Oh no what have I done
Friday, April 21st, 2006 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
orange_crushedIn Gun's journal there has been some (brief, insane) debate over whether or not Ginny/Xander is an appropriate OTP. It was all joking, but it gave me the worst idea.
Spike, Sirius, Europe, and cigarettes. PG for language.
He asks you for a light and you almost give it to him, because you're not feeling asshole at the moment, more like anti-hero; yeah, that's it, in the shadows with the streetlight making you look taller. God, you wish you were taller sometimes.
But he stinks. Not like food or shit or rubbing alcohol, like the bums- this one stinks like magic. It's a familiar burn in the back of the nostrils, the smell of two worlds hiccuping cheerfully into each other, lines crossing. Not-right and should-not be. These fucking spell junkies and their hoo-doo bullshit.
"Nah, changed my mind." Spike tucks the lighter back into the fold of his coat. "Piss off." The man stares at him through bedraggled bangs and grins at him like a lunatic.
"That's alright." He puts the wrinkled cigarette to his lips and mumbles something that could be findio or bendio; really, it's for the best that Spike stopped trusting his ears a long time ago, sometime in the jumble after she said I love you and then forgot. The cigarette has a little halo of light at the tip, and an instant later it's burning steadily.
"Nice trick." he says, because it is. "Now get the fuck out of here. I don't need the trouble."
"Oh, no ?" The crazy puffs out a breath and the smoke smells like clove instead of plastic ashtrays. It reminds him of Morocco, crossing into the African desert, and womens' eyes lined in kohl. "I sort of figured you for a man who does trouble professionally."
"I'm on vacation." he says, through gritted teeth. And he is. Permanently, if luck holds out. Doesn't mean he can't still punch people in the face from time to time.
"So am I." The other man laughs, and holds out a beaten cigarette case. They're probably hand-rolled in human skin or some shit, Spike thinks, and takes one anyway. They taste like the first wind in autumn. The man's grey eyes are laughing at him, a sensation that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "I know what you're thinking about me, and you're wrong. I'm the real deal."
"Good for you." Spike stares at him and lets his eyes change; just for a second, so that it could be a trick of the light. "Just so you know what you're dealing with."
"That's fair." They stand and smoke, watching a couple of boats slide through the canal. "Hell, it's too late or too early. You want to get a drink ?"
"I could drink."
"I'll get the werewolf." he says, and smiles when Spike laughs.
Spike, Sirius, Europe, and cigarettes. PG for language.
He asks you for a light and you almost give it to him, because you're not feeling asshole at the moment, more like anti-hero; yeah, that's it, in the shadows with the streetlight making you look taller. God, you wish you were taller sometimes.
But he stinks. Not like food or shit or rubbing alcohol, like the bums- this one stinks like magic. It's a familiar burn in the back of the nostrils, the smell of two worlds hiccuping cheerfully into each other, lines crossing. Not-right and should-not be. These fucking spell junkies and their hoo-doo bullshit.
"Nah, changed my mind." Spike tucks the lighter back into the fold of his coat. "Piss off." The man stares at him through bedraggled bangs and grins at him like a lunatic.
"That's alright." He puts the wrinkled cigarette to his lips and mumbles something that could be findio or bendio; really, it's for the best that Spike stopped trusting his ears a long time ago, sometime in the jumble after she said I love you and then forgot. The cigarette has a little halo of light at the tip, and an instant later it's burning steadily.
"Nice trick." he says, because it is. "Now get the fuck out of here. I don't need the trouble."
"Oh, no ?" The crazy puffs out a breath and the smoke smells like clove instead of plastic ashtrays. It reminds him of Morocco, crossing into the African desert, and womens' eyes lined in kohl. "I sort of figured you for a man who does trouble professionally."
"I'm on vacation." he says, through gritted teeth. And he is. Permanently, if luck holds out. Doesn't mean he can't still punch people in the face from time to time.
"So am I." The other man laughs, and holds out a beaten cigarette case. They're probably hand-rolled in human skin or some shit, Spike thinks, and takes one anyway. They taste like the first wind in autumn. The man's grey eyes are laughing at him, a sensation that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "I know what you're thinking about me, and you're wrong. I'm the real deal."
"Good for you." Spike stares at him and lets his eyes change; just for a second, so that it could be a trick of the light. "Just so you know what you're dealing with."
"That's fair." They stand and smoke, watching a couple of boats slide through the canal. "Hell, it's too late or too early. You want to get a drink ?"
"I could drink."
"I'll get the werewolf." he says, and smiles when Spike laughs.
