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Drabbles: Coldfire (G to soft R, slash)
I should have known better than to offer drabbles to a fic-starved fandom with so many plotbunniers on my f-list, really :) In order of appearance, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alighiera, alice_montrose, fuumasfrog and trobadora.
WORKAROUNDS
Ever since Mount Shaitan, Gerald had been learning to appreciate the simple pleasures in life. For example, at the moment he was lying sprawled across Damien’s broad chest, idly toying with the ex-priest’s shirt and watching the dazed look in Damien’s eyes. Even the cramped quarters only meant that he had an excuse to climb just that close, and Damien had to put an arm around his waist.
Presently, Damien blinked, his eyes turning clearer. “Are we on a ship-“
Gerald leaned in and kissed Damien again until the other man’s eyes were glazed over once more, the guarded question turning into a drawn-out moan before it could be fully phrased.
If he had known getting Damien to enjoy ship travel would be that easy, he would have tried this method ages ago.
-FIN-
SO THE WORLD WILL NEVER FIND YOU
Damien sighed as he pushed through the crowd, taking another drink from a flask of liquor someone had pressed into his hand. At least in the black mask and cloak, even if he did make a fool of himself at the Jaggonath carnival, no-one would be able to tell him apart from every other guy dressed up as a vampire. And a few real vampires, he had no doubt.
He wondered what Gerald would wear. The adept had been reticent about his plans, only setting the meeting place on the outskirts of the city-
Near Karril’s temple, he realised as a woman flung herself into his arms. She was wearing a version of a First Landing uniform, though he was sure the real colonists never had ones that tight.
She kissed him on the mouth. “Praise Karril,” she whispered. “A man is waiting for you, two alleys down. An... urgent matter.”
She laughed shrilly, and as she flung her neck back he saw the imprint of teeth. Not quite Gerald’s type, he thought, too strong, but then he wasn’t Gerald’s usual type either.
He stumbled through the throng of people, found the alley, leaned against a door that opened to rapidly for him to do anything but fall through it to the floor.
A chapel of the Church, he realised as he looked around blearily. Closed down temporarily, with a pagan festival roaring through the streets. Yet there were candles burning, and a fresh cloth on the altar.
Something – someone – moving, and he raised his head as he struggled to his feet.
Layers of silk obscuring limbs and body, so that he could no longer recall their past or present look. A broad collar of beaten gold with a pattern of flames. Dark hair instead of light brown, but oh, never mistaken, and now he remembered too clearly.
“I remember you felt particularly strongly about that dream.” Even the old mocking cadences were back in Tarrant’s voice. “You will enjoy this better than you would have the masquerade.”
Strong hands pushed Damien against the altar before he could think of fear, revulsion, desire, sacrilege.
“Don’t worry,” the man who had been the Hunter whispered in his ear as clothes were quickly, deftly pushed aside. “I won’t let you think.”
-FIN-
PETTY ANNOYANCES
Damien moved his wrists experimentally. The cuffs were far snugger than it should be possible for something lined with fur.
“Gerald, this is vulking ridiculous,” he muttered.
The former Hunter shook his head as he surveyed his handiwork. “You have a habit of tearing buttons off my shirts. I’m running out of outfits, and the shops here are not up to my standards. Therefore, you’ll be chained until I undress myself.”
“Only until then?” Damien asked hopefully.
Gerald’s smile was sweetness itself as he ran a hand down Damien’s bare chest. “Perhaps a few minutes longer than that.”
-FIN-
PROOF OF FAITH
The bracelet was tarnished silver, a streak of near-black on the red velvet lining the box set on the street stall. Gerald’s fingers closed in on it without hesitation. Damien raised his eyebrows, but remained silent as Gerald ruthlessly argued down the price.
He got his answer when they left the street fair and Gerald tenderly wiped the grime and tarnish off a fragile piece of glass. Underneath it was the face of a clock, too small to ever house the appropriate mechanism.
“A watch used to be an important theological analogy, Vryce. As the watch with its complexity proves the existence of a watchmaker, so the world proves the existence of its creator.”
Under Gerald’s touch, a tiny screw turned without resistance.
Tick.
-FIN-
alighiera, alice_montrose, fuumasfrog and trobadora.WORKAROUNDS
Ever since Mount Shaitan, Gerald had been learning to appreciate the simple pleasures in life. For example, at the moment he was lying sprawled across Damien’s broad chest, idly toying with the ex-priest’s shirt and watching the dazed look in Damien’s eyes. Even the cramped quarters only meant that he had an excuse to climb just that close, and Damien had to put an arm around his waist.
Presently, Damien blinked, his eyes turning clearer. “Are we on a ship-“
Gerald leaned in and kissed Damien again until the other man’s eyes were glazed over once more, the guarded question turning into a drawn-out moan before it could be fully phrased.
If he had known getting Damien to enjoy ship travel would be that easy, he would have tried this method ages ago.
-FIN-
SO THE WORLD WILL NEVER FIND YOU
Damien sighed as he pushed through the crowd, taking another drink from a flask of liquor someone had pressed into his hand. At least in the black mask and cloak, even if he did make a fool of himself at the Jaggonath carnival, no-one would be able to tell him apart from every other guy dressed up as a vampire. And a few real vampires, he had no doubt.
He wondered what Gerald would wear. The adept had been reticent about his plans, only setting the meeting place on the outskirts of the city-
Near Karril’s temple, he realised as a woman flung herself into his arms. She was wearing a version of a First Landing uniform, though he was sure the real colonists never had ones that tight.
She kissed him on the mouth. “Praise Karril,” she whispered. “A man is waiting for you, two alleys down. An... urgent matter.”
She laughed shrilly, and as she flung her neck back he saw the imprint of teeth. Not quite Gerald’s type, he thought, too strong, but then he wasn’t Gerald’s usual type either.
He stumbled through the throng of people, found the alley, leaned against a door that opened to rapidly for him to do anything but fall through it to the floor.
A chapel of the Church, he realised as he looked around blearily. Closed down temporarily, with a pagan festival roaring through the streets. Yet there were candles burning, and a fresh cloth on the altar.
Something – someone – moving, and he raised his head as he struggled to his feet.
Layers of silk obscuring limbs and body, so that he could no longer recall their past or present look. A broad collar of beaten gold with a pattern of flames. Dark hair instead of light brown, but oh, never mistaken, and now he remembered too clearly.
“I remember you felt particularly strongly about that dream.” Even the old mocking cadences were back in Tarrant’s voice. “You will enjoy this better than you would have the masquerade.”
Strong hands pushed Damien against the altar before he could think of fear, revulsion, desire, sacrilege.
“Don’t worry,” the man who had been the Hunter whispered in his ear as clothes were quickly, deftly pushed aside. “I won’t let you think.”
-FIN-
PETTY ANNOYANCES
Damien moved his wrists experimentally. The cuffs were far snugger than it should be possible for something lined with fur.
“Gerald, this is vulking ridiculous,” he muttered.
The former Hunter shook his head as he surveyed his handiwork. “You have a habit of tearing buttons off my shirts. I’m running out of outfits, and the shops here are not up to my standards. Therefore, you’ll be chained until I undress myself.”
“Only until then?” Damien asked hopefully.
Gerald’s smile was sweetness itself as he ran a hand down Damien’s bare chest. “Perhaps a few minutes longer than that.”
-FIN-
PROOF OF FAITH
The bracelet was tarnished silver, a streak of near-black on the red velvet lining the box set on the street stall. Gerald’s fingers closed in on it without hesitation. Damien raised his eyebrows, but remained silent as Gerald ruthlessly argued down the price.
He got his answer when they left the street fair and Gerald tenderly wiped the grime and tarnish off a fragile piece of glass. Underneath it was the face of a clock, too small to ever house the appropriate mechanism.
“A watch used to be an important theological analogy, Vryce. As the watch with its complexity proves the existence of a watchmaker, so the world proves the existence of its creator.”
Under Gerald’s touch, a tiny screw turned without resistance.
Tick.
-FIN-
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SCENE! :D
“He starts tryin’ to hump the big guy’s leg, I’m thinkin’ I’ll need to get me a camera and get some proof...” Faith shook her head. “Wondered what got B wound so tight, but I guess havin’ your boytoy goin’ fanboy on an ubervamp’ll do it every time.”
“Not to mention that she and Herbert had a bit of a fight,” Spike reminded her dryly. “I don’t think the Slayer takes kindly to being smacked about by a pretty boy with better hair.”
Faith’s smile was lop-sided. “She don’t like to lose,” she agreed.
Settling back against the wall, Spike flicked some of the ash from his cigarette. “It’s kept her alive this long.”
“Uh, Fang-2? She died twice, remember?”
The vampire’s eyes closed briefly. “Yeah, she did...” Then he chuckled. “Mind you, been there, done the eaten-by-vampire-death and the flaming-toasty-sacrificial-death thing, but never managed to find a T-shirt.”
The Slayer was quiet for a moment, then he heard her draw a breath, as if she was steeling herself for something. Cracking open one eye, he glanced at her. “What you want to know, Slayer?”
She was staring at the smouldering tip of her cigarette, but it didn’t look like she was really seeing it. “What happened?” she asked quietly. “You were there. You saw what went down.” She looked at him. “Blue... she’s Fred, but not... and you’re here, but no one else...”
Spike felt the muscle in his jaw tense and nodded. “Took on hell,” he replied, his voice quiet, serious. “Angel’s big plan; knock out a huge chunk of the top demons in line for the big apocalypse.”
“Explains why a huge-ass piece of LA looked like a warzone...”
Spike laughed faintly, but his eyes were distant, haunted. “Band of buggered versus an army, love,” he replied sadly. “The band of buggered. Fred was out of it months back. Blue nicked her body.” He drew a trembling drag. “Wesley went out in the first wave. Saw Charlie-boy fighting, but he was out of it even before it started. Bleeding.” Smoke curled from his lips. “And Angel...” He closed his eyes, exhaled. “The stupid son of a bitch took a stake for me.”
“Christ...”
“Could have done with his help,” Spike said softly, looking at his cigarette. “Blue went mental, took out dozens. Knew I was meant to go next. Wanted to take as many as I could.” He laughed faintly, sadly. “Amazing the damage molotov cocktails can do when you toss in some holy water as well. Got a knock on the head from somewhere. Woke up later. Blue had grabbed me. Run. Left them burning.”
“Jesus...”
Blue eyes gazed at her. “Yeah. Glad you weren’t there, Slayer.”
“Wish I coulda helped.”
Spike shook his head. “Nah, Slayer. Getting skewered and toasted isn’t the way to go,” he said. “You done right staying with Buffy. Newbies’ll need all the experienced help they can get. Better you’re around to show ‘em.” He reached out, gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You know the poof wouldn’t have let you come anyway.”
“Still doesn’t mean I don’t regret being there to lay a smackdown on hell’s bitches for him.” He could hear the tremor in her voice. “Jesus, Spike, he... he got me back on my feet, showed me what to do...”
Slipping his arm around her shoulders, Spike pulled her - with only a heartbeat of resistance - against his side. “I know, Slayer,” he said quietly. “Least we can remember that about the silly arse, eh? That and the bloody awful hair.” He heard her faint laugh and laid his cheek against her hair. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but he was all right.”
“He was,” Faith agreed quietly. “Bad hair included.”
P.S.
Centuries had gone by, yet the scent of wisdom, the broad arms, the familiar, gentle touch, the soft hum of a lullaby he thought he had long-since forgotten reduced him once more to a shivering child in his father’s protective embrace.
(Yes, Herbert broke me. Thank you for asking.)
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And, today, at work, informed me of what he intended to get for Spike's anniversary/birthday type thing. I'll give him credit - he knows what his boy likes ;)
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(No, honestly - when will yours be, time-wise? Would there be a week or two, or better a month, post the current revelations, for them to have relationship fluff, or am I better off making my little vignettes AU?)
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And I love the symbolism of the 4th drabble.
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Thanks for posting them.
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