(no subject)
Title: Running Away and Other Status Crimes (The Nighttime Dance Remix)
Pairing: Buffy/Spike subtext, Spike/Dru mentioned
Rating: T
Word Count: 1339
Warnings: None
Note: Written for the Buffyverse Remix Ficathon on Dreamdwith, and two days late -- apologies.
Original Story: Becoming Anne by Rebcake
Buffy spends the first night in LA on a bench outside the ice rink her father took her to when they lived there, after realizing she has no idea where to find a youth hostel. She walks for as long as she can, but eventually her eyes are blurring and she's afraid of falling asleep between steps, so she finds a bench, pulls a stake out of her bag and sleeps with it in her hand, sitting up.
In the morning, she buys tacos from a stand for breakfast and counts her cash while she sits. She frowns. No youth hostels for her. She could afford it, but only if she doesn't feel like eating after two or three days.
She needs to find a job if she intends to stay lost. She wasn't really thinking when she left, but now that she's here, it's the only solution. Unless she wants to start looting vampire corpses, and last time she checked, most places don't take piles of dust.
Buffy gets up from yet anther park bench and starts skimming restaurants for Help Wanted signs.
Of course, there's a problem. Specifically, she's a minor without a youth work permit, which means that she can only hire herself out as someone without papers -- and the LA employers are raided too often to risk it if she wants to work for minimum wage or higher. One restaurant owner implies he'll hire her as long as she sleeps with him, and she punches him into his restaurant's crappy painted-over plywood walls. It's about the highlight of her day.
The highlight of her night comes when, having fallen asleep in a bus shelter, she's shaken awake by a blue-uniformed police officer.
Her reaction to the grip on her shoulder's instantaneous -- her hands jerk at the body, shoulder twists and the woman is about to fly through the air into the glass when Buffy registers just who she's assaulting and freezes.
"I'm sorry!" she whispers, horrified. "You scared me, officer, I--"
"Right. I need to see some ID," the woman says, hand on her gun.
"I--" Buffy's eyes widen. No driver's license for her; no government ID. "I just fell asleep, I'll be going now--"
"No, you won't be going. What are you on?" the woman squints threateningly.
"Nothing," Buffy protests. She is now thoroughly awake and getting pissed off.
"We'll see. If you're on nothing, you won't mind coming to the station to get tested."
Buffy is about to inform the nice cop that yes, she does mind, and she's about to do it with the sole of her foot, when an extremely familiar, extremely irritating peroxide blond head appears directly behind the cop. Then an arm attached to that face encircles her throat.
"Spike!" Buffy protests, going to haul his arm off the woman.
He dances backwards, hauling the cop with him as she slumps towards unconsciousness. "Slayer. What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"Are you following me?" she protests incredulously. The cop slumps completely against Spike's chest, head lolling. "Put her down!"
"'Less I miss my guess, our good copper here was just about to arrest you." He grins nastily. "Have fun explaining that one to your mum, wouldn't you?"
"Go to hell, Spike," she groans, checking her bag is still on the shelter's bench and closed. "Or literally anywhere that isn't within sight of me."
"Don't think so." He at least puts down the cop. More specifically, he drops her. Her head connects to the concrete with a loud crack, but as far as Buffy's concerned she's lucky if that's all she gets from her encounter with Spike.
"What do you mean, you don't think so?" she asks, then pulls her bag onto her shoulder and starts walking before he can answer. She clearly needs somewhere better to sleep. Somewhere with a lower population of irritating, British, murderous creeps.
The aforementioned irritating, British, murderous creep catches up with her after barely a quarter of a block. "Wait up, Slayer!"
"Aren't you supposed to be on the other side of the planet about now?" she snarls, soft-soled running shoes not connecting with the pavement with nearly enough force for her temper. She needs some heels, boots, something that clicks. Or stomps. "Second honeymoon with Miss Bride of Frankenstein?"
"Shut up about Dru," Spike snarls back -- literally snarls. She grabs his arm, yanks him in front of her, and stares unflinchingly into his game face.
"Well, why don't you go find her if you don't want to listen to me insult her?"
"I kinda don't know where she is," Spike admits, running a hand through his hair.
"You lost her? How do you lose a vampire? Have you checked the subway lost and found?"
"She ran off, after you killed Mr. Forehead. Said I was getting soft. Obsessed with the Slayer."
"Why don't you stop proving her right, then, and quit following me!"
"Hey, I didn't know you were gonna be here! Was just looking for a snack when I spotted who she was hassling. I like the ones with guns, little fight makes dinner taste better."
"...That is deeply disturbing, Spike."
"Shut up, Slayer. Where are we going?"
"There is no we, Spike!"
"Fine, then, where are you going?"
She is about to retort angrily when it occurs to her that the answer is 'she has no idea.'
At that moment, Buffy apparently loses her mind. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the hunger from stretching her savings. Maybe it's the loss of Angel. Maybe it's the crick in her neck or the memory of the unconscious police officer a few blocks behind.
Buffy bursts into tears.
Several moments pass. She sniffles and wipes her face and nose on her hoodie sleeve, still crying. Spike looks extremely awkward and eventually pulls out a handkerchief.
"This is gross."
"Yeah, well, in the future I'll be sure to make sure my personal effects meet your bloody standard of approval, Slayer."
"Go to hell." She sniffles, then blows her nose into it.
"Listen, you ran away, didn'tcha?"
"No."
"You were sleeping in a bus shelter, Slayer. Last I checked, girls got a bedroom, complete with teddy bear and comforter, don't generally get woken up by LA's finest and accused of being on drugs. And--" he breathes in, "Your clothes are none too fresh either."
Buffy glares at him over the floppy white handkerchief, then blows her nose again.
Spike sighs. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. Just--"
"Just what, Spike?" She folds the handkerchief over neatly and hands it back to him, then adjusts her shoulder strap. "Do you want something, or can I go without your escort? And Mr. Gordo is a stuffed pig, not a bear."
"What?"
"Never mind. What do you want?"
"You need somewhere to sleep, Slayer? Maybe dinner?"
"What, so it's nice and convenient when you slit my throat in my sleep? No thanks."
"No fun fighting you if you're not up to full strength.
"I don't need your help, Spike, particularly not if it comes with a bonus side of murder-me-in-my-sleep."
"It won't be with me. I know a few people, could maybe get you a job."
"Are you suggesting I work in a demon bar?"
"They're human, Slayer. Unless you're La Migra, anyway."
"Since when are you friends with humans?"
"Since they run the best bloody diner in LA?"
"And you know the owners how?"
"Fixed 'em up with the place when I heard they had a vacancy. Least I could do to get the food. Let's go." Decision apparently made, he turned off onto a side street.
Buffy almost decided not to follow him, but the prospect of work -- and at the moment, hot food and somewhere not in the middle of the street -- was too tempting. She pulled her bag to her side again and started after the irritant, swearing mentally if this turned out to be illegal she would murder him.
Pairing: Buffy/Spike subtext, Spike/Dru mentioned
Rating: T
Word Count: 1339
Warnings: None
Note: Written for the Buffyverse Remix Ficathon on Dreamdwith, and two days late -- apologies.
Original Story: Becoming Anne by Rebcake
Buffy spends the first night in LA on a bench outside the ice rink her father took her to when they lived there, after realizing she has no idea where to find a youth hostel. She walks for as long as she can, but eventually her eyes are blurring and she's afraid of falling asleep between steps, so she finds a bench, pulls a stake out of her bag and sleeps with it in her hand, sitting up.
In the morning, she buys tacos from a stand for breakfast and counts her cash while she sits. She frowns. No youth hostels for her. She could afford it, but only if she doesn't feel like eating after two or three days.
She needs to find a job if she intends to stay lost. She wasn't really thinking when she left, but now that she's here, it's the only solution. Unless she wants to start looting vampire corpses, and last time she checked, most places don't take piles of dust.
Buffy gets up from yet anther park bench and starts skimming restaurants for Help Wanted signs.
Of course, there's a problem. Specifically, she's a minor without a youth work permit, which means that she can only hire herself out as someone without papers -- and the LA employers are raided too often to risk it if she wants to work for minimum wage or higher. One restaurant owner implies he'll hire her as long as she sleeps with him, and she punches him into his restaurant's crappy painted-over plywood walls. It's about the highlight of her day.
The highlight of her night comes when, having fallen asleep in a bus shelter, she's shaken awake by a blue-uniformed police officer.
Her reaction to the grip on her shoulder's instantaneous -- her hands jerk at the body, shoulder twists and the woman is about to fly through the air into the glass when Buffy registers just who she's assaulting and freezes.
"I'm sorry!" she whispers, horrified. "You scared me, officer, I--"
"Right. I need to see some ID," the woman says, hand on her gun.
"I--" Buffy's eyes widen. No driver's license for her; no government ID. "I just fell asleep, I'll be going now--"
"No, you won't be going. What are you on?" the woman squints threateningly.
"Nothing," Buffy protests. She is now thoroughly awake and getting pissed off.
"We'll see. If you're on nothing, you won't mind coming to the station to get tested."
Buffy is about to inform the nice cop that yes, she does mind, and she's about to do it with the sole of her foot, when an extremely familiar, extremely irritating peroxide blond head appears directly behind the cop. Then an arm attached to that face encircles her throat.
"Spike!" Buffy protests, going to haul his arm off the woman.
He dances backwards, hauling the cop with him as she slumps towards unconsciousness. "Slayer. What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"Are you following me?" she protests incredulously. The cop slumps completely against Spike's chest, head lolling. "Put her down!"
"'Less I miss my guess, our good copper here was just about to arrest you." He grins nastily. "Have fun explaining that one to your mum, wouldn't you?"
"Go to hell, Spike," she groans, checking her bag is still on the shelter's bench and closed. "Or literally anywhere that isn't within sight of me."
"Don't think so." He at least puts down the cop. More specifically, he drops her. Her head connects to the concrete with a loud crack, but as far as Buffy's concerned she's lucky if that's all she gets from her encounter with Spike.
"What do you mean, you don't think so?" she asks, then pulls her bag onto her shoulder and starts walking before he can answer. She clearly needs somewhere better to sleep. Somewhere with a lower population of irritating, British, murderous creeps.
The aforementioned irritating, British, murderous creep catches up with her after barely a quarter of a block. "Wait up, Slayer!"
"Aren't you supposed to be on the other side of the planet about now?" she snarls, soft-soled running shoes not connecting with the pavement with nearly enough force for her temper. She needs some heels, boots, something that clicks. Or stomps. "Second honeymoon with Miss Bride of Frankenstein?"
"Shut up about Dru," Spike snarls back -- literally snarls. She grabs his arm, yanks him in front of her, and stares unflinchingly into his game face.
"Well, why don't you go find her if you don't want to listen to me insult her?"
"I kinda don't know where she is," Spike admits, running a hand through his hair.
"You lost her? How do you lose a vampire? Have you checked the subway lost and found?"
"She ran off, after you killed Mr. Forehead. Said I was getting soft. Obsessed with the Slayer."
"Why don't you stop proving her right, then, and quit following me!"
"Hey, I didn't know you were gonna be here! Was just looking for a snack when I spotted who she was hassling. I like the ones with guns, little fight makes dinner taste better."
"...That is deeply disturbing, Spike."
"Shut up, Slayer. Where are we going?"
"There is no we, Spike!"
"Fine, then, where are you going?"
She is about to retort angrily when it occurs to her that the answer is 'she has no idea.'
At that moment, Buffy apparently loses her mind. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the hunger from stretching her savings. Maybe it's the loss of Angel. Maybe it's the crick in her neck or the memory of the unconscious police officer a few blocks behind.
Buffy bursts into tears.
Several moments pass. She sniffles and wipes her face and nose on her hoodie sleeve, still crying. Spike looks extremely awkward and eventually pulls out a handkerchief.
"This is gross."
"Yeah, well, in the future I'll be sure to make sure my personal effects meet your bloody standard of approval, Slayer."
"Go to hell." She sniffles, then blows her nose into it.
"Listen, you ran away, didn'tcha?"
"No."
"You were sleeping in a bus shelter, Slayer. Last I checked, girls got a bedroom, complete with teddy bear and comforter, don't generally get woken up by LA's finest and accused of being on drugs. And--" he breathes in, "Your clothes are none too fresh either."
Buffy glares at him over the floppy white handkerchief, then blows her nose again.
Spike sighs. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. Just--"
"Just what, Spike?" She folds the handkerchief over neatly and hands it back to him, then adjusts her shoulder strap. "Do you want something, or can I go without your escort? And Mr. Gordo is a stuffed pig, not a bear."
"What?"
"Never mind. What do you want?"
"You need somewhere to sleep, Slayer? Maybe dinner?"
"What, so it's nice and convenient when you slit my throat in my sleep? No thanks."
"No fun fighting you if you're not up to full strength.
"I don't need your help, Spike, particularly not if it comes with a bonus side of murder-me-in-my-sleep."
"It won't be with me. I know a few people, could maybe get you a job."
"Are you suggesting I work in a demon bar?"
"They're human, Slayer. Unless you're La Migra, anyway."
"Since when are you friends with humans?"
"Since they run the best bloody diner in LA?"
"And you know the owners how?"
"Fixed 'em up with the place when I heard they had a vacancy. Least I could do to get the food. Let's go." Decision apparently made, he turned off onto a side street.
Buffy almost decided not to follow him, but the prospect of work -- and at the moment, hot food and somewhere not in the middle of the street -- was too tempting. She pulled her bag to her side again and started after the irritant, swearing mentally if this turned out to be illegal she would murder him.