Kill Game (PG)
Title Kill Game
Author Brutti ma buoni
Pairing Spike/Buffy
Rating PG
Setting season 5; a slightly alternate Fool For Love in the Bronze
Words700
Prompt poison in your drink - I've stolen the line in full from A New Man; this is also my trope bingo fill for poker
She gets back to the table after ten minutes.
"Queue," is all she says. He'll bet. Ten on a Friday night, and the Bronze is heaving. Yet their little table remained inviolate in her absence. Any bad guys out there are leaving Spike severely alone just now, on account of Slayer proximity being unhealthy to their longevity, even if she is a bit winged tonight.
He can smell her blood, and it's sweet as. He deals again, ignoring it. Not tonight. He can't eat her, one way or another, and she isn't interested in him for anything other than information. He knows it, and denies it, and knows she's more interested in him than any other bad guy (Angelus apart, ignored and deservedly). So. Complexity.
He picks up his hand. It's fair; nothing to go to the wall for, but with even luck he might do nicely out of the hand. It's the Slayer's turn to open, and she bets twenty. Sweet. He calls. She raises. He checks. No appetite for more.
Two queens. Lucky mare. He watches as she scrapes over the meagre pot. This isn’t as amusing as it was when he first started their semi-regular games. She's learned a few of the rules, possibly even looks them up when not playing. It used to be the blindest game of chance, Buffy calling and checking and folding at random. He always surprised himself by not cheating her when her hand actually was better.
But then, a crappy two-handed game of poker's not the point at all, nor the pennies they play for, and it's only quite recently that he understood what is. Spike used to think of this as a power trip, a chance to make the Slayer dance to his evil music in return for whatever scraps of gen she couldn't afford to pay for. Now, he understands that his twisted little subconscious has been seeking time with Buffy Summers for all kinds of reasons, and evil power tripping isn't by any means top of the list. Nor is sniffing her sweet Slayer blood. Nor is telling her stories of Slayers past, no matter how joyous it is to recount their deaths.
No. He just wants Buffy here, across the table from him. In his space. Her face twisted in guesswork and concentration, not loathing.
Bugger. She looks up, catches him smiling fondly. Scowls. "What? I have something on my face?"
"No, pet," he says, calm on the outside and churning in. "Just waiting to see whether I get a headache."
"Huh?" she says. Not twigging.
"From my little brain zapper. Think I've found a neat little way round it. Got my evil back on."
"Yeah?" She looks a little suspicious now. Understandably, since Spike doubts he'd really be doing the hang-about-and-gloat bit.
Still. It's a distraction from things he wants to distract Buffy from. Persevere, Spikey. He drops his voice to a growl, such as might be used by a vampire drawing in a helpless victim. "Yeah. When you went to the loo I slipped a small pellet of poison in your drink. You'll be dead in an hour."
Buffy flickers, just for a second, with visible annoyance, then jumps up and drags him out of the bar, scattering cards as they go. "Enough messing, Spike. Tell me about those Slayers you killed."
Later, it occurs to Spike that the Slayer never even considered that he might actually have tried to kill her. She may not know about his damn silly unstoppable love, but she knows she's got old Spike tamed to her liking.
When he picks up the shotgun, it's with the intention of proving her wrong.
Turns out he proves the opposite.
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Pairing Spike/Buffy
Rating PG
Setting season 5; a slightly alternate Fool For Love in the Bronze
Words700
Prompt poison in your drink - I've stolen the line in full from A New Man; this is also my trope bingo fill for poker
She gets back to the table after ten minutes.
"Queue," is all she says. He'll bet. Ten on a Friday night, and the Bronze is heaving. Yet their little table remained inviolate in her absence. Any bad guys out there are leaving Spike severely alone just now, on account of Slayer proximity being unhealthy to their longevity, even if she is a bit winged tonight.
He can smell her blood, and it's sweet as. He deals again, ignoring it. Not tonight. He can't eat her, one way or another, and she isn't interested in him for anything other than information. He knows it, and denies it, and knows she's more interested in him than any other bad guy (Angelus apart, ignored and deservedly). So. Complexity.
He picks up his hand. It's fair; nothing to go to the wall for, but with even luck he might do nicely out of the hand. It's the Slayer's turn to open, and she bets twenty. Sweet. He calls. She raises. He checks. No appetite for more.
Two queens. Lucky mare. He watches as she scrapes over the meagre pot. This isn’t as amusing as it was when he first started their semi-regular games. She's learned a few of the rules, possibly even looks them up when not playing. It used to be the blindest game of chance, Buffy calling and checking and folding at random. He always surprised himself by not cheating her when her hand actually was better.
But then, a crappy two-handed game of poker's not the point at all, nor the pennies they play for, and it's only quite recently that he understood what is. Spike used to think of this as a power trip, a chance to make the Slayer dance to his evil music in return for whatever scraps of gen she couldn't afford to pay for. Now, he understands that his twisted little subconscious has been seeking time with Buffy Summers for all kinds of reasons, and evil power tripping isn't by any means top of the list. Nor is sniffing her sweet Slayer blood. Nor is telling her stories of Slayers past, no matter how joyous it is to recount their deaths.
No. He just wants Buffy here, across the table from him. In his space. Her face twisted in guesswork and concentration, not loathing.
Bugger. She looks up, catches him smiling fondly. Scowls. "What? I have something on my face?"
"No, pet," he says, calm on the outside and churning in. "Just waiting to see whether I get a headache."
"Huh?" she says. Not twigging.
"From my little brain zapper. Think I've found a neat little way round it. Got my evil back on."
"Yeah?" She looks a little suspicious now. Understandably, since Spike doubts he'd really be doing the hang-about-and-gloat bit.
Still. It's a distraction from things he wants to distract Buffy from. Persevere, Spikey. He drops his voice to a growl, such as might be used by a vampire drawing in a helpless victim. "Yeah. When you went to the loo I slipped a small pellet of poison in your drink. You'll be dead in an hour."
Buffy flickers, just for a second, with visible annoyance, then jumps up and drags him out of the bar, scattering cards as they go. "Enough messing, Spike. Tell me about those Slayers you killed."
Later, it occurs to Spike that the Slayer never even considered that he might actually have tried to kill her. She may not know about his damn silly unstoppable love, but she knows she's got old Spike tamed to her liking.
When he picks up the shotgun, it's with the intention of proving her wrong.
Turns out he proves the opposite.
***