FIC: Hints and Hues BtVS G
Title: Hints and Hues
Author: SunnyD_lite
Fandom: Buffy between Season Five and Season Six
Prompt: tamingthemuse's Hue and Cry
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Set: Summer between Seasons
Word Count: 1,050
Summary: The more things change, the more you hang on.
A/N: Bunches of thanks to agilebrit for brain-storming and spiralleds who did a super fast betaing job, which I changed. All errors are, therefore, my own. Hue and Cry is a term from English common law, when in Medieval England if the "hue and cry" went out all citizens were required to actively pursue the crimial. My muse didn't agree.
Disclaimers: I don't own Spike, or anything in the Jossverse! I'd be a much richer person if I did. Just playing!
One way to survive the ages was to adapt to change, but also to have ritual, touchstones so you know who you are.
"Spike will do that."
"Why don't we ask Spike?"
"Hey, Spike."
And thus the Big Bad became an errand boy. But he'd made a promise to a lady, and he hadn't kept it.
He did the next best thing. To protect the ones she loved, in ways he'd never expected. Late night ice cream. Bit-minding during the day. Even helping with their sodding pathetic attempts at patrols.
Some nights he'd beg off. No need for details. Not like that lot didn't have their secrets, pointed looks, and awkward excuses. Good thing Vengeance demons were so powerful, given Anya's inability to lie convincingly. Not that he minded their absences, more time for him and the Bit is all.
But a vamp needed time for himself. Even the half-vamp he'd become. A man had needs that babysitting duty, either with Dawn or on patrol, did not meet.
So after walking Dawn home at dusk - she'd taken to hanging out in the crypt - he watched her be embraced with the lure of DVDs and popcorn, and then hightailed it back to his world. A world where he wasn't a glorified minder. Where he was the Slayer of Slayers. Where his opinion matter.
And one part of that was keeping up appearances.
It was a ritual, one that had changed only slightly over the years. He'd checked the supplies and was ready.
The first step was to get out the egg-timer. The kind that buzzed had saved him a time or two when a good show was on the telly. The next part was getting harder and harder to find, but he could be determined when needed. It was too useful a tool to give up, even if the film was harder and harder to find. Plus, Sunnydale had 24 post boxes, and Anya had taught him the joys of eBay. Smart lass that one, an eye on the future. Not like the morons who'd been with the Master. No wonder he'd given up on flunkies. Barely recognized himself sometimes.
He pulled open the loose stone where he hid the important things. Not going to leave them lying around. Not that his crypt wasn't secure but, some things were important was all.
Course he snorted when he found a hair elastic in his bathroom. Bit kept agitating for a mirror. "Just because you can't use it doesn't mean you shouldn't have one." Not one of her better reasoned arguments and no one would know he'd swung by the dump a time or two to see what was available.
He had what he needed. The gloves were awkward, but less so than questions if he didn't use them. Then he began to mix the ingredients together. Falling into a rhythm, he separated and applied the gooey substance. This was the part that Drucilla had hated, not that he was a fan of the stench mind you.
Every five minutes, he'd hold the old Polaroid camera in an outstretched arm to get a shot of his head. He had to wait fifteen minutes before it faded past the orange stage and was ready for the next step.
He needed privacy for this. The only time he'd let Drucilla see it she'd gotten upset. "The pixies stole your colour, Spike! Nasty pixies. We must leave them milk, or a baby, and maybe they'll bring it back."
Given the stories of the fey, he'd thought they'd have had better luck with a baby. But he knew what he was doing; had been doing it for over 20 years.
Another few minutes and a quick mix, he barely had to look anymore. He was working on autopilot, worrying about the up coming school year. Bit had just passed by the skin or her teeth, what with two deaths wasn't surprising. And that thought reminded him of the replacement.
He'd minimized his dealing with the 'Bot. A false slayer for a fake vamp. Hearing the line's he'd written parroted back at him was a torture he deserved. He knew it wasn't HER, wrong scent, no heart beat. No tingles at the back of his brain, calling out Slayer. Not sure how they were pulling the wool over the demon community's eyes, but somehow it was.
Bit liked it though, and was stronger than the brat pack, useful on patrol night. And its hair colour never changed. Like it wouldn't change. At least vampires weren't frozen like that.
Grimacing, he realized he hadn't set the timer. He glanced at the mess by the sink and realized the shade was different. He scrambled for the box, nothing unusual there. A quick look at the container told a different story. Quickly rinsing his head, soaking in vain hope of a printer's error, he added twice the shampoo he normally used.
Running an old towel over his hair, he took an unneeded breath and held out the old Polaroid camera. A click, a flash, and a whirr as the photo was spat out of the front. Holding its white edges, he waved it, trying to rush the process. Maybe it was time to move to digital; less evidence to destroy later. Anya would get him a good deal, if he paid commission. He understood her, and she never looked down at him. Kept an eye on the ball, but you expect that. None of the uncertainty he had with the others.
And now the big uncertainty was in the photo. Sodding fiction that photos never lie, but he thought this was a truth he wanted to avoid. If he didn't look, it wasn't real - and even the Bit would flail him for that thought. He was the Big Bad. He could face anything.
Even a photo that didn't show the platinum hue he was expecting, but a reddish brown that wasn't found in nature. He was the Big Bad; tears were from the chemicals.
Wasn't he just saying that change was good?
Mistakes could be fixed. Most of them. Some of them. And given Anya's changeable locks, she'd know a good colourist. This, at least, could be fixed.
Just had to do it before anyone saw him.
Author: SunnyD_lite
Fandom: Buffy between Season Five and Season Six
Prompt: tamingthemuse's Hue and Cry
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Set: Summer between Seasons
Word Count: 1,050
Summary: The more things change, the more you hang on.
A/N: Bunches of thanks to agilebrit for brain-storming and spiralleds who did a super fast betaing job, which I changed. All errors are, therefore, my own. Hue and Cry is a term from English common law, when in Medieval England if the "hue and cry" went out all citizens were required to actively pursue the crimial. My muse didn't agree.
Disclaimers: I don't own Spike, or anything in the Jossverse! I'd be a much richer person if I did. Just playing!
One way to survive the ages was to adapt to change, but also to have ritual, touchstones so you know who you are.
"Spike will do that."
"Why don't we ask Spike?"
"Hey, Spike."
And thus the Big Bad became an errand boy. But he'd made a promise to a lady, and he hadn't kept it.
He did the next best thing. To protect the ones she loved, in ways he'd never expected. Late night ice cream. Bit-minding during the day. Even helping with their sodding pathetic attempts at patrols.
Some nights he'd beg off. No need for details. Not like that lot didn't have their secrets, pointed looks, and awkward excuses. Good thing Vengeance demons were so powerful, given Anya's inability to lie convincingly. Not that he minded their absences, more time for him and the Bit is all.
But a vamp needed time for himself. Even the half-vamp he'd become. A man had needs that babysitting duty, either with Dawn or on patrol, did not meet.
So after walking Dawn home at dusk - she'd taken to hanging out in the crypt - he watched her be embraced with the lure of DVDs and popcorn, and then hightailed it back to his world. A world where he wasn't a glorified minder. Where he was the Slayer of Slayers. Where his opinion matter.
And one part of that was keeping up appearances.
It was a ritual, one that had changed only slightly over the years. He'd checked the supplies and was ready.
The first step was to get out the egg-timer. The kind that buzzed had saved him a time or two when a good show was on the telly. The next part was getting harder and harder to find, but he could be determined when needed. It was too useful a tool to give up, even if the film was harder and harder to find. Plus, Sunnydale had 24 post boxes, and Anya had taught him the joys of eBay. Smart lass that one, an eye on the future. Not like the morons who'd been with the Master. No wonder he'd given up on flunkies. Barely recognized himself sometimes.
He pulled open the loose stone where he hid the important things. Not going to leave them lying around. Not that his crypt wasn't secure but, some things were important was all.
Course he snorted when he found a hair elastic in his bathroom. Bit kept agitating for a mirror. "Just because you can't use it doesn't mean you shouldn't have one." Not one of her better reasoned arguments and no one would know he'd swung by the dump a time or two to see what was available.
He had what he needed. The gloves were awkward, but less so than questions if he didn't use them. Then he began to mix the ingredients together. Falling into a rhythm, he separated and applied the gooey substance. This was the part that Drucilla had hated, not that he was a fan of the stench mind you.
Every five minutes, he'd hold the old Polaroid camera in an outstretched arm to get a shot of his head. He had to wait fifteen minutes before it faded past the orange stage and was ready for the next step.
He needed privacy for this. The only time he'd let Drucilla see it she'd gotten upset. "The pixies stole your colour, Spike! Nasty pixies. We must leave them milk, or a baby, and maybe they'll bring it back."
Given the stories of the fey, he'd thought they'd have had better luck with a baby. But he knew what he was doing; had been doing it for over 20 years.
Another few minutes and a quick mix, he barely had to look anymore. He was working on autopilot, worrying about the up coming school year. Bit had just passed by the skin or her teeth, what with two deaths wasn't surprising. And that thought reminded him of the replacement.
He'd minimized his dealing with the 'Bot. A false slayer for a fake vamp. Hearing the line's he'd written parroted back at him was a torture he deserved. He knew it wasn't HER, wrong scent, no heart beat. No tingles at the back of his brain, calling out Slayer. Not sure how they were pulling the wool over the demon community's eyes, but somehow it was.
Bit liked it though, and was stronger than the brat pack, useful on patrol night. And its hair colour never changed. Like it wouldn't change. At least vampires weren't frozen like that.
Grimacing, he realized he hadn't set the timer. He glanced at the mess by the sink and realized the shade was different. He scrambled for the box, nothing unusual there. A quick look at the container told a different story. Quickly rinsing his head, soaking in vain hope of a printer's error, he added twice the shampoo he normally used.
Running an old towel over his hair, he took an unneeded breath and held out the old Polaroid camera. A click, a flash, and a whirr as the photo was spat out of the front. Holding its white edges, he waved it, trying to rush the process. Maybe it was time to move to digital; less evidence to destroy later. Anya would get him a good deal, if he paid commission. He understood her, and she never looked down at him. Kept an eye on the ball, but you expect that. None of the uncertainty he had with the others.
And now the big uncertainty was in the photo. Sodding fiction that photos never lie, but he thought this was a truth he wanted to avoid. If he didn't look, it wasn't real - and even the Bit would flail him for that thought. He was the Big Bad. He could face anything.
Even a photo that didn't show the platinum hue he was expecting, but a reddish brown that wasn't found in nature. He was the Big Bad; tears were from the chemicals.
Wasn't he just saying that change was good?
Mistakes could be fixed. Most of them. Some of them. And given Anya's changeable locks, she'd know a good colourist. This, at least, could be fixed.
Just had to do it before anyone saw him.