I'm not jealous (he lies)
And “Savage Beauty” continues once more.
Summary: AU, everybody’s human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?
Savage Beauty - Part 5
Kennedy Kennedy was trying to make small talk with Osvald Osvaldsson. It was proving to be something of a struggle, as for some reason they seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other.
“So, what’s it like being a rock star in Iceland?” Kennedy asked.
“Cool,” Oz replied.
“You’re the descendant of a famous berserker, right? You ever get the urge to rip off your shirt, and bite the edge of your shield, and charge at people with an axe?”
“Nope.”
“You sure you speak English?”
“Yep.”
“Ever use words with more than one syllable?”
“Sometimes.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. She was about to give up her pretence at making conversation and wander off elsewhere when a figure caught her eye. A slim red-headed girl with an enchanting quirky smile. Her red ball gown did nothing for her; the big puffy taffeta skirt and soft fuzzy top made her look rather like a Muppet Barbie. Kennedy wanted to see what the girl would look like without it. The redhead had a companion, a mousy blonde who was pleasant looking but not spectacular, whose gown was a garish shade of metallic green that was entirely wrong for her colouration; indeed it would be wrong for anyone’s colouration unless they were auditioning for the role of the Incredible Hulk in drag. Kennedy ignored her and stared lustfully at the redhead.
As did Oz. “Who is that girl?” he breathed reverently.
“You’d better mean the blonde,” Kennedy warned him.
“No, I mean the girl with red hair,” Oz told her. “You can try for the blonde.”
“Toss you for it,” Kennedy suggested. “Loser runs interference by going for the mousy one.”
“Okay,” agreed Oz, feeling in his pocket for a coin.
Kennedy grabbed his arm, spun, and flipped him to the floor. “You lose,” she said triumphantly.
Oz climbed to his feet. “All right, you win. But that was not fair. You are making me angry, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
“What, you get all ravening beast and bite your shield and charge?”
“No, I just get really sarcastic.”
“You should come with me to the geyser country,” Anya suggested. “I think you will like it. There are hot wet holes, and mighty peaks, and boiling jets spurting up.”
Xander slipped his finger under his bow tie and tugged at it. “Sounds pretty, uhh, geothermal. Is it just me or is it hot in here?”
“And then,” Anya went on, “I could show you the original site of our ancient Parliament at Thingvellir. It is on the boundary between the European and American tectonic plates.”
Xander relaxed, and took his hand away from his neck.
“They are moving apart to form the Graben,” Anya continued. “A lush, damp, cleft, parting slowly. Deep, and moist, and steamy.”
Once again Xander began to have some difficulty with his breathing.
Giles found himself trapped in conversation with Ambassador Quentin Travers, unable to make his escape. For the moment Ethan was keeping Drusilla occupied, plying her with drinks and a constant stream of flattery, but already she was showing signs that she was growing bored; and dreadful things tended to happen when Drusilla got restless. The memory of the incident with the anaconda, the gold miner, and the three porcupines still sometimes caused Giles to wake in a cold sweat.
“I don’t know how you cope with the isolation and the primitive conditions,” Travers was saying.
“It can be something of a strain, yes,” Giles agreed. “One of the worst things to endure is the constant sound of the jungle drums. All day, all night, pounding away incessantly. The only thing that enables me to stand it is the certain knowledge that when the drums stop there will be something worse.”
“What’s that?” Travers asked. “A massacre?”
“No,” Giles told him. “Bass solo.”
“Uh, hi,” Buffi responded to the handsome stranger’s greeting. “I was just, uh, stretching my legs.”
Spike raised an eyebrow and looked at the unconscious Olaf sprawled on the ground. “Take it he got in the way? Bloody brilliant spin kick. Even my sister couldn’t have done it better.” He made his way to the whaler, seized him by the arms, and dragged the body to the side of the room and pushed it under a table.
“Thanks,” Buffi said. She looked him up and down. Whipcord slim, rakishly handsome, exotic, and obviously extremely strong judging by the ease with which he had manhandled the massive Olaf. “Are you with one of the Embassies? Venezuela, Brazil, somewhere like that? What’s your name?”
“I am Brazilian,” Spike announced proudly, “but not from the Embassy. I am the son of the chief of the Jivaro. I have many names; but in Portuguese I am Guilherme o Sagrento, and in English I am Spike. My own people call me the Slayer of Jaguars.”
“Hey, I get called the Slayer too,” Buffi smiled. “From the martial arts, you know? But actually I’m the Prime Minister. I’m in charge of the Icelandic Parliament. It’s a Thing.”
“I know,” Spike told her. “I saw you in Newsweek, and I have travelled thousands of miles to meet you. Right bloody knackering trip it was too. Looks like you were worth it.”
“What, you travelled all that way for an autograph?” Buffi teased. “I guess maybe you’re after a bit more than that.”
“Yeah, I am,” Spike confirmed, “but you’ll have to wait for Saturday to find out the full story.”
“Why, what happens Saturday?”
“I kiss you.”
“Look, you seem a pretty nice guy, but wasting your time here,” Tara told Oz. “We’re gay.”
Kennedy grinned at Oz and drew a score mark in the air, and then turned her attentions back to Willow.
“And hey, I’m in a committed long-term relationship,” Willow informed Kennedy. “Not interested in dating anyone else. I’m totally devoted to Tara.”
Now it was Oz’s turn to grin and draw a score mark at Kennedy. She stuck her pierced tongue out at him. Her continued efforts to make an impression on Willow proved futile, and the two Greenpeace girls made their excuses and left at the first possible opportunity.
“Looks like we’re stuck with each other, then,” Oz said.
“Hey, I’m not that desperate,” Kennedy said haughtily. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Only if we take measures now to protect the fish stocks,” the Icelander said, deadpan.
“It’s an American expression,” Kennedy explained, with a roll of her eyes. “I didn’t mean actual fish.” She spotted the twinkle in Oz’s eye and suddenly broke into a broad smile. “You’re deeper than you seem, aren’t you?
“I don’t know,” Oz replied. “How deep do I seem?” He smiled. “And you are nicer than you seem.”
“Thanks. Hey, are you starting to think that it’s a pity I’m gay?”
Oz lowered his eyebrows a millimetre and seemed to be thinking hard. “Well, you are a very pretty girl. You have nice boobies and a nice ass, and maybe you do not have as much of a stick up it as I thought at first. Yes, it is a pity you are gay.”
“Hey, I’ll let you into a secret,” Kennedy said, her smile turning impish. “The gay thing? Truth is, I just hate it when someone I’m dating is taller than me. I like people under five foot five, and that means mainly I date girls.”
Oz moved closer to her and put his hand flat on his head, and then moved it across to connect with a point a couple of inches below the top of hers. He did a quick calculation from metres. “Five foot four,” he announced.
“Okay, you qualify. Wanna dance?”
Drusilla was beginning to fidget. Ethan’s conversation had palled on her, and she was looking around the room with her eyebrows lowered. Giles sought desperately for a way to excuse himself without offending the British Ambassador.
An unlikely saviour arrived in the nick of time. An anxious-looking woman in a high necked and severe dress, glasses perched insecurely on her nose. “Oh, Mr Travers,” she twittered. “I’m afraid we have something of a problem.”
“I’m in the middle of a conversation with a distinguished scientist here, Lydia,” Travers told her, frowning. “What is it?”
“It’s Herr Feigenbaum, the German Ambassador,” Lydia replied. “There appears to have been some sort of an error with his invitation.”
Travers turned and scowled at the slumped body of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. It had been the British Embassy’s turn to host the Ambassadors’ Ball this year, and the Cultural Attaché had been one of those with the responsibility for ensuring that everything went smoothly.
“Ah, I’ll just escort this lady to look for her brother,” Ethan said, his expression turning shifty, and he began to sidle off.
“Wait a minute, Rayne,” Travers ordered. “What sort of error, Lydia?”
Lydia’s hands fluttered. “Well, just look, Mr Travers.” She gestured across the room.
A giant rabbit stood there, flanked by a medieval knight and the Bride of Frankenstein. The rabbit was waving his arms furiously. “This is an insult!” Herr Feigenbaum spluttered from inside the rabbit costume. “Incompetence, or perhaps malice! My invitation distinctly stated Fancy Dress!”
“So, you kiss me Saturday, huh?” Buffi said. She looked at her watch. “That’s about an hour and a half away. What makes you think I’ll let you?”
“Oh, sod it,” Spike exclaimed, took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers.
There were at least six ways Buffi could have broken his grip or thrown him from that position. Instead she responded eagerly. This fascinating stranger was the most exciting man she’d met in a very long time, and she met his kiss hungrily. Her heart pounded and she felt as if she was melting in his embrace.
Eventually they released each other. Buffi sucked in a long breath and looked up at him through lowered eyelashes. “So, what happened to Saturday?”
“What can I say? I couldn’t wait.” He drew her close and kissed her again.
To be continued …
The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.
Congratulations to those of my Friends who have won goodies at Vampire Kisses - the Winners list seems to bear a marked resemblance to my F-list - and greetings to my new Friends, especially myfeetshowit, an old friend of mine from “Spike’s Salvation”, and who is the creator of my famous “Spike/Walrus” icon.
Summary: AU, everybody’s human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?
Savage Beauty - Part 5
Kennedy Kennedy was trying to make small talk with Osvald Osvaldsson. It was proving to be something of a struggle, as for some reason they seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other.
“So, what’s it like being a rock star in Iceland?” Kennedy asked.
“Cool,” Oz replied.
“You’re the descendant of a famous berserker, right? You ever get the urge to rip off your shirt, and bite the edge of your shield, and charge at people with an axe?”
“Nope.”
“You sure you speak English?”
“Yep.”
“Ever use words with more than one syllable?”
“Sometimes.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. She was about to give up her pretence at making conversation and wander off elsewhere when a figure caught her eye. A slim red-headed girl with an enchanting quirky smile. Her red ball gown did nothing for her; the big puffy taffeta skirt and soft fuzzy top made her look rather like a Muppet Barbie. Kennedy wanted to see what the girl would look like without it. The redhead had a companion, a mousy blonde who was pleasant looking but not spectacular, whose gown was a garish shade of metallic green that was entirely wrong for her colouration; indeed it would be wrong for anyone’s colouration unless they were auditioning for the role of the Incredible Hulk in drag. Kennedy ignored her and stared lustfully at the redhead.
As did Oz. “Who is that girl?” he breathed reverently.
“You’d better mean the blonde,” Kennedy warned him.
“No, I mean the girl with red hair,” Oz told her. “You can try for the blonde.”
“Toss you for it,” Kennedy suggested. “Loser runs interference by going for the mousy one.”
“Okay,” agreed Oz, feeling in his pocket for a coin.
Kennedy grabbed his arm, spun, and flipped him to the floor. “You lose,” she said triumphantly.
Oz climbed to his feet. “All right, you win. But that was not fair. You are making me angry, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
“What, you get all ravening beast and bite your shield and charge?”
“No, I just get really sarcastic.”
“You should come with me to the geyser country,” Anya suggested. “I think you will like it. There are hot wet holes, and mighty peaks, and boiling jets spurting up.”
Xander slipped his finger under his bow tie and tugged at it. “Sounds pretty, uhh, geothermal. Is it just me or is it hot in here?”
“And then,” Anya went on, “I could show you the original site of our ancient Parliament at Thingvellir. It is on the boundary between the European and American tectonic plates.”
Xander relaxed, and took his hand away from his neck.
“They are moving apart to form the Graben,” Anya continued. “A lush, damp, cleft, parting slowly. Deep, and moist, and steamy.”
Once again Xander began to have some difficulty with his breathing.
Giles found himself trapped in conversation with Ambassador Quentin Travers, unable to make his escape. For the moment Ethan was keeping Drusilla occupied, plying her with drinks and a constant stream of flattery, but already she was showing signs that she was growing bored; and dreadful things tended to happen when Drusilla got restless. The memory of the incident with the anaconda, the gold miner, and the three porcupines still sometimes caused Giles to wake in a cold sweat.
“I don’t know how you cope with the isolation and the primitive conditions,” Travers was saying.
“It can be something of a strain, yes,” Giles agreed. “One of the worst things to endure is the constant sound of the jungle drums. All day, all night, pounding away incessantly. The only thing that enables me to stand it is the certain knowledge that when the drums stop there will be something worse.”
“What’s that?” Travers asked. “A massacre?”
“No,” Giles told him. “Bass solo.”
“Uh, hi,” Buffi responded to the handsome stranger’s greeting. “I was just, uh, stretching my legs.”
Spike raised an eyebrow and looked at the unconscious Olaf sprawled on the ground. “Take it he got in the way? Bloody brilliant spin kick. Even my sister couldn’t have done it better.” He made his way to the whaler, seized him by the arms, and dragged the body to the side of the room and pushed it under a table.
“Thanks,” Buffi said. She looked him up and down. Whipcord slim, rakishly handsome, exotic, and obviously extremely strong judging by the ease with which he had manhandled the massive Olaf. “Are you with one of the Embassies? Venezuela, Brazil, somewhere like that? What’s your name?”
“I am Brazilian,” Spike announced proudly, “but not from the Embassy. I am the son of the chief of the Jivaro. I have many names; but in Portuguese I am Guilherme o Sagrento, and in English I am Spike. My own people call me the Slayer of Jaguars.”
“Hey, I get called the Slayer too,” Buffi smiled. “From the martial arts, you know? But actually I’m the Prime Minister. I’m in charge of the Icelandic Parliament. It’s a Thing.”
“I know,” Spike told her. “I saw you in Newsweek, and I have travelled thousands of miles to meet you. Right bloody knackering trip it was too. Looks like you were worth it.”
“What, you travelled all that way for an autograph?” Buffi teased. “I guess maybe you’re after a bit more than that.”
“Yeah, I am,” Spike confirmed, “but you’ll have to wait for Saturday to find out the full story.”
“Why, what happens Saturday?”
“I kiss you.”
“Look, you seem a pretty nice guy, but wasting your time here,” Tara told Oz. “We’re gay.”
Kennedy grinned at Oz and drew a score mark in the air, and then turned her attentions back to Willow.
“And hey, I’m in a committed long-term relationship,” Willow informed Kennedy. “Not interested in dating anyone else. I’m totally devoted to Tara.”
Now it was Oz’s turn to grin and draw a score mark at Kennedy. She stuck her pierced tongue out at him. Her continued efforts to make an impression on Willow proved futile, and the two Greenpeace girls made their excuses and left at the first possible opportunity.
“Looks like we’re stuck with each other, then,” Oz said.
“Hey, I’m not that desperate,” Kennedy said haughtily. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Only if we take measures now to protect the fish stocks,” the Icelander said, deadpan.
“It’s an American expression,” Kennedy explained, with a roll of her eyes. “I didn’t mean actual fish.” She spotted the twinkle in Oz’s eye and suddenly broke into a broad smile. “You’re deeper than you seem, aren’t you?
“I don’t know,” Oz replied. “How deep do I seem?” He smiled. “And you are nicer than you seem.”
“Thanks. Hey, are you starting to think that it’s a pity I’m gay?”
Oz lowered his eyebrows a millimetre and seemed to be thinking hard. “Well, you are a very pretty girl. You have nice boobies and a nice ass, and maybe you do not have as much of a stick up it as I thought at first. Yes, it is a pity you are gay.”
“Hey, I’ll let you into a secret,” Kennedy said, her smile turning impish. “The gay thing? Truth is, I just hate it when someone I’m dating is taller than me. I like people under five foot five, and that means mainly I date girls.”
Oz moved closer to her and put his hand flat on his head, and then moved it across to connect with a point a couple of inches below the top of hers. He did a quick calculation from metres. “Five foot four,” he announced.
“Okay, you qualify. Wanna dance?”
Drusilla was beginning to fidget. Ethan’s conversation had palled on her, and she was looking around the room with her eyebrows lowered. Giles sought desperately for a way to excuse himself without offending the British Ambassador.
An unlikely saviour arrived in the nick of time. An anxious-looking woman in a high necked and severe dress, glasses perched insecurely on her nose. “Oh, Mr Travers,” she twittered. “I’m afraid we have something of a problem.”
“I’m in the middle of a conversation with a distinguished scientist here, Lydia,” Travers told her, frowning. “What is it?”
“It’s Herr Feigenbaum, the German Ambassador,” Lydia replied. “There appears to have been some sort of an error with his invitation.”
Travers turned and scowled at the slumped body of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. It had been the British Embassy’s turn to host the Ambassadors’ Ball this year, and the Cultural Attaché had been one of those with the responsibility for ensuring that everything went smoothly.
“Ah, I’ll just escort this lady to look for her brother,” Ethan said, his expression turning shifty, and he began to sidle off.
“Wait a minute, Rayne,” Travers ordered. “What sort of error, Lydia?”
Lydia’s hands fluttered. “Well, just look, Mr Travers.” She gestured across the room.
A giant rabbit stood there, flanked by a medieval knight and the Bride of Frankenstein. The rabbit was waving his arms furiously. “This is an insult!” Herr Feigenbaum spluttered from inside the rabbit costume. “Incompetence, or perhaps malice! My invitation distinctly stated Fancy Dress!”
“So, you kiss me Saturday, huh?” Buffi said. She looked at her watch. “That’s about an hour and a half away. What makes you think I’ll let you?”
“Oh, sod it,” Spike exclaimed, took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers.
There were at least six ways Buffi could have broken his grip or thrown him from that position. Instead she responded eagerly. This fascinating stranger was the most exciting man she’d met in a very long time, and she met his kiss hungrily. Her heart pounded and she felt as if she was melting in his embrace.
Eventually they released each other. Buffi sucked in a long breath and looked up at him through lowered eyelashes. “So, what happened to Saturday?”
“What can I say? I couldn’t wait.” He drew her close and kissed her again.
To be continued …
The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.
Congratulations to those of my Friends who have won goodies at Vampire Kisses - the Winners list seems to bear a marked resemblance to my F-list - and greetings to my new Friends, especially myfeetshowit, an old friend of mine from “Spike’s Salvation”, and who is the creator of my famous “Spike/Walrus” icon.