some more Spred for Plei:
It seemed to last forever. When it finally stopped, Spike seemed to know before the final nauseating roll had peaked that it was over. He slid out, Fred attached like a remora to his chest, and stood up, gently detaching her.
"You all right, then?"
She nodded, speechless and shaking. There were running footsteps overhead, hitting the stairs, stopping.
"Spike."
"Angel. Here I am, reporting for service, as promised back up in Sunnydale."
The blond looked up, locking stares with Fred's boss, standing motionless at the top of the stairs. It occurred to her that they might have sat as models for yang and yin vampires. Or Rose White and Rose Red. Or blood red. Or something. She shook her head; poetic metaphors weren't really her strong point.
"Good. I'm glad you're here. We need the help." Angel came downstairs, and nodded lightly at Fred. "Are you OK? Nothing broken? That was a pretty good temblor."
"Um, no I'm fine, see, Spike here grabbed me and covered me up, so, well really, i'm OK."
Nice hard body you've got under that coat, Fang Boy.
The words popped unbidden into her mind, and she shoved them away. If any of that found its way from her psyche into the open air? She'd have to practice some serious slayage on herself. What was wrong with her, anyway? Think about Charles - no, better not. Think about Wes - uhoh, no that either. OK, think about Willow. Think about Sexy Red with all the power. Just don't think about Spike anymore.
"Fred?" Angel sounded concerned. "You can open your eyes now. The quake's over. But I think I heard something go over in the office." He turned his head as the Hyperion's front doors opened, and Wesley walked through, looking a bit shaken. "Hey Wes," Angel nodded. "You all right?"
"Other than my eternal distrust of ground moving beneath me? Fine." He stopped and stared at the newcomer. "Oh, my lord. You're William the Bloody, that was. Spike, yes?"
"Right." Spike had his eyes fixed on Fred. "Look, pet, you sure you're not damaged?"
They were all staring at her now. Better say something. She swallowed hard.
"So," she said brightly, and nervously. "You're the hunky vamp the Slayer was screwing? The other one with a soul?"
Deb, isn't it *Snow* White and Rose Red? (I even checked in my extremely tattered volume of children's stories that is part of my earliest memories, and it has Snow White and Rose Red. Not that it's the authority, but those are how I always heard the 2 names.)
I'm intrigued with your Spred.
And still think Plei is evil for enabling it.
Plei, I'll hit stride shortly. Need to finish Weaver and Still Life edits before I let myself get too deep into anything else. But I wanted to keep it going.
Oh, who and where was it, that the subject of a BtVS/AtS crossover with Gumball Rally was first raised? Because Nic and I mapped the entire race out in our heads last night on the way home, including who got what cars. Example: Faith has the early eighties Ferrari Testarosa in arrest-me red. Angel, Mister Ragtop Man, is going to lose it when he spots a 1936 Lagonda convertible roadster with a running board for the taking. And we both agreed without a blink that Wesley must must must have Mrs. Peel's Lotus Elan.
Dawn and Buffy, off together, with Dawn driving illegally in something absurd, maybe a nice old Volvo P1800 and Buffy sweating bullets. Dawn would produce pink teeshirts that said "GO TEAM SUMMERS!"
Xander and Anya in a beefed-up Beemer, probably a 7-series.
Giles in the classic Jag XKE, not even street legal.
Spike on a killer bike, wrapped head to toe leather and full wraparound helmet, no sun can touch him anywhere. Demon-treated eye protection on the helmet so he can ride during the day.
Gunn, with Fred doing evil little things to the mechanics when it hiccups, in a seventies Lamborghini Miura, rollbar and all.
Alternately, Fred and Willow in a Mercedes 6-series, the kind my daughter's boyfriend has. Oh yeah.
Starting out in, say, London. Finish line - Transylvania?
Steph, yes indeed, Snow White and Rose Red. But I deliberately muddled it, because I saw Fred muddling it, and progressing naturally to Blood Red.
(and I adore that damned fairy tale....)
This was entirely accidental, okay? Someone came along and greased the slope with butter or something, and ooops! I slid down!
It isn't in character, either. Neither of them are quite right, though I think Spike's closer than Fred is.
- - -
“I don’t think they’re going to like this,” Fred said quietly.
“Who aren’t?” Spike asked, slowly combing his fingers through her hair. In his half-asleep state, he thought it was like Drusilla’s, thought perhaps a little softer.
“Angel. Gunn. Wesley. Anyone.” She was starting to sound nervous again, the way she’d been when they first met, so Spike kissed her. It helped a little, and she went on. “They aren’t going to like me sleeping with a vampire.”
“Look, love, they can’t really object. Angel’s a vampire, isn’t he?”
“A vampire with a soul,” Fred corrected, almost automatically.
“A vampire—with a soul—like the one I’ve got. Yes?”
“His was a gypsy curse and yours was given to you by a demon, but even the Watcher’s Council admits—I mean, admitted—that a soul is a soul, no matter what the source. They said so in 1584 when they had to have a Slayer re-ensouled by a shaman, because a demon had managed to remove hers.”
“You carry a lot in that pretty head of yours,” Spike commented, impressed.
Fred giggled a little at the compliment, and shrugged. “Actually, I went and looked it up while you were asleep.”
“After we…”
“Yeah.”
“Are you always this trusting of strange vampires?” Spike rolled a fraction closer to her.
“No, only the ones that make me laugh. When I’m armed.”
“Armed? How?” Spike enquired, moving away again, suddenly wary. This girl had depths he hadn’t seen.
“Left arm and right arm,” she said, demonstrating by hugging him tighter.
“And here was me, thinking you were an ‘armless girl.”
“Not me. Two arms, plus a stake.” Fred looked so pleased with herself that Spike couldn’t quite point out that merely having a stake wasn’t enough.
“Where do you keep that?” he said instead. “I’ve done,” and he demonstrated, running a hand down her side, “a pretty through strip search.”
Fred reached backwards, away from him, feeling for something tucked between the mattress and the bed frame. “Here.”
He looked at the stake suddenly in her hand, and his eyebrows shot up. “You’re good.”
“It’s better than being evil,” she giggled, “And it wasn’t my idea. I think Wesley put them there first, in case he ever had to deal with Angelus suddenly, and Gunn didn’t object because he likes to be armed all the time anyway. Every bed in the Hyperion has one.”
“Wesley was worried about having to deal with Angelus *in bed*?”
Fred blushed, more for the tone than the words. “And there’s one in the back of the fridge,” she said, her eyes widening. “They must have…”
“Sounds like this hotel’s seen plenty of action,” Spike smirked, and Fred recalled his explanation for being in LA. “I’m looking for the action—Sunnydale’s too quiet these days,” he’d said—but he wasn’t thinking about Sunnydale anymore. “On that basis alone, I don’t see them raising many objections.” His exploring hand was creeping lower.
Fred moved back a little, replacing the stake in it’s hiding place, and swept her gaze down Spike’s body, all on glorious display. “You’ve raised something, though,” she said, trying to match his smirk but ending up with a smile as sweet as the pixie sticks the Nibblet had shared with him once or twice.
“Very clever, pet,” he said, his voice low. He mirrored her movement, drawing back, and then pounced.
“I do my best,” she whispered before she let his lips silence her, and then she added in the quiet of her mind, “And that seems to be enough for you. Thank heaven.”
