Original -- Very Civil
Title: Very Civil
Rating: PG
Word Count: 498
Warnings: general silliness; angel abuse
Prompt: “Do you like my mask? Isn’t it pretty? It raises the dead!” - Giles, ‘Dead Man’s Party,’ Buffy the Vampire Slayer at pulped_fictions
Summary: In which Maion is tipsy, Belial has a shiny thing, and Vincent discriminates against zombie-kind.
Author's Note: For those of you who remember "Reap" and "Wings", this vaguely takes up after them. For those of you who don't, all you really need to know is that Vincent Duval is a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old French vampire, and he and his quasi-friend Maion the angel recently fought off a zombie attack force. Not long later, Maion and Belial, a demon, got into a catfight in Vincent's office. Now they are playing nice. :D
VERY CIVIL
“I told you,” Belial repeated, “they’re not ours.”
Vincent poured him more wine, and the demon flashed a sharp-toothed grin of thanks.
“Then who the hell-” Maion stopped, slightly dazed, and turned a glare on his wineglass, his bottom lip protruding in an exquisite pout. “This stuff is corruptive; why do you let me drink it?”
Vincent decided not to point out that the angel had answered his own question.
“Someone had to have sent them,” he remarked instead. “Armies of zombies don’t crop up on their own. They tend to have trouble organizing, given the general lack of a functioning intellect.”
Maion nodded earnestly. “I also know lots of non-zombies who lack functioni… Take this away from me.”
Obediently, because he’d just bought new drapes and didn’t want another flaming sword incident, Vincent moved the angel’s glass out of reach. Maion patted his arm appreciatively far longer than was socially acceptable.
“You’re very nice,” Maion announced, patting away. “You are, Vincent. I think you’re the nicest vampire I’ve ever met. I’ve met lots of vampires. French ones are usually the worst-”
Vincent hadn’t realized that the Heavenly Host took sides in that debate.
“-but you’re very civil. You’re nice.” He tapped Vincent’s forearm four more times and then withdrew his hand. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Thank heaven for small favors,” Belial murmured innocently, and Maion was still lucid enough to scowl. Languidly, Belial spread brie on another cracker. “However,” he said.
There were a lot of things Vincent hated about dealing with divinities-extremely self-righteous or self-unrighteous attitudes, for one; invasive visiting habits for another; the entitlement, the preternatural power, lifespan jokes, and especially the refusal to admit that flaming swords were compensating for something. But the thing he hated most was the way a seraph or a demon could narrow the entire world around him with a single word. At ‘However,’ Belial had reduced the room to his pinstriped suit, his taunting smirk, and the deep red gleam of his dark, dark eyes.
Thoughtfully, the demon raised a silver signet ring with a writhing black serpent for a crest. Even Maion respected the silence.
“Did you happen to keep any of the bodies?” Belial asked.
“We burned most of them,” Vincent reported, “but I think there are a few lying in the shed in the hopes we could identify them.”
“We can,” Belial told him, setting the ring on the table. It sounded significantly heavier than it looked. “Necromancers-like the one who’s after you-raise the dead. This raises the undead.”
“Don’t trip,” Vincent said.
“I ain’t playin’,” Belial replied.
“Neither of you is on MTV,” Maion cut in anxiously, “and that is an arcane article of extraordinary power. To my eyes, it’s glowing like that rave in Amsterdam.”
The ring’s importance diminished considerably.
“Rave in Amsterdam?” Vincent and Belial asked in unison.
Maion stared at them for a moment, then looked vaguely sick.
“I hate wine,” he said.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 498
Warnings: general silliness; angel abuse
Prompt: “Do you like my mask? Isn’t it pretty? It raises the dead!” - Giles, ‘Dead Man’s Party,’ Buffy the Vampire Slayer at pulped_fictions
Summary: In which Maion is tipsy, Belial has a shiny thing, and Vincent discriminates against zombie-kind.
Author's Note: For those of you who remember "Reap" and "Wings", this vaguely takes up after them. For those of you who don't, all you really need to know is that Vincent Duval is a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old French vampire, and he and his quasi-friend Maion the angel recently fought off a zombie attack force. Not long later, Maion and Belial, a demon, got into a catfight in Vincent's office. Now they are playing nice. :D
VERY CIVIL
“I told you,” Belial repeated, “they’re not ours.”
Vincent poured him more wine, and the demon flashed a sharp-toothed grin of thanks.
“Then who the hell-” Maion stopped, slightly dazed, and turned a glare on his wineglass, his bottom lip protruding in an exquisite pout. “This stuff is corruptive; why do you let me drink it?”
Vincent decided not to point out that the angel had answered his own question.
“Someone had to have sent them,” he remarked instead. “Armies of zombies don’t crop up on their own. They tend to have trouble organizing, given the general lack of a functioning intellect.”
Maion nodded earnestly. “I also know lots of non-zombies who lack functioni… Take this away from me.”
Obediently, because he’d just bought new drapes and didn’t want another flaming sword incident, Vincent moved the angel’s glass out of reach. Maion patted his arm appreciatively far longer than was socially acceptable.
“You’re very nice,” Maion announced, patting away. “You are, Vincent. I think you’re the nicest vampire I’ve ever met. I’ve met lots of vampires. French ones are usually the worst-”
Vincent hadn’t realized that the Heavenly Host took sides in that debate.
“-but you’re very civil. You’re nice.” He tapped Vincent’s forearm four more times and then withdrew his hand. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Thank heaven for small favors,” Belial murmured innocently, and Maion was still lucid enough to scowl. Languidly, Belial spread brie on another cracker. “However,” he said.
There were a lot of things Vincent hated about dealing with divinities-extremely self-righteous or self-unrighteous attitudes, for one; invasive visiting habits for another; the entitlement, the preternatural power, lifespan jokes, and especially the refusal to admit that flaming swords were compensating for something. But the thing he hated most was the way a seraph or a demon could narrow the entire world around him with a single word. At ‘However,’ Belial had reduced the room to his pinstriped suit, his taunting smirk, and the deep red gleam of his dark, dark eyes.
Thoughtfully, the demon raised a silver signet ring with a writhing black serpent for a crest. Even Maion respected the silence.
“Did you happen to keep any of the bodies?” Belial asked.
“We burned most of them,” Vincent reported, “but I think there are a few lying in the shed in the hopes we could identify them.”
“We can,” Belial told him, setting the ring on the table. It sounded significantly heavier than it looked. “Necromancers-like the one who’s after you-raise the dead. This raises the undead.”
“Don’t trip,” Vincent said.
“I ain’t playin’,” Belial replied.
“Neither of you is on MTV,” Maion cut in anxiously, “and that is an arcane article of extraordinary power. To my eyes, it’s glowing like that rave in Amsterdam.”
The ring’s importance diminished considerably.
“Rave in Amsterdam?” Vincent and Belial asked in unison.
Maion stared at them for a moment, then looked vaguely sick.
“I hate wine,” he said.