Fic: Hell is Dry Cleaning
Title: Hell is Dry Cleaning
Summary: A crack-tastic take on "cursed earth" circa Season Six
Rating: Teen
It was innocent enough, all Spike did was make his usual path through the gravestones toward, fresh blood in tow, back to the crypt. No trouble, no bother.
But in the space between seconds, he found himself flying, soaring through the night; blood sailing one way, him the other. Then he was falling toward earth with a jerky "Oof!"and thud, a Slayer in floundering arms.
A Slayer on accommodating lips.
Wait, no.
He pushed her off without grace stumbled to his feet, checking his clothes for damage. "Oh, bloody hell."
"Spike?" She moved closer, fingers tickling and twisting the hair at the back of his neck, "what's wrong, don't you wanna…?"
He pouted. "No I do not 'wanna'."
She flinched, his coldness washing over her with blunt force. Tears pricked, "why not?"
He caught sight of the tremble of her lips and sighed, "sorry love, it's just with all this rough and tumble of ours I'm runnin' out of clean clothes."
"Oh" she brightened, "can't you just wash 'em?"
"Have you ever seen a washing machine at the crypt? I have to hand wash, and this was my last good shirt."
"Looks okay to me". She made a point to look him over, studying every inch, "very okay."
"What about this?" He pointed to a large brown smudge marring red sleeve, eyebrow quirked accusatory.
No answer.
"Fucking dirt."
Summary: A crack-tastic take on "cursed earth" circa Season Six
Rating: Teen
It was innocent enough, all Spike did was make his usual path through the gravestones toward, fresh blood in tow, back to the crypt. No trouble, no bother.
But in the space between seconds, he found himself flying, soaring through the night; blood sailing one way, him the other. Then he was falling toward earth with a jerky "Oof!"and thud, a Slayer in floundering arms.
A Slayer on accommodating lips.
Wait, no.
He pushed her off without grace stumbled to his feet, checking his clothes for damage. "Oh, bloody hell."
"Spike?" She moved closer, fingers tickling and twisting the hair at the back of his neck, "what's wrong, don't you wanna…?"
He pouted. "No I do not 'wanna'."
She flinched, his coldness washing over her with blunt force. Tears pricked, "why not?"
He caught sight of the tremble of her lips and sighed, "sorry love, it's just with all this rough and tumble of ours I'm runnin' out of clean clothes."
"Oh" she brightened, "can't you just wash 'em?"
"Have you ever seen a washing machine at the crypt? I have to hand wash, and this was my last good shirt."
"Looks okay to me". She made a point to look him over, studying every inch, "very okay."
"What about this?" He pointed to a large brown smudge marring red sleeve, eyebrow quirked accusatory.
No answer.
"Fucking dirt."