Title: The Spark
Author: slayershandbook
Beta: mezzibelle
Rating: PG
Word count: 200 (a double drabble, or a "droubble").
Disclaimers: They belong to Joss. I only dream of them.
A/N: Written for the nekid number challenge at the nekid_spike community. My prompts were Drusilla, alley, hula hoop. So, the challenge was to have Dru in it. (Apart from Spike, of course. After all, it's a Spike community.) Of course, being a Spuffy girl at heart, my plot-bunny jumped to conclusions...
I had planned to do a drabble, but it became longer. So I settled for 200 words, which I found out can be called a droubble.
Los Angeles, 1988.
She frowned, standing at the edge of the alley looking at the playground.
He looked over her shoulder.
A girl with pigtails was playing with a hula hoop. Purple and silver glittered in the twilight.
"You mean the hoop, pet?"
His black beauty turned towards him and he was lost, as always, in her dark eyes that saw so many things.
Suddenly she slapped him and he shouted. "What the hell?"
She ran. Her timing impeccable, the sun's last rays barely gone. Following he saw the girl leaving with a woman, her hoop forgotten on the ground. Thinking his goddess was after the humans he was surprised as she went for the purple toy.
Holding it so hard it broke in her hand she hissed at it.
"Not yet. I'll have my prince a little longer."
As he came up to her she dropped the pieces on the ground and smiled at him.
They kissed and forgot the glittering hoop and the girl they would see again ten years later in a town called Sunnydale.
But she still hit him every time she saw a hula hoop.
A girl like her shouldn't think about black men that way.
Cordelia prides herself of not being a racist, she doesn't care what color her friends are.
But some lines a girl like her can never cross. Like wonder if it's true, the myth about black men and size.
Secretly she glances down sometimes, when Gunn looks elsewhere.
She blames Xander. Dating him made her consider things a girl like her would never do.
Guilt firmly placed she covertly lets her gaze linger, estimates, then smiles.
Imagining his body naked. Doing things to other girls. Not a girl like her.
She won the fight, but the demon managed a final hit before dying. Now; warm, thick and smelling of iron, red drops were splattered on stone.
Spike looked on, surprised, as she crumbled. Golden hair darkened with sweat, small frame limp in unconsciousness, wounded by something that now couldn't collect.
Hesitantly he closed in on the blood welling up, calling to him like a siren.
Unconsciousness having robbed her mind of pain, the chip wouldn't fire. He knew this as surely as he knew her name.
This was his good day, so why did the Slayer's blood taste like ashes?
Sometimes Lilah thinks of the past. She never lets herself regret, but does acknowledge that previously things were clearer, simpler.
Wesley was an exploration of an angle; to gain another player or maybe infiltrate the others' team. He was never supposed to influence her.
But in the calm moments after sex, before leaving him with a final verbal stab, as she lies satisfied in his arms she feels a twinge inside.
Lilah assumes it's the last, withered remnants of her soul, and she hates Wesley for making it stir even as she smothers it beneath her gods, Pleasure and Power.
"Are you really here?"
His voice is hoarse, but not for lack of use. Rages and pleas have ground the honey-smoothness to gravel.
She torments him, confuses him. Sweet words changes to harsh. Sometimes she's Buffy, sometimes Dru.
Footsteps. He cowers like a puppy before her cold eyes. Her voice is hard as iron.
"Spike. This basement is killing you."
Pushed too far, he lashes out; sinks his teeth into flesh. Warm and rich, his Slayer's blood fills him.
...blood?
He sees Buffy standing triumphantly before him, and horror descends as he clutches the body of...
"Buffy? Are you real?"
The rain was pounding on the roof, offering a gentle background to the murmur of voices from the television. Giles frowned at the boots that were propped on the table, but didn't have the energy to start a row.
The vampire was splayed out in the sofa after Giles, in a fit of generosity, had let him off the hook (or, more correctly, chains) as both were stuck with nothing much to do on a dark and rainy Sunday. He was currently watching afternoon soaps while simultaneously fidgeting and in general being so annoying Giles began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.
When the humming started he stopped wondering.
"Stop that!"
Innocence shone in the blue eyes. "What?"
"Feet off the table, and stop your damn humming!"
The bashful remorse that met him was so perfect it simply HAD to be an act.
"Oh, sorry, didn't realize."
Boots left the table – only to be placed in the sofa!
"SPIKE!"
Wide eyes turned once again their full attention on the other man. "What?"
Having had quite enough Giles simply pointed to the dirty boots that already had left a print on the fabric. Spike looked at them, then back. He shrugged. "So?"
Giles was just about to manhandle him back to the bathroom when he noticed the small smirk that the vampire couldn't quite contain. Forcing himself to calm down he quietly asked. "Why are you trying to be obnoxious on purpose?"
Dark eyelashes lowered and the false innocence shifted into a pout with a hint of embarrassment, this one too small to be fake. "I'm bored."
The murmured words poked a hole in his anger which deflated like an airless balloon. He sighed and took off his glasses. "Honestly, Spike, you're just like a child sometimes."
The pout morphed into a leer, so sinfully suggestive Giles found his heart beat faster. Even as he tried to ignore the feeling that stole over him he realized he was fighting a losing battle as the vampire tilted his head and replied, "Well, then. If you think I've been a bad boy, I guess you'd better spank me."
Much later Giles lay in bed next to a lean body, sated and sleepy, contemplating the blessings of rainy afternoons that made grown men bored and thus more liable to do things they otherwise would only dream of.
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