Title: An Alphabet of Feelings, pt1: A-F
Fandom: Pairing: Buffy: Spike/Xander
Rating: R for language
Words: 600
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo, please feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Vamped!Xander
Summary: The first six of a set of twenty six 'mood drabbles', in alphabetical order.
Notes: Written for
fall_for_sx. Six down, twenty to go!A is for Agitated
"C'mon, Spike! It's almost dawn already!"
Xander claws ineffectually at the bone-deep itch that stretches from shoulder to ankle, the length of his left side. He knows the buildings opposite will protect them for at least another half an hour, but it's driving him crazy and even vampire strength won't let him get a good hard scratch going on, not without shredding the sleeve of his favourite jacket. And maybe his flesh.
"Spiiike!"
Brakes squeal. Bundles of over-inked paper thud on the pavement. Spike dives out and snatches up a new TV Guide.
"Stop your whining. We can go now."
B is for Breathless
She watches from a darkened doorway, serendipitously downwind. She doesn't really understand what she is witness to.
Two men, one dark and broad, one pale and lean, stand in moonlight, silver slivers turning line and plane and form into marble art.
Their kiss goes on forever. Mouths joined as one, no space to pass a breath of air between them.
On and on and on. Ravenous. Romantic. Ridiculously hot.
She inches closer, drawn by the power, the passion, the perfection of what she sees. She's envious of the languor and the lust. The love.
Then the wind changes.
She's lunch.
C is for Calm
Spike cannot find the words to adequately describe how he feels when that little red witch tries to stitch his Xander's soul back on.
He's accustomed to a flood of rage when someone tries to hurt what's his; he's used to hungering for revenge, for gratification of the violent persuasion. Blood has curdled in his veins beneath the wash of fear that what is his will soon be gone, beyond his protection.
He's not used to this.
This is pure ice and clear-headed thinking. This is a plan that won't fall beneath the wheels of his impatience.
This is calm.
D is for Drunk
"But… You were completely hammered when you kidnapped Willow to do that love spell on Dru. I know I had a concussion but you were the one slurring your words and getting all wet and weepy."
Spike keeps loading crates of hijacked alcohol into the trunk of the Desoto, one ear tuned to the road and the sound of rapidly approaching sirens.
"I'd been pouring industrial strength rotgut down my neck since Brazil, you daft git, of course I was drunk! Had no blood in my alcohol stream, did I? But, you want to get drunk, I'll get you drunk."
E is for Enamored
Spike didn't realise the size of the problem until Xander came home with a jacket like the Captain's, yards of fake gold braid carefully stitched to the red fabric - a gift for him.
Enough was enough.
"I didn't mind when you started watching the show. I didn't mind buying you the boxsets and watching them with you every week for three months. I didn't even mind too much about the stupid little action figures you've got tucked under the bed where you think I won't find them, but I am not dressing up as Captain John Hart while we fuck!"
F is for Fascinated
Spike never tires of watching Xander stalk his prey.
On city streets he's pretty rent boy, affable student or stumbling drunk. In smaller towns he's clueless tourist, earnest salesman or smoky-eyed drifter. On the long, deserted highways that stretch between the two, he's the one they all stop for - floppy-haired and big-grinned, as harmless as a puppy and twice as cute. Even in the parks - Yellowstone, Yosemite, Acadia and all the rest - he fits right in, all fluid limbs and flaring nostrils, wild hair and wilder eyes; a predator on the prowl.
Spike never tires of watching. How could he?
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