How Come You Do Me Like You Do?
Okay, so, as a mod, even if I were able to get past all these obfuscating chickens quicker than everyone else (not at all likely), I still wouldn't win (my fellow mods have some weird notion of fair play, you see), but I don't see why I should let the rest of you have all the fun of rescuing the Easter Bunny, so here's something I've written for the Prompt Chicken.
Setting: mid-BtVS season 6, around the time of Wrecked/Gone
Rating: PG-13/R for a few swear words
For the Murder She Wrote episode titles prompts: Murder to a Jazz Beat
1000 words
Author's Note: The title is from a 1920s Louis Armstrong jazz standard.
I thought of making this a longer Spike/Dru fic and sticking it on sb_ashtray, and as it stands, it does feel like there's too much stuff for 1000 words to deal with, but since writing for me is currently like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone, I'm happy just to have written something.
How Come You Do Me Like You Do?
Buffy put her hands over her ears as Johnny Rotten rang the last discordant snarl out of the word 'destroy.'
"How can you listen to this stuff? It's horrible!"
Spike shut his battered old refrigerator. Lit cigarette hanging from his lower lip, he poured blood from a container into a chipped mug, glared at her over the rim, and downed the contents in one.
"What's wrong with it?"
Buffy bit her lip, trying not to stare at his pale, hairless chest. Damn him! Why couldn't he button his shirt?
"It's not music," she insisted. "It's just....noise. He can't sing. They can't play."
"Yeah, well..." Spike had gotten that look on his face he sometimes had. Like he despised her and pitied her all at the same time...."they said the same about jazz back in the day."
"Who did?"
He took a long drag on his cigarette, eyes never leaving hers. "The stuck up, stuck in the past types. Shocked rigid by it, they were. Couldn't deal with anything new - outside their comfort zone. Anything they couldn't control."
He exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke through flared nostrils. "Bit like you, love, when you think about it."
Buffy bristled. What was eating him this evening?
"I am not stuck in the past. Anyway, the Sex Pistols are, like, twenty-five years old. If anyone's stuck in the past, it's you." She turned to go. "I've had a hell of a day. I don't need crap from you on top of all the other crap."
Somehow or other - she wasn't quite sure how - he'd gotten between her and the crypt door.
"Come on, Slayer. Don't be like that." A cold finger ran the length of her bare arm, raising goosebumps.
Raising other things too, which she'd rather not draw attention to, though from the smirk on his face, he'd already noticed.
"Don't be mean, then," she shot back.
He shrugged. "Vampire," he said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. "Let me make it up to you, okay?"
His hand brushed her hip, drifted down her thigh, under her skirt and up again. She felt her knees turn to jelly and sagged against him.
"You can try."
*
At some point during the evening, they'd made it down the ladder into the undercrypt and onto the bed. She lay on her belly, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, which sometimes, when he forgot, would stop altogether. Her ass hurt. In fact, all of her hurt, but in a good way.
The silence dragged on a while, shading imperceptibly from post-boink contentment into restless clock-watching on her part. Carefully, so's he wouldn't notice, she moved her foot around the bottom of the bed, feeling for her panties.
But he knew. He always knew.
His head snapped around suddenly, blue eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something cutting and cruel, or maybe just to ask, as he so often did, what was the damn hurry.
"So how do you know all that stuff?" she said, quickly, forestalling him. "About jazz, I mean?"
He stared at her. "How d'you bloody think, Slayer? Lived through the Jazz Age, didn't I? Saw it up close and personal."
She blinked. Despite what she'd said about him being stuck in the past, he didn't feel....old. Not like Angel. Hard to remember he'd lived for so long.
Interested suddenly, she sat up.
"What was it like?"
A vision danced across her inner eye - Spike and Drusilla in some dimly-lit jazz club, wreaths of cigarette smoke, the golden flare of saxophones. Drusilla's hair was bobbed. There were strings of bloodstained pearls around her long, slender neck. No, don't think about that.
"Did you wear a hat, like Al Capone?"
He turned on his side, propping his head on his elbow. "Everyone wore hats then, so yeah. I did. Had a moustache too, like Douglas Fairbanks."
Who?
"It sounds so glamorous."
The cool finger was back, tracing the line of her collar bone. "S'pose it was. The shock of the new, an' all that - the clothes, the music. Especially the music. Came to this country for the first time during Prohibition. Never been off my head so much again since, not even in the sixties."
His eyes sparked gold. "Never fed so well either."
She pushed his hand away, threw off the comforter and scrabbled for her clothes. "Get off me."
"Hey, it's not like you didn't know." He lay on his back, head resting on his folded arms, watching her dress. "All those empty-headed flappers just gagging for it."
"Shut up." She turned her back on him, acutely aware of his eyes on her body as she dressed.
He laughed suddenly, a short, bitter sound. "See, I told you."
She was buttoning her jacket. Turning around, she found his face gone hard, eyes glassy and cold, as if he hated her. Which maybe he did.
"Told me what?" She looked at her watch. "And make it quick. I have important stuff to do."
He surged out of bed suddenly, stark naked in front of her.
"Now you've done the unimportant stuff, you mean? Like me?"
She caught her breath, but then made herself look away. "I don't have time for this, Spike."
"Run along, then," he said. "I'm not keeping you."
"Like you could." Stiff-backed, she made for the ladder. She wouldn't come here again. She would not.
"Can't deal with it, can you?" he said, low and vicious.
She paused on the bottom rung, looked back at him over her shoulder. "What are you talking about?"
His eyes were like stone. "I'm not your pet any more, Slayer. This is new. Like jazz. Like Johnny fucking Rotten. This is out of your control, and you just. Can't. Take it."
She started climbing again. "Stay away from me."
"If you want." She heard the snap of his lighter, scented cigarette smoke. "Something tells me, though, I won't have to."
Setting: mid-BtVS season 6, around the time of Wrecked/Gone
Rating: PG-13/R for a few swear words
For the Murder She Wrote episode titles prompts: Murder to a Jazz Beat
1000 words
Author's Note: The title is from a 1920s Louis Armstrong jazz standard.
I thought of making this a longer Spike/Dru fic and sticking it on sb_ashtray, and as it stands, it does feel like there's too much stuff for 1000 words to deal with, but since writing for me is currently like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone, I'm happy just to have written something.
How Come You Do Me Like You Do?
Buffy put her hands over her ears as Johnny Rotten rang the last discordant snarl out of the word 'destroy.'
"How can you listen to this stuff? It's horrible!"
Spike shut his battered old refrigerator. Lit cigarette hanging from his lower lip, he poured blood from a container into a chipped mug, glared at her over the rim, and downed the contents in one.
"What's wrong with it?"
Buffy bit her lip, trying not to stare at his pale, hairless chest. Damn him! Why couldn't he button his shirt?
"It's not music," she insisted. "It's just....noise. He can't sing. They can't play."
"Yeah, well..." Spike had gotten that look on his face he sometimes had. Like he despised her and pitied her all at the same time...."they said the same about jazz back in the day."
"Who did?"
He took a long drag on his cigarette, eyes never leaving hers. "The stuck up, stuck in the past types. Shocked rigid by it, they were. Couldn't deal with anything new - outside their comfort zone. Anything they couldn't control."
He exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke through flared nostrils. "Bit like you, love, when you think about it."
Buffy bristled. What was eating him this evening?
"I am not stuck in the past. Anyway, the Sex Pistols are, like, twenty-five years old. If anyone's stuck in the past, it's you." She turned to go. "I've had a hell of a day. I don't need crap from you on top of all the other crap."
Somehow or other - she wasn't quite sure how - he'd gotten between her and the crypt door.
"Come on, Slayer. Don't be like that." A cold finger ran the length of her bare arm, raising goosebumps.
Raising other things too, which she'd rather not draw attention to, though from the smirk on his face, he'd already noticed.
"Don't be mean, then," she shot back.
He shrugged. "Vampire," he said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. "Let me make it up to you, okay?"
His hand brushed her hip, drifted down her thigh, under her skirt and up again. She felt her knees turn to jelly and sagged against him.
"You can try."
*
At some point during the evening, they'd made it down the ladder into the undercrypt and onto the bed. She lay on her belly, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, which sometimes, when he forgot, would stop altogether. Her ass hurt. In fact, all of her hurt, but in a good way.
The silence dragged on a while, shading imperceptibly from post-boink contentment into restless clock-watching on her part. Carefully, so's he wouldn't notice, she moved her foot around the bottom of the bed, feeling for her panties.
But he knew. He always knew.
His head snapped around suddenly, blue eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something cutting and cruel, or maybe just to ask, as he so often did, what was the damn hurry.
"So how do you know all that stuff?" she said, quickly, forestalling him. "About jazz, I mean?"
He stared at her. "How d'you bloody think, Slayer? Lived through the Jazz Age, didn't I? Saw it up close and personal."
She blinked. Despite what she'd said about him being stuck in the past, he didn't feel....old. Not like Angel. Hard to remember he'd lived for so long.
Interested suddenly, she sat up.
"What was it like?"
A vision danced across her inner eye - Spike and Drusilla in some dimly-lit jazz club, wreaths of cigarette smoke, the golden flare of saxophones. Drusilla's hair was bobbed. There were strings of bloodstained pearls around her long, slender neck. No, don't think about that.
"Did you wear a hat, like Al Capone?"
He turned on his side, propping his head on his elbow. "Everyone wore hats then, so yeah. I did. Had a moustache too, like Douglas Fairbanks."
Who?
"It sounds so glamorous."
The cool finger was back, tracing the line of her collar bone. "S'pose it was. The shock of the new, an' all that - the clothes, the music. Especially the music. Came to this country for the first time during Prohibition. Never been off my head so much again since, not even in the sixties."
His eyes sparked gold. "Never fed so well either."
She pushed his hand away, threw off the comforter and scrabbled for her clothes. "Get off me."
"Hey, it's not like you didn't know." He lay on his back, head resting on his folded arms, watching her dress. "All those empty-headed flappers just gagging for it."
"Shut up." She turned her back on him, acutely aware of his eyes on her body as she dressed.
He laughed suddenly, a short, bitter sound. "See, I told you."
She was buttoning her jacket. Turning around, she found his face gone hard, eyes glassy and cold, as if he hated her. Which maybe he did.
"Told me what?" She looked at her watch. "And make it quick. I have important stuff to do."
He surged out of bed suddenly, stark naked in front of her.
"Now you've done the unimportant stuff, you mean? Like me?"
She caught her breath, but then made herself look away. "I don't have time for this, Spike."
"Run along, then," he said. "I'm not keeping you."
"Like you could." Stiff-backed, she made for the ladder. She wouldn't come here again. She would not.
"Can't deal with it, can you?" he said, low and vicious.
She paused on the bottom rung, looked back at him over her shoulder. "What are you talking about?"
His eyes were like stone. "I'm not your pet any more, Slayer. This is new. Like jazz. Like Johnny fucking Rotten. This is out of your control, and you just. Can't. Take it."
She started climbing again. "Stay away from me."
"If you want." She heard the snap of his lighter, scented cigarette smoke. "Something tells me, though, I won't have to."