'Tourist Trap' by Quinara
Apparently I'm on a roll (who would have guessed, with this being Magical Creatures Week? I know I'm surprised...), so here is a sequel to my fic about the kraken, Deep Sea Rescue. Still PG, still post-series/halfway through Angel S5, but we're beyond reunion into established relationship territory now. Exactly 1000 words according to Word and it contains a DRAGON. None of the AO3 warnings apply.
Spike wants a feat of virility to prove himself to Buffy. Dragon-slaying's always a good one, right?
Tourist Trap.
Why was it that every plan he had inevitably went tits up?
After the spectacular failure of their reunion, during which his dashing and irresistible physique had suffered some rather miserable setbacks, leaving him quite possibly whimpering in Buffy’s arms about how the salt hurt and he loved her more than unlife itself - and definitely leaving Faith unable to look at him with any more sex than you’d offer a moulting budgerigar (shame, that) - Spike had really wanted to do something manly. Preferably with Buffy at his side, complimenting his muscles and wisecracks as she executed some damned fine moves of her own, but he wasn’t fussy.
And so, when the reports came of a dragon down in Dover terrorising the ramblers, he’d been up nay eager for the challenge. He’d strategically convinced Buffy of his reflexes and stamina, all vital for dragon slaying, and they’d come down from London on the train. One aborted attempt at joining the not-a-mile-high-but-still-in-a-loo club later (the urine smell had been too strong), they’d arrived and set about getting to the white cliffs for their quest.
Now? It was half past ten and they were lost.
“The map says it’s this way!” Buffy insisted loudly, waving the Maglite in her mittens, first over the blustering paper and then aggressively in his face. “We’re here, next to Number Four, with the edge on our right, and the reports are coming from that way, towards the lighthouse.”
“The edge is on our left, Buffy,” Spike told her, not without exasperation. “You can hear the bloody sea…” Howling and crashing and salty - and why were they by the sea again?
Buffy cut through the sound, “But it’s not! We’re heading northeast, right, and that -” She pointed up. “Is the North Star!”
“I feel like I’m a bad sketch…” His hands itched for a cigarette; the way the wind was squalling made it unlikely he’d get one any time soon. “Did you not look out the window today? Cloud, cloud and more bloody cloud - it’s February! That star’ll be some lucky buggers flying to the Algarve or -”
“Fine! You get us there, smart guy!” And then she shoved the map in his chest, winding him with the knuckles that accompanied it. Bitch. Why were they even -
GRRRRRAAARRRGGGHHH!!!
Oh yeah. Dragon.
They turned to face it just as it breathed a blinding jet of magnesium-white flame across the grass, which was nonetheless so damp it barely smouldered. Defeating the marks on his vision with a smooth change into his demon face, Spike dropped the map into the wind and unsheathed the sword across his back.
Buffy’s own sword was in her tight mittened grasp, the torch tucked into a handy loop on her rucksack. “Nice try, Norbert,” she challenged.
He had to cut in. “Norbert?”
“Yeah.” Buffy shrugged. “I finally read those books. Charlie’s way the hottest Weasley.”
Right, that settled it. If he didn’t come out of this with at least his dignity intact he was never going to get her into bed again. “Yeah, dragon!” he yelled, trying to minimise his fang-lisp as much as possible. “You want a piece of my steel?”
“You’re not a subtle man, are you, hon?”
“GRRRRRAAARRRGGGHHH!” was all the dragon would say, again, shooting more flames across the grass but still finishing more than a foot away from them. Spike’s demon eyes could deal with the light now, and it seemed ever so slightly pathetic.
Especially as it made no other move.
“Are you gonna do that all night?” Spike asked, letting his sword drop slightly. It wasn’t fair attacking first, not really. Maybe.
With a snort, the dragon puffed some white smoke between them. Somehow, probably magic, it lit up the air, showing off the dragon’s chalk-white and grey body, stout and muscular legs, folded wings. Then it narrowed its eyes, seemingly in an expression of discontent.
“Can you understand what we’re saying?” Buffy asked carefully, taking a step forwards.
Surprised, the dragon reared back like a startled horse, streaming more white light towards the ground in front of it, so Buffy was forced to throw an arm across her face. Perfect moment for gallantry.
Spike stepped forward towards the flame, slipping his sword back over his shoulder into the scabbard. “Now, dragon,” he said, as its stubby forelegs landed back on the ground, “if you don’t want to hurt us then we don’t want to hurt you. But you’ll put the National Trust out of business if you keep on like this, and they’re the ones keeping your habitat all nice and habitable. Not too clever, that.”
Growling as if to prove how unimpressed it was, the dragon tilted its head to one side, projecting a tone not unlike the immortal challenge, Answer me these questions three...
“Seriously, mate, there are other options.” Spike thought quickly. “I mean, how much treasure do your scarpering tourists leave anyway? What you really want is a pool, on the beach or something; drop a few pennies and appear in the corner of their eye. Hey, presto, instant treasure stream. I mean…” He turned to Buffy, who was looking at him with bemusement. “Ask her - she’s American; they love that stuff.”
“Oh yeah,” Buffy confirmed, in a way that told him he was going to get it later (and not the good one). “Sure.”
Despite her lack of enthusiasm, it seemed to do the trick. The dragon stared them for a moment (contemplating?), before abruptly taking flight with a whip and a flap of its wings, gliding past their heads. Job done. Potentially.
Later that night, when they were back in their bed, snug and cosy, Spike tried to wheedle his way past Buffy’s grump. “But I rehabilitated it! I was good!”
“Yeah,” Buffy whinged, “but… I wanted to fight something,” came the revelation. “You’re cute when you’re all sword-swingy…”
She felt the same way? “Oh,” he replied, cheered and rolling over to make her giggle. “Well, that can be arranged…”
.
Spike wants a feat of virility to prove himself to Buffy. Dragon-slaying's always a good one, right?
Tourist Trap.
Why was it that every plan he had inevitably went tits up?
After the spectacular failure of their reunion, during which his dashing and irresistible physique had suffered some rather miserable setbacks, leaving him quite possibly whimpering in Buffy’s arms about how the salt hurt and he loved her more than unlife itself - and definitely leaving Faith unable to look at him with any more sex than you’d offer a moulting budgerigar (shame, that) - Spike had really wanted to do something manly. Preferably with Buffy at his side, complimenting his muscles and wisecracks as she executed some damned fine moves of her own, but he wasn’t fussy.
And so, when the reports came of a dragon down in Dover terrorising the ramblers, he’d been up nay eager for the challenge. He’d strategically convinced Buffy of his reflexes and stamina, all vital for dragon slaying, and they’d come down from London on the train. One aborted attempt at joining the not-a-mile-high-but-still-in-a-loo club later (the urine smell had been too strong), they’d arrived and set about getting to the white cliffs for their quest.
Now? It was half past ten and they were lost.
“The map says it’s this way!” Buffy insisted loudly, waving the Maglite in her mittens, first over the blustering paper and then aggressively in his face. “We’re here, next to Number Four, with the edge on our right, and the reports are coming from that way, towards the lighthouse.”
“The edge is on our left, Buffy,” Spike told her, not without exasperation. “You can hear the bloody sea…” Howling and crashing and salty - and why were they by the sea again?
Buffy cut through the sound, “But it’s not! We’re heading northeast, right, and that -” She pointed up. “Is the North Star!”
“I feel like I’m a bad sketch…” His hands itched for a cigarette; the way the wind was squalling made it unlikely he’d get one any time soon. “Did you not look out the window today? Cloud, cloud and more bloody cloud - it’s February! That star’ll be some lucky buggers flying to the Algarve or -”
“Fine! You get us there, smart guy!” And then she shoved the map in his chest, winding him with the knuckles that accompanied it. Bitch. Why were they even -
GRRRRRAAARRRGGGHHH!!!
Oh yeah. Dragon.
They turned to face it just as it breathed a blinding jet of magnesium-white flame across the grass, which was nonetheless so damp it barely smouldered. Defeating the marks on his vision with a smooth change into his demon face, Spike dropped the map into the wind and unsheathed the sword across his back.
Buffy’s own sword was in her tight mittened grasp, the torch tucked into a handy loop on her rucksack. “Nice try, Norbert,” she challenged.
He had to cut in. “Norbert?”
“Yeah.” Buffy shrugged. “I finally read those books. Charlie’s way the hottest Weasley.”
Right, that settled it. If he didn’t come out of this with at least his dignity intact he was never going to get her into bed again. “Yeah, dragon!” he yelled, trying to minimise his fang-lisp as much as possible. “You want a piece of my steel?”
“You’re not a subtle man, are you, hon?”
“GRRRRRAAARRRGGGHHH!” was all the dragon would say, again, shooting more flames across the grass but still finishing more than a foot away from them. Spike’s demon eyes could deal with the light now, and it seemed ever so slightly pathetic.
Especially as it made no other move.
“Are you gonna do that all night?” Spike asked, letting his sword drop slightly. It wasn’t fair attacking first, not really. Maybe.
With a snort, the dragon puffed some white smoke between them. Somehow, probably magic, it lit up the air, showing off the dragon’s chalk-white and grey body, stout and muscular legs, folded wings. Then it narrowed its eyes, seemingly in an expression of discontent.
“Can you understand what we’re saying?” Buffy asked carefully, taking a step forwards.
Surprised, the dragon reared back like a startled horse, streaming more white light towards the ground in front of it, so Buffy was forced to throw an arm across her face. Perfect moment for gallantry.
Spike stepped forward towards the flame, slipping his sword back over his shoulder into the scabbard. “Now, dragon,” he said, as its stubby forelegs landed back on the ground, “if you don’t want to hurt us then we don’t want to hurt you. But you’ll put the National Trust out of business if you keep on like this, and they’re the ones keeping your habitat all nice and habitable. Not too clever, that.”
Growling as if to prove how unimpressed it was, the dragon tilted its head to one side, projecting a tone not unlike the immortal challenge, Answer me these questions three...
“Seriously, mate, there are other options.” Spike thought quickly. “I mean, how much treasure do your scarpering tourists leave anyway? What you really want is a pool, on the beach or something; drop a few pennies and appear in the corner of their eye. Hey, presto, instant treasure stream. I mean…” He turned to Buffy, who was looking at him with bemusement. “Ask her - she’s American; they love that stuff.”
“Oh yeah,” Buffy confirmed, in a way that told him he was going to get it later (and not the good one). “Sure.”
Despite her lack of enthusiasm, it seemed to do the trick. The dragon stared them for a moment (contemplating?), before abruptly taking flight with a whip and a flap of its wings, gliding past their heads. Job done. Potentially.
Later that night, when they were back in their bed, snug and cosy, Spike tried to wheedle his way past Buffy’s grump. “But I rehabilitated it! I was good!”
“Yeah,” Buffy whinged, “but… I wanted to fight something,” came the revelation. “You’re cute when you’re all sword-swingy…”
She felt the same way? “Oh,” he replied, cheered and rolling over to make her giggle. “Well, that can be arranged…”
.