A Study in Chartreuse
Summary: Green is the color of…
Rating: FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.
Word Count: 779.
Commas Brought to You By: Howard Russell.
Character/Pairing: Faith/Gen.
Prompts: #340 Kiln Taming the Muse Disclaimer: Another day, another…they don’t pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That’s what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.
Author’s Note: Written for winter_of_faith.
A Study in Chartreuse
Her majesty’s court’s in session. All of the usual suspects are huddled around the library table. All but two: me and Lady Weskit. I stand off to the side leaned against one of the big ass bookshelves Giles calls ‘stacks.’ To me ‘stacks’ have dick to do with books. They belch the shit that gives the air that comforting, carcinogenic, ‘city’ flavor that makes smoking totally optional.
His Whineness paces, frothing at the mouth and gesturing like he’s trying to hail a cab. Dunno what’s got his panties in a wad. Mostly because I haven’t been paying attention.
I think he’s concerned that he’s not being taken seriously or something. I can’t imagine where he got that idea. Probably the fact that everyone’s been doing the doings that need to get done. Big Brother’s fat thumb getting in the way hasn’t set them back an inch. You’d think he’d get it figured that they have it figured. It isn’t that hard. See a monster: slay it. The job description’s pretty much covered in the title. Even B. isn’t that mentally challenged. She seems to see the same. It’s written all over her scowl.
Good for her.
Poor old Wesley isn’t that bright. He seems the sort who needs a diagram, written instructions and permission in triplicate to wipe his own ass.
Not that any of this bullshit matters to me. I’m just here for the funny. El Jefe thought there might be some intel to be gathered if I stuck around. I tried to tell him that intelligence was needed for intel to happen. He told me to do it anyway.
Whatever.
Suddenly, Giles cuts in, flustered and blustering, and too damned loud to ignore, “The detail I believe that you’re missing is that our situation hasn’t changed.”
“You think not?” Wesley snaps. Dude looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. “You’re quite mistaken. Your situation has changed radically. You aren’t the one who’s in charge anymore.”
It’s like a pissing contest in tweed. Mr. Belvedere versus Jeeves for the title shot. Who’s more bunged up? Might wanna make room, in case one of their masses goes critical. Only, my guess, this’ll be less ‘kaboom’ more ‘glug, glug, glug,’ like the sewers backing up. And don’t get any on ya. Their shit might never wash off.
I expect B. to say, ‘Like we care,’ or something like that, but she doesn’t have the backbone to call this what it is. No one does. They all just look disgusted. Except for Giles. He’s all thoughtful, like he’s working up to offering some sort of pseudo-sage advice.
Mr. Wizard eventually gets there. “That might well be true, from a certain, skewed perspective; nevertheless I maintain that our situation has not changed. The Watchers Council’s edicts have no bearing on whether or not we’re in over our heads…” Wesley puffs up, eager to bitch. “…which, in case you’ve failed to notice…” He squeezes in a vocal tic. “…we most assuredly are.” It looks like the obnoxious little twit might just burst. Giles talks over his huffing and puffing, “Perhaps you’ve noticed that the number of Slayers is rather disproportionate to the number of creatures needing to be slain? Given that many of those creatures are drawn to fonts of evil energies-such as the Hellmouth above which we now stand-I believe it might be wise for us to focus our efforts on something more constructive, such as attempting to hedge our own somewhat tenuous chances of survival.”
That pretty much stumps them all, even Wesley. Which is cool. At least they get that they’re on the losing side.
Well, all except Xander. He perks up. A question forms behind his eyes. It doesn’t take him nearly long enough to get around to asking, “I’ve been wondering. If someone can be slain, does that mean they can be kiln?”
Really? That’s what he had?
I check B.’s reaction first. Go figure. She seems to seriously be mulling it over. I feel like telling her ‘yes’ because ‘kilt’ is a skirt.
Little Miss Poindexter appears mildly scandalized. Then she finds the funny, at least that’s what her expression says. What she actually says is: “Only if they’re really hot.” More like she mumbles it. Her voice is so soft I doubt the guys even heard her. I guess she wonders too ’cause she looks at them, then at B., then at me, her attention lingering only long enough for conclusions to be drawn. Not long enough to sport the embarrassment that follows. That’s pretty much hidden by her hair.
Yup, we’re still what we are. Wanna go again?