Ficlet - Bathtime
This week's prompt at still_grrr is the colour yellow and/or the emotion of strain. I sort of included both in this:
Title: Bathtime
Rating: PG13 for rude British words.
Word Count: 539
Characters/Pairing: Spike
A/N: Season 4, just after Something Blue
Eventually they put Spike back in the bath. It was still wet from the Watcher’s shower. Typical bloody Slayer, leaving him with the damp patch. She’d taken a personal delight in dumping him in the puddle, too.
He tugged idly at the chains, straining his arms against the cold iron, noting there was already a stain from the rust. Shoddy manacles, but strong enough to do their bleeding job. He couldn’t stretch out against the chains, couldn’t lie back properly, couldn’t even have a wank. The noise of clanking would have been a bugger, mind you - enough to put a bloke right off his stroke.
He hadn’t been this bored in a long time. Not for hours.
No point in shouting now. The brats had gone, and the librarian was in bed, sleeping the sleep of the self-righteous. The git had pulled the plug out of the socket too, so no late night horror movies for Spike. Nothing but to lie here, sticky and uncomfortable, and do his best to avoid the memories.
Her hair. What were those bleeding curls about? She had straight hair, yellow from the bottle, silky soft from all that gunk women these days put on their tresses. Smelled better than pomatum, though.
He shivered. This was getting too bloody close to betraying Dru. Not that she didn’t deserve betrayal, going off with Slime Boy. But still, she was his love and all. Even if she had played hide the sausage with Angelus in full view.
And that was another thought trail he could stop. Right now.
The Slayer now. She was the sort who loved with all her being. Any fool could see that. Smelled good, too. And fit so neatly on his lap, those kissable lips at just the right level.
Sod it. That bloody witchlet ought to be shot. Or eaten. He’d tried that, though. Hadn’t bloody worked. All he’d got out of her was a bloody biscuit. OK, two biscuits, and light on the blood, but still.
Just when and why had his unlife gone so wrong? Prague with that bloody crowd? Angelus coming back just when he seemed to be stuck brooding nicely forever? No, it was Sunnyhell. All sun. Yellow light, yellow-haired Slayer, and himself, a vampire too yellow to make a run for it and succeed. Hell, if he’d had any self-respect at all he’d have run right out into that yellow sun as soon as the bleeding spell broke.
That spell. The memories drew him, the senses piling up in his head. The scents, the sights, the sounds of her joy. Even if she did have tragic taste in wedding music. The sensation of her bare skin against his, and the sweet taste of her mouth, warm against his own. The feeling that she cared, really cared, about him. And the knowledge that he would do absolutely anything to keep her safe. Even if she didn’t want protecting.
What a load of bollocks that was. He had not felt that way for a century or more. Weedy William thought like that. Not Spike.
He shook his head again. There were worse things than living chained in a bathtub. But right now, he really couldn’t think of many.
I owe a lot of replies to the comments on my last post - thank you for such thoughtful and thought-provoking responses. I will answer them soon, I promise!
Title: Bathtime
Rating: PG13 for rude British words.
Word Count: 539
Characters/Pairing: Spike
A/N: Season 4, just after Something Blue
Eventually they put Spike back in the bath. It was still wet from the Watcher’s shower. Typical bloody Slayer, leaving him with the damp patch. She’d taken a personal delight in dumping him in the puddle, too.
He tugged idly at the chains, straining his arms against the cold iron, noting there was already a stain from the rust. Shoddy manacles, but strong enough to do their bleeding job. He couldn’t stretch out against the chains, couldn’t lie back properly, couldn’t even have a wank. The noise of clanking would have been a bugger, mind you - enough to put a bloke right off his stroke.
He hadn’t been this bored in a long time. Not for hours.
No point in shouting now. The brats had gone, and the librarian was in bed, sleeping the sleep of the self-righteous. The git had pulled the plug out of the socket too, so no late night horror movies for Spike. Nothing but to lie here, sticky and uncomfortable, and do his best to avoid the memories.
Her hair. What were those bleeding curls about? She had straight hair, yellow from the bottle, silky soft from all that gunk women these days put on their tresses. Smelled better than pomatum, though.
He shivered. This was getting too bloody close to betraying Dru. Not that she didn’t deserve betrayal, going off with Slime Boy. But still, she was his love and all. Even if she had played hide the sausage with Angelus in full view.
And that was another thought trail he could stop. Right now.
The Slayer now. She was the sort who loved with all her being. Any fool could see that. Smelled good, too. And fit so neatly on his lap, those kissable lips at just the right level.
Sod it. That bloody witchlet ought to be shot. Or eaten. He’d tried that, though. Hadn’t bloody worked. All he’d got out of her was a bloody biscuit. OK, two biscuits, and light on the blood, but still.
Just when and why had his unlife gone so wrong? Prague with that bloody crowd? Angelus coming back just when he seemed to be stuck brooding nicely forever? No, it was Sunnyhell. All sun. Yellow light, yellow-haired Slayer, and himself, a vampire too yellow to make a run for it and succeed. Hell, if he’d had any self-respect at all he’d have run right out into that yellow sun as soon as the bleeding spell broke.
That spell. The memories drew him, the senses piling up in his head. The scents, the sights, the sounds of her joy. Even if she did have tragic taste in wedding music. The sensation of her bare skin against his, and the sweet taste of her mouth, warm against his own. The feeling that she cared, really cared, about him. And the knowledge that he would do absolutely anything to keep her safe. Even if she didn’t want protecting.
What a load of bollocks that was. He had not felt that way for a century or more. Weedy William thought like that. Not Spike.
He shook his head again. There were worse things than living chained in a bathtub. But right now, he really couldn’t think of many.
I owe a lot of replies to the comments on my last post - thank you for such thoughtful and thought-provoking responses. I will answer them soon, I promise!