Let's Blow This Town, by confusedkayt*
Title: Let's Blow This Town*
Rating: R. Spike's a cussy one.
Setting: Post-Chosen
Word Count: 287
Prompt: Doublemeat Palace
Summary: Sometimes the past comes back to bite you in the ass. Unless you feed it something worth eating.
It’s a helluva town. Stands to reason that the first thing they built (after fillin’ the hole with LA’s garbage, and how’s that for symbolism- fuck you, too, Peaches) is a true-blue, American Doublemeat Palace. He’d be the first to say that the Spicy Special is tasty enough on Jack Daniels kind of night, or was. Off them for life, now, because naturally some cult fixated lions with lambs and all that yin-yang balance shit would think the fuckin’ things are symbolic, and now Buffy’s gone all pinch-faced like nobody will notice what kickin’ cow hats in her former place of desperate employ will do to a girl. Xander, the jackass, is happily munching on something left in the heating tray for God knows how long. A silent prayer for Anya, wherever she is - she’s well out of that one. Two more years and the kid will be the size of a couch.
Aw, hell. And there’s Buffy, starin’ at one of the few cow hats that isn’t defaced with serious, Hellmouth-openin’ mojo with the big eyes that he’d hoped were long in the past. She’s a little harder now, his slayer, but she’s happier too and this… Well, those times aren’t makin’ anyone’s top ten list and here they are, starin’ ‘em in the face. The start she gives when he cups her shoulder, gentle-like, is proof positive of that. “Let’s go,” he mutters, and her mouth starts to set in that line. “Hear they’ve got a steakhouse in Bellmont.”
“Steak?” The damn man’s mouth’s full of dried-out god-knows-what, but hell if Buffy doesn’t give herself a little shake, cautious smile blooming on her face.
“Yeah, let’s go,” she says, and takes his hand.
*I totally disclaim any dirtiness implied by the title. :P
Rating: R. Spike's a cussy one.
Setting: Post-Chosen
Word Count: 287
Prompt: Doublemeat Palace
Summary: Sometimes the past comes back to bite you in the ass. Unless you feed it something worth eating.
It’s a helluva town. Stands to reason that the first thing they built (after fillin’ the hole with LA’s garbage, and how’s that for symbolism- fuck you, too, Peaches) is a true-blue, American Doublemeat Palace. He’d be the first to say that the Spicy Special is tasty enough on Jack Daniels kind of night, or was. Off them for life, now, because naturally some cult fixated lions with lambs and all that yin-yang balance shit would think the fuckin’ things are symbolic, and now Buffy’s gone all pinch-faced like nobody will notice what kickin’ cow hats in her former place of desperate employ will do to a girl. Xander, the jackass, is happily munching on something left in the heating tray for God knows how long. A silent prayer for Anya, wherever she is - she’s well out of that one. Two more years and the kid will be the size of a couch.
Aw, hell. And there’s Buffy, starin’ at one of the few cow hats that isn’t defaced with serious, Hellmouth-openin’ mojo with the big eyes that he’d hoped were long in the past. She’s a little harder now, his slayer, but she’s happier too and this… Well, those times aren’t makin’ anyone’s top ten list and here they are, starin’ ‘em in the face. The start she gives when he cups her shoulder, gentle-like, is proof positive of that. “Let’s go,” he mutters, and her mouth starts to set in that line. “Hear they’ve got a steakhouse in Bellmont.”
“Steak?” The damn man’s mouth’s full of dried-out god-knows-what, but hell if Buffy doesn’t give herself a little shake, cautious smile blooming on her face.
“Yeah, let’s go,” she says, and takes his hand.
*I totally disclaim any dirtiness implied by the title. :P