s pocket, cheat at poker, finger a pretty bird into oblivion (as the Slayer could now attest although she undoubtedly would never admit it), annoy the hell out of all and sundry with his clever wit, and murder with impunity. What was left?
Embezzlement? Probably had to have a job first.
Tax evasion? Ditto.
Forgery? Now there was an idea…
.
.
The Watcher was the obvious choice to practice on. Plenty of handwriting around to study. It didn’t take much before he could write without his usual Victorian flourishes, but losing the backhanded slant of a southpaw took a fair amount of effort. Still, Spike had what he felt was a passable imitation of the bloke’s handwriting within a day.
Oooh, Big Bad, he mocked himself. Scary.
Except he really didn’t have anything else to do.
So, on to the mayhem. Such as it was.
His first opportunity came the next evening. A good Samaritan called in a tip about a house with a nest of vamps, and Giles dutifully recorded the address on a notepad to pass on to the Slayer. When the Watcher went to the loo, Spike quickly rewrote the address, changing it to a house that he happened to know was home to a pair of cranky old widows he had had the misfortune of trying to prey upon in his weakened state.
The Slayer came back from her assignation later that night, shaking the address at Giles, fuming and spitting about old women who had beat her about the head with their handbags. Spike stifled his laughter as Giles peered at the notepaper, insisting that he had written down the correct location and questioning his Slayer’s ability to locate an address. She kicked him in the shin and left in a rage (pretty little bosoms heaving), telling him to deal with it himself next time.
Obviously his first attempt at forgery had passed muster.
Spike decided to try his hand at Willow’s… hand… next.
Had he mentioned he was bored?
The redhead had left a stack of written notes mixed in with the piles of research books on the table. Two days later, Spike had his second attempt ready. When the witch wasn’t looking, he snuck a tube of lipstick out of her bookbag and went to the bathroom, coating his lips with the muted shade and then pressing what he hoped was a feminine-shaped kiss onto the letter he’d written. He folded it carefully, wiped the lipstick from his mouth, and slipped the tube back without her ever noticing.
When Xander and Anya arrived, Spike unobtrusively tucked the note into the boy’s back pocket and wondered if he’d be lucky enough to see the fireworks.
He was.
Anya came bolting out of the bathroom from whence she and the boy had disappeared, waving Spike’s letter hysterically in the air as Xander tried frantically to calm her and Giles stared with bewilderment. The vampire slouched lower in the chair, booted feet propped on the coffee table and hands laced behind his head as he observed their meltdown with glee.
Buffy and Willow entered at that moment, and Spike’s grin grew wider. Anya whirled on Willow, her incoherent shouting becoming a deadly hiss as she read aloud from the paper she clutched.
“Xander,
I can’t forget the way your lips felt on mine. Now that Oz is out of the way, we’re free to be together like we’ve always wanted. Meet me tonight at my house and I’ll remind you just how good we are together.”
Now that was fun.
.
.
Spike tackled Buffy’s handwriting next. He’d hidden away the wedding planner they’d created before she could destroy it. Not for sentimental reasons. For evil, nefarious purposes, just such as this.
His didn’t yet have anything in mind, but he presumed it would be worth the wait. In the meantime, he had another idea to keep him occupied.
.
.
An unfinished letter from Giles to the Council he claimed to no longer have contact with brought the next bit of mayhem. Could Spike help it if the old man was getting forgetful and had left it tucked inside a book he’d set aside for the Slayer to look at? Spike certainly had nothing to do with the fact that the Watcher had called his Slayer immature, irresponsible, poorly educated and tending towards pudgy. Or that he’d begged for a replacement with all due haste.
He was almost disappointed that no one cottoned on to it being him. What was the point of being an evil genius if you didn’t get any recognition for it?
Although he rather wished he’d thought his last attempt through a bit more. The Slayer hadn’t been back since, and he (almost) missed her. Mostly because he was bored. Obviously.
Willow stopped by one morning to pick up the book bag full of homework Buffy had left behind when she’d stormed out. It was several days later before the Slayer burst into the flat demanding to know if she could have been put under a spell to make her write things she didn’t mean, blushing furiously as she stammered out an explanation to the Watcher she’d refused to speak to for a week.
Was it the vampire’s fault if her intended beau was an insecure git who had told her in no uncertain terms to keep her crazy, lying, slutty self away from him? What was a TA doing trying to date one of his students anyway? If this Riley wanker didn’t like what Buffy had written about Spike in the journal she had been required to keep for her psych class, well then that was his problem, not Spike’s. The vampire couldn’t help it if the Slayer wanted him so badly that she had to describe it in detail in her journal. And he certainly couldn’t help it if he had a very good idea of just what the Slayer would fantasize about.
He also couldn’t help it if the descriptions in Buffy’s journal had caused him to wank off several times since, thinking of her hot, responsive little body. That was just a side effect of being evil. Nothing to worry about there.
.
.
They still didn’t get it. Couldn’t remember he was evil. Couldn’t connect the dots. The Slayer and her pack of chums obviously deserved the suffering he was doling out for being such imbeciles. He’d managed to tear their little group apart in under three weeks.
Forgery was fun.
And plenty evil after all.
The piece de resistance was waiting on the kitchen counter, tucked in amongst the other mail waiting to be sorted.
Yeah, it had been years since Spike had seen his writing. ‘Round about a century or so, to be precise. But he could remember that careful lettering well enough, and he didn’t think bitty Buffy was bright enough to detect the difference anyway.
When she arrived the next day to see if Giles had made any progress on researching the mystery of her journal, her Watcher shrugged and handed her the letter with a confused expression.
One look at the return address, and Buffy had completely forgotten about the oddity of receiving a letter at her Watcher’s house. Spike rubbed his hands together in evil anticipation as she ripped it open, then hungrily watched her face go from excited to puzzled to distraught as she read the letter, mouthing the words to himself along with her.
.
Dearest Buffy,
I can’t tell you how distressed I was to hear the news. I thought ours was a forever love.
Of course, I can’t really blame you for wanting to be with Spike. He is a handsome devil, and if you’ve discovered just how talented his tongue is, then I know you are lost to me.
Maybe you’d be interested in a three-way? I know Drusilla enjoyed letting me take her through the back door while Spike lavished her with attention. It would allow us to be together without me losing my soul again, if that’s what you’re worried about. I could never be perfectly happy knowing you have been with Spike.
I should have never left you, but I know it’s too late to fight for you now. I’ll always love you.
.
OH Buffy!
.
I'm standing on the edge of time
Walked away when love was mine
Caught up in a world of uphill climbing
The tears are in my eyes
And nothing is rhyming, oh Buffy
Well you came and you gave without taking
And I went away, oh Buffy
And you kissed me and stopped me from shaking
And I need you today, oh Buffy
.
Your ever faithful servant, Angel
.
Well that was just too easy. As the Slayer raised her glistening eyes to stare blankly at him in confusion, he slid his own back to the telly, feigning boredom, ignoring her, ignoring the sneaking suspicion that he hadn't enjoyed that quite as much as he'd thought he would.
When she let out a choked whimper, he ignored her even harder. It had nothing to do with him at all.
.
.
But he couldn’t claim to be bored anymore.
.
.