Small Comforts
Made another indigo_crypt fiction thingy. They make a pretty banner, I get inspired and write a fic. C’mon, I know someone out there has got to have banners they want a fiction for, or muses that need a kick start or something. This comm is great for that!
Title: Small Comforts
Pairings: N/A
Appropriate Ratings: G… well, no, a little swearing so PG13 I guess.
Warnings: Uh… there’s some non-consensual water play? No, joking, nothing really.
Disclaimers: Not my characters. I make no money off this, I'm just playing. I promise to give them a bath and thorough cleaning when I’m done! Joss Whedon is my lord and Master. All hail Joss Whedon.
Short Summary: After a long hard day, one takes comfort where one finds it.
Word Count: 1074 (As per MS Word Count)
Beta: Tamakin84, any errors are mine and mine alone.
X-posted to: perverted_pages, indigo_crypt, btvsatsdotcom
Archived Outside LJ At: My IJ
Comments are groovy. Share the wealth!
He trudged home in the rain, so weary he couldn’t even manage a scowl at the cab that had splashed him as he walked to his flat. He was cold, miserable, lonely, and feeling oh so lost, and when that cab drove by the puddle, sending a giant wave of filthy water to cascade over him it just seemed like the perfect way to cap off his day. Perfect. All I need now is to have Xander come over and try to explain his blasted comic book storylines. You’d think with his voracious appetite for improbable tales he’d take up reading some fine fiction classics, but instead he rots his young mind useless with brain candy.
When he finally made it home he barely had the strength to open the heavy door, he just felt so horridly weary. The day had been long, there had been a demon cult that had to be stopped at the precise stroke of dawn, which meant they had to be awake well before it to set up, Snyder had demanded a staff meeting before school opened so he couldn’t catch a couple hours nap before he had to be at the school, and then the blasted fire alarm drill. Add to that that he’d been sequestered in the book cage for most of his working day, trying to reorganize the mess that Buffy had made of it after their last research session when she’d been placed in charge of clean up. That was the last time he’d entrust such obviously delicate work to her inexpert hands.
He was tired. The day had started out sunny, and like an idiot he’d neglected to check the weather before heading out. His brand new tweed jacket was ruined, as were his lovely Italian leather wingtips. What is it that the kids say? “This day is so fired”? Because it definitely feels like a day that should be punished. What a horridly long, tedious, and tiring day.
He quickly shed his shoes and put them on the drying rack he’d bought. Hopefully they would not be irreparably damaged, it wasn’t likely but he hated the idea of buying new shoes so soon after he’d bought those. He hung up his coat on a padded hanger to dry, and let out a sigh. Why am I even here, he thought to himself. I have been thrust from home and family to Watch an insufferable little chit of a girl who wouldn’t recognize common sense or proper grammar if it sat up and introduced itself. And the worst part is if I even think of complaining to the council they’d bring up the fact that they’d have to send another one of us, and do I really want to cause the girl more confusion and set back her training? Bugger the whole bloody lot of them.
He kept up his inner tirade and continued shedding his sodding clothes, pausing when he was down to his pants to light his fireplace; he always kept a ready built stack of paper, kindling and wood, just for these instances.
He trudged wearily onwards to the bathroom, hoping a long hot shower might warm the chill from his bones and perhaps distract him from his maudlin thoughts.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He got out of the shower, towelling his hair dry with one hand while the other clutched his bathrobe closed. He snorted at his own prudish modesty in his own home, empty of all life but for him.
Ahhhh… but that’s not entirely true, is it? He made his way to his comfortable old leather recliner snuggled into a corner with book cases on either side, and slid gratefully into its embrace. He looked at the volumes lining the shelves and picked on old favourite from the selection. He smiled to himself, remembering the first time he read “A Separate Peace”, and right now he felt himself in the perfect mood for its messages of lost innocence, rivalry and regret.
Every book on these shelves brims with life, with riveting stories and scenes and characters. Can’t be alone when I have my books. He smiled again, bringing the book up to his face, breathing in the scent of musty pages, old glue, and the leather covers. He breathed deeply again, the musty leather scent teasing his nose, triggering a series of memories.
Him at the age of six, curled up in his father’s lap in the family library while being read to from a children’s anthology.
A few years later, he must have been twelve, studying for some test, his mother at his side helping him pick the books that would best serve his needs. His mother helping him study, laughing with him at a typo he found that turned a common phrase ludicrous.
Flash forward again, just a few years, the Christmas tree was up in the library that year, he remembered his father coming home from a hard days work and reading the latest in their tour of the classics aloud, his deep voice rumbling in his chest and making him feel safe.
He remembered long hours in the stacks at the Watcher’s academy, surrounded by friends during social study nights.
He remembered long nights alone in his dorm, the books his only company when his classmates went home for the holidays, but he’d been forbidden for some foolish prank he just had to pull.
Books had always been in his life, and forever the scent of the old leather used to bind them would evoke emotions of safety, warmth, companionship and? family. After his horrid day, all he had to do was sit down with an old leather clad friend and he felt better. He was no longer burdened and troubled and exhausted, he was now pleasantly calm, centered and in control.
People like Jenny always confounded him, putting their trust in computers, blocking off the one thing he had always adored about books, their smell. Well, their smell and inability to catch a bloody virus and corrupt and/or destroy everything. Besides which, computers were cold, sterile, a nice well bound book warmed in your hands and was easy to bring close and curl up around when the story got underway. Bloody computers.
He let out a content sigh and poured himself a brandy, settling himself down beside the roaring fire, curled up between the two bookshelves, and opened his old friend, no longer feeling alone.
Title: Small Comforts
Pairings: N/A
Appropriate Ratings: G… well, no, a little swearing so PG13 I guess.
Warnings: Uh… there’s some non-consensual water play? No, joking, nothing really.
Disclaimers: Not my characters. I make no money off this, I'm just playing. I promise to give them a bath and thorough cleaning when I’m done! Joss Whedon is my lord and Master. All hail Joss Whedon.
Short Summary: After a long hard day, one takes comfort where one finds it.
Word Count: 1074 (As per MS Word Count)
Beta: Tamakin84, any errors are mine and mine alone.
X-posted to: perverted_pages, indigo_crypt, btvsatsdotcom
Archived Outside LJ At: My IJ
Comments are groovy. Share the wealth!
He trudged home in the rain, so weary he couldn’t even manage a scowl at the cab that had splashed him as he walked to his flat. He was cold, miserable, lonely, and feeling oh so lost, and when that cab drove by the puddle, sending a giant wave of filthy water to cascade over him it just seemed like the perfect way to cap off his day. Perfect. All I need now is to have Xander come over and try to explain his blasted comic book storylines. You’d think with his voracious appetite for improbable tales he’d take up reading some fine fiction classics, but instead he rots his young mind useless with brain candy.
When he finally made it home he barely had the strength to open the heavy door, he just felt so horridly weary. The day had been long, there had been a demon cult that had to be stopped at the precise stroke of dawn, which meant they had to be awake well before it to set up, Snyder had demanded a staff meeting before school opened so he couldn’t catch a couple hours nap before he had to be at the school, and then the blasted fire alarm drill. Add to that that he’d been sequestered in the book cage for most of his working day, trying to reorganize the mess that Buffy had made of it after their last research session when she’d been placed in charge of clean up. That was the last time he’d entrust such obviously delicate work to her inexpert hands.
He was tired. The day had started out sunny, and like an idiot he’d neglected to check the weather before heading out. His brand new tweed jacket was ruined, as were his lovely Italian leather wingtips. What is it that the kids say? “This day is so fired”? Because it definitely feels like a day that should be punished. What a horridly long, tedious, and tiring day.
He quickly shed his shoes and put them on the drying rack he’d bought. Hopefully they would not be irreparably damaged, it wasn’t likely but he hated the idea of buying new shoes so soon after he’d bought those. He hung up his coat on a padded hanger to dry, and let out a sigh. Why am I even here, he thought to himself. I have been thrust from home and family to Watch an insufferable little chit of a girl who wouldn’t recognize common sense or proper grammar if it sat up and introduced itself. And the worst part is if I even think of complaining to the council they’d bring up the fact that they’d have to send another one of us, and do I really want to cause the girl more confusion and set back her training? Bugger the whole bloody lot of them.
He kept up his inner tirade and continued shedding his sodding clothes, pausing when he was down to his pants to light his fireplace; he always kept a ready built stack of paper, kindling and wood, just for these instances.
He trudged wearily onwards to the bathroom, hoping a long hot shower might warm the chill from his bones and perhaps distract him from his maudlin thoughts.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He got out of the shower, towelling his hair dry with one hand while the other clutched his bathrobe closed. He snorted at his own prudish modesty in his own home, empty of all life but for him.
Ahhhh… but that’s not entirely true, is it? He made his way to his comfortable old leather recliner snuggled into a corner with book cases on either side, and slid gratefully into its embrace. He looked at the volumes lining the shelves and picked on old favourite from the selection. He smiled to himself, remembering the first time he read “A Separate Peace”, and right now he felt himself in the perfect mood for its messages of lost innocence, rivalry and regret.
Every book on these shelves brims with life, with riveting stories and scenes and characters. Can’t be alone when I have my books. He smiled again, bringing the book up to his face, breathing in the scent of musty pages, old glue, and the leather covers. He breathed deeply again, the musty leather scent teasing his nose, triggering a series of memories.
Him at the age of six, curled up in his father’s lap in the family library while being read to from a children’s anthology.
A few years later, he must have been twelve, studying for some test, his mother at his side helping him pick the books that would best serve his needs. His mother helping him study, laughing with him at a typo he found that turned a common phrase ludicrous.
Flash forward again, just a few years, the Christmas tree was up in the library that year, he remembered his father coming home from a hard days work and reading the latest in their tour of the classics aloud, his deep voice rumbling in his chest and making him feel safe.
He remembered long hours in the stacks at the Watcher’s academy, surrounded by friends during social study nights.
He remembered long nights alone in his dorm, the books his only company when his classmates went home for the holidays, but he’d been forbidden for some foolish prank he just had to pull.
Books had always been in his life, and forever the scent of the old leather used to bind them would evoke emotions of safety, warmth, companionship and? family. After his horrid day, all he had to do was sit down with an old leather clad friend and he felt better. He was no longer burdened and troubled and exhausted, he was now pleasantly calm, centered and in control.
People like Jenny always confounded him, putting their trust in computers, blocking off the one thing he had always adored about books, their smell. Well, their smell and inability to catch a bloody virus and corrupt and/or destroy everything. Besides which, computers were cold, sterile, a nice well bound book warmed in your hands and was easy to bring close and curl up around when the story got underway. Bloody computers.
He let out a content sigh and poured himself a brandy, settling himself down beside the roaring fire, curled up between the two bookshelves, and opened his old friend, no longer feeling alone.