gillo
in
still_grrr
Prompt 210 - fic
Title: I’m Losing My Head
Author: gillo
Rating: G
Word Count: 529
Prompt: 210 - “I’m Losing My Head Without You, Valentine!”
Characters: Spike
Author's note: A few lines from I Was Made To Love You by Jane Espenson are used in this fic, set towards the end of that episode.
I’m Losing My Head
“Move the hell on. Move the sodding, bloody, bleeding hell on! Just who in hell does he think he is to talk to me like that?”
By the time Spike was halfway back to his crypt from crypt he had built up an impressive head of steam. Pure self-righteous steam, blazing red fury. Not at all the same as the smoke from his blanket. Which was also their fault. Bloody stupid little Scooby gang, whoever gave them the job of being a gateway to Buffy anyway?
The diving from one shadow to another did nothing for his temper. Nor did the acrid stench of smouldering wool. When he reached the grassy strip before the road which separated him from the cemetery gates he’d just about had enough.
He flattened himself against the wall of the building which offered such shelter as there was, nerving himself to make the final bolt for cover. He leant against the cool window glass, and jerked upright - glass meant reflections. Or no reflection. Even the stupid population of stupid Sunnyhell was not that stupid. He turned his head to check for observers, and realised he was holed up next to the library. The public building with places to sit and few people around library.
Nonchalantly he reached out for the sunny door handle, gritted his teeth as he gripped it and opened the door.
Inside, the library was cool. Bloody Yanks and their obsession with aircon. It was quiet and peaceful too. Enough to get on anyone’s nerves. Even worse was the group of rugrats assembling by the main desk, presumably for some storytelling activity. Sodding librarians.
He sloped off to the reference corner, pulled a low seat so the back was to the door, grabbed a book at random and slumped into position. It would be just his luck if one of that bunch of snarky little slayerwannabes turned up - that witch was always researching stuff, for example.
Ten minutes later he was regretting the impulse which had driven him into the most boring place in this boring little town. He was not a broody vampire. Never. But sitting alone could lead to unfortunate reflections on recent events. Dawn’s look of disgust rankled particularly. So did that bloody antiquated librarian going all manly and forceful on him. So, to be fair, did his own pathetic performance.
There had to be an answer. This was wrong. He’d even told the Slayer as much. Perhaps if he just got his rocks off with her he’d be back to normal. Dream on, Spike.
What he really needed was a girl like Buffy, but nice. To him at least.
The idea hit him with all the force of a bomb flowering above Bikini Atoll. That bint had been a robot, yes? And she wanted a Warren? Not exactly the commonest of names in right-on California, where flower and tree names made him sick up in his mouth. (Willow? Really?)
He was in a library, home of lists, records, databases. And back in the crypt he had a collection of perfect reference material.
Time to get to work. One way to get rid of the obsession? Sate it.
Author: gillo
Rating: G
Word Count: 529
Prompt: 210 - “I’m Losing My Head Without You, Valentine!”
Characters: Spike
Author's note: A few lines from I Was Made To Love You by Jane Espenson are used in this fic, set towards the end of that episode.
I’m Losing My Head
“Move the hell on. Move the sodding, bloody, bleeding hell on! Just who in hell does he think he is to talk to me like that?”
By the time Spike was halfway back to his crypt from crypt he had built up an impressive head of steam. Pure self-righteous steam, blazing red fury. Not at all the same as the smoke from his blanket. Which was also their fault. Bloody stupid little Scooby gang, whoever gave them the job of being a gateway to Buffy anyway?
The diving from one shadow to another did nothing for his temper. Nor did the acrid stench of smouldering wool. When he reached the grassy strip before the road which separated him from the cemetery gates he’d just about had enough.
He flattened himself against the wall of the building which offered such shelter as there was, nerving himself to make the final bolt for cover. He leant against the cool window glass, and jerked upright - glass meant reflections. Or no reflection. Even the stupid population of stupid Sunnyhell was not that stupid. He turned his head to check for observers, and realised he was holed up next to the library. The public building with places to sit and few people around library.
Nonchalantly he reached out for the sunny door handle, gritted his teeth as he gripped it and opened the door.
Inside, the library was cool. Bloody Yanks and their obsession with aircon. It was quiet and peaceful too. Enough to get on anyone’s nerves. Even worse was the group of rugrats assembling by the main desk, presumably for some storytelling activity. Sodding librarians.
He sloped off to the reference corner, pulled a low seat so the back was to the door, grabbed a book at random and slumped into position. It would be just his luck if one of that bunch of snarky little slayerwannabes turned up - that witch was always researching stuff, for example.
Ten minutes later he was regretting the impulse which had driven him into the most boring place in this boring little town. He was not a broody vampire. Never. But sitting alone could lead to unfortunate reflections on recent events. Dawn’s look of disgust rankled particularly. So did that bloody antiquated librarian going all manly and forceful on him. So, to be fair, did his own pathetic performance.
There had to be an answer. This was wrong. He’d even told the Slayer as much. Perhaps if he just got his rocks off with her he’d be back to normal. Dream on, Spike.
What he really needed was a girl like Buffy, but nice. To him at least.
The idea hit him with all the force of a bomb flowering above Bikini Atoll. That bint had been a robot, yes? And she wanted a Warren? Not exactly the commonest of names in right-on California, where flower and tree names made him sick up in his mouth. (Willow? Really?)
He was in a library, home of lists, records, databases. And back in the crypt he had a collection of perfect reference material.
Time to get to work. One way to get rid of the obsession? Sate it.