pudding and miracle, Buffyverse fic, okay, so Spike
Thanks to Mel for the prompts, I just really liked the juxtaposition these 2 words suggested
nothing owned
“Wot? It was Darla you got up the duff? In the puddin’ club? I don’t bloody believe it!”
That last was a blatant lie. The whole thing made a terrible twisted sense - considering the way the universe liked to play with vampires, now you’re dead, now you’re not.
“So this ‘Connor’, he’s lost his memory of being your get? Lucky sod…”
“Of being my son.” Angel’s terse reply was matched by the increasingly tense expression on his face.
Spike didn’t miss the emphasis, knew exactly how pissed Angel was by his comments, knew, ignored.
“So, basically, you’re saying he’s a ‘miracle child’, yeah?” he goaded.
“I’m saying he is the best thing that ever happened to me and I don’t want your comments, your insights about him. I don’t want you anywhere near him. He is nothing to do with you. Basically, I don’t want you… even thinking about him. Forget you heard anything about him. Understood?” Angel ground out the words.
Spike weighed up his options. Hating being ordered about, on principle, he didn’t deign to acknowledge Angel’s question. Instead, he prevaricated, patting down his pockets to locate his lighter, not that he intended to light up, not the point. On the other hand, smoking a fag, accidentally sending the smoke towards the sprinkler system…Spike eyed up the possibility.
Angel turned away. Subconsciously, Spike relaxed a notch, failed to anticipate, and found himself trapped, Angel’s broad hands encircling his neck, just enough pressure applied to bruise Spike’s larynx, any harder and the damage would become serious.
need my voice, no choice now, shouldn’t have bloody let him get the drop on me, pratt!
“Made your point,” Spike wheezed out. He shrugged in loue of true acquiescence and Angel’s hands dropped away to hang heavy by his side.
Spike squared his shoulders and sent Angel the most obnoxious grin he could dredge up, then walked away, reviewing the confrontation.
‘don’t want you…’. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing putting in that pause, knew it would rankle.
Trick was, as ever, to show nothing, to move past it.
nothing owned
“Wot? It was Darla you got up the duff? In the puddin’ club? I don’t bloody believe it!”
That last was a blatant lie. The whole thing made a terrible twisted sense - considering the way the universe liked to play with vampires, now you’re dead, now you’re not.
“So this ‘Connor’, he’s lost his memory of being your get? Lucky sod…”
“Of being my son.” Angel’s terse reply was matched by the increasingly tense expression on his face.
Spike didn’t miss the emphasis, knew exactly how pissed Angel was by his comments, knew, ignored.
“So, basically, you’re saying he’s a ‘miracle child’, yeah?” he goaded.
“I’m saying he is the best thing that ever happened to me and I don’t want your comments, your insights about him. I don’t want you anywhere near him. He is nothing to do with you. Basically, I don’t want you… even thinking about him. Forget you heard anything about him. Understood?” Angel ground out the words.
Spike weighed up his options. Hating being ordered about, on principle, he didn’t deign to acknowledge Angel’s question. Instead, he prevaricated, patting down his pockets to locate his lighter, not that he intended to light up, not the point. On the other hand, smoking a fag, accidentally sending the smoke towards the sprinkler system…Spike eyed up the possibility.
Angel turned away. Subconsciously, Spike relaxed a notch, failed to anticipate, and found himself trapped, Angel’s broad hands encircling his neck, just enough pressure applied to bruise Spike’s larynx, any harder and the damage would become serious.
need my voice, no choice now, shouldn’t have bloody let him get the drop on me, pratt!
“Made your point,” Spike wheezed out. He shrugged in loue of true acquiescence and Angel’s hands dropped away to hang heavy by his side.
Spike squared his shoulders and sent Angel the most obnoxious grin he could dredge up, then walked away, reviewing the confrontation.
‘don’t want you…’. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing putting in that pause, knew it would rankle.
Trick was, as ever, to show nothing, to move past it.