Prehistoric (pg)
Title Prehistoric
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG, no warnings
Setting Post-series
Words 400
Prompt will become apparent when you read it. Why spoil the fun?
A/N This is one of many recent ficlets set vaguely post-series in a setting that is my Rulesverse if you know it, but could be any other Spuffy future if you don’t
“Hungry, love?”
“Always.” He didn’t actually believe her in the literal sense -Slayer barely ate enough to keep a pigeon alive - but this mission had been low on calories and high on exertion. They’d run out of provisions two days before, apart from his emergency blood (it was generally considered bad form to let the vampire get to ravening point while in human company, so he tended to be pretty well covered in any food situation).
“Right then. Time to do my mighty hunter bit?”
She grinned. “Thank you, my heroic husband figure. I’ll be here, tending the fire patiently till you return.” They both snickered, childishly.
“Mackerel okay?”
Sigh. “Unless there’s anything more interesting. I’m kinda over the oily fish for this week.”
He poked his head out of the lower cave mouth and shouted back, “Trout?” Then paused. “I think.” Fish identification hadn’t been a huge part of his life in recent decades, and without their freshwater/sea water context he was finding it still more of a challenge. But this looked vaguely familiar, with rainbow scales, and it was freshly fallen onto cleanish rock, so a decent bet for dinner.
Her voice was muffled, echoing round the cave complex. “Um. Can you grill it?”
“Pretty sure. Want more of that green stuff?” It had helped to flavour the mackerel, at least. He thought it was some species of thyme, but since it was a) edible and b) available, he didn’t actually care much more than that. There was a vaguely affirmative shout from indoors.
Gutting fish wasn’t a favourite pastime, but there was running water and his missus was waiting inside on a bed made only partly from rocks, so he felt reasonably cheerful about it.
Getting slapped in the back of the neck with another mackerel shower was a little galling, but he shouted a report in anyway. Buffy’s face popped briefly out of the cave to demand a detailed fish count for the charts. Looked like the Apocalypse was on schedule, which was nice. So long as Faith also did her thing on schedule, at any rate, they should be out of the rain of fish phase any day now.
If you’d told William the Bloody two decades ago that he’d be living like this, he’d have scoffed. Told him he’d be enjoying it, there’d have been howls of laughter or else a fist to the face, depending on whether he liked the teller.
Seemed perfectly natural now. Though he wished the mackerel hadn’t messed up his last clean shirt.
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG, no warnings
Setting Post-series
Words 400
Prompt will become apparent when you read it. Why spoil the fun?
A/N This is one of many recent ficlets set vaguely post-series in a setting that is my Rulesverse if you know it, but could be any other Spuffy future if you don’t
“Hungry, love?”
“Always.” He didn’t actually believe her in the literal sense -Slayer barely ate enough to keep a pigeon alive - but this mission had been low on calories and high on exertion. They’d run out of provisions two days before, apart from his emergency blood (it was generally considered bad form to let the vampire get to ravening point while in human company, so he tended to be pretty well covered in any food situation).
“Right then. Time to do my mighty hunter bit?”
She grinned. “Thank you, my heroic husband figure. I’ll be here, tending the fire patiently till you return.” They both snickered, childishly.
“Mackerel okay?”
Sigh. “Unless there’s anything more interesting. I’m kinda over the oily fish for this week.”
He poked his head out of the lower cave mouth and shouted back, “Trout?” Then paused. “I think.” Fish identification hadn’t been a huge part of his life in recent decades, and without their freshwater/sea water context he was finding it still more of a challenge. But this looked vaguely familiar, with rainbow scales, and it was freshly fallen onto cleanish rock, so a decent bet for dinner.
Her voice was muffled, echoing round the cave complex. “Um. Can you grill it?”
“Pretty sure. Want more of that green stuff?” It had helped to flavour the mackerel, at least. He thought it was some species of thyme, but since it was a) edible and b) available, he didn’t actually care much more than that. There was a vaguely affirmative shout from indoors.
Gutting fish wasn’t a favourite pastime, but there was running water and his missus was waiting inside on a bed made only partly from rocks, so he felt reasonably cheerful about it.
Getting slapped in the back of the neck with another mackerel shower was a little galling, but he shouted a report in anyway. Buffy’s face popped briefly out of the cave to demand a detailed fish count for the charts. Looked like the Apocalypse was on schedule, which was nice. So long as Faith also did her thing on schedule, at any rate, they should be out of the rain of fish phase any day now.
If you’d told William the Bloody two decades ago that he’d be living like this, he’d have scoffed. Told him he’d be enjoying it, there’d have been howls of laughter or else a fist to the face, depending on whether he liked the teller.
Seemed perfectly natural now. Though he wished the mackerel hadn’t messed up his last clean shirt.