Title: Flying High
Pairing: Spike/Xander, of Buffy
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Previous chapters: The escapades of baby!vamp!Xander and Sire Spike. *g*
Like In The Movies
Xander leapt from the roof and landed gracefully on his feet, arms outstretched and grinning like a loon.
"You know what would be really cool? If we had wings." He sounded awed by the very idea, and Spike turned to stare at his dirt-new childe with fatalistic gloom.
"Oh, I know, the transforming into a bat thing is just another of Dracula's stupid illusions, just like getting dusted twice by Buffy, but still... Imagine it, Spike! We could fly! We could swoop down out of the skies and pick off anyone we wanted."
"Sometimes I worry about you."
Don't Eat The Hippies
He almost turned to check his arms for feathers but got distracted by the pretty dancing flowers in the air and on his tongue. Instead he watched the burning baby fishes as Dru courted William, lured him into tilting back his head so she could feed.
Streaks of lightning, spinning colours, Xander floating hollow, light as ashes on the madly swirling air. Down through screams and smoke, flame and death and slaughter.
Balanced on a candlewick he watched the battle take place amongst the gods and dogs and dragons in the ornate Chinese temple.
He saw the stake.
Xander had insisted on an angel for the Christmas tree, then spent a couple of hours behind closed doors with pens and paints.
The end result sat crookedly atop the crooked tree, and every time Spike looked at it he grinned.
Where once had been a halo, there now were dark red horns, and tiny little fangs poked from its mouth. The hymnal had become a book of spells, all runes and pentacles; the robes were streaked with black and red and gold, cut rough and ragged. The wings were brightest crimson tipped with rusty smears of blood.