Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters belong to Joss Whedon. I make no profit and intend no offense by their usage.The Moral of the Story Is...
“Bloody ‘ell, Dru! You left the color in too long and now it’s gone green!” Spike stormed out of the bathroom, followed by a soon-to-be-dusted giggling minion. “You could play soddin’ Wimbledon on my head!”
Drusilla paused at the thought and her pale face lit up, the bruises spotting her skin a stark contrast to the child-like eagerness in her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have grass on my head, Spike? I could plant flowers ‘round my ears and they’d fill my skull with posies.”
She resumed her erratic dance about the room, humming absently as her dress swirled like liquid around her lithe form.
Spike blanched and muttered, “At least then your head would be filled with something.” Growling under his breath, he finished towel drying the closely cropped, lime-colored mop of hair he now sported. “’ow humiliating! I can hear the Slayer now….” His voice went up a notch as he continued, “’Oh, Spike! That look went out with Boy George! Any relation?” He collapsed on the edge of the bed and whined sulkily, “How can a bloke inspire fear when he look like a bleedin’ Muppet?!”
Drusilla purred from across the room, “I love Fozzie Bear, Spike. Could we adopt Fozzie Bear?” Miss Edith would love a little brother, and he could tell us jokes and make us laugh….” She broke off, out of breath, and paled even more. Delicately falling into a chair, she gripped the armrest until the wood creaked in alarm.
“He’s coming, Spike. He’ll be here soon.”
Spike was at her side in a moment, a look of concern for her – and impatience for her drawling delivery – flashing over his face. “Who, pet? Who?” he asked, stroking her arm. “Tell your Spike….”
“With eyes as pretty as Daddy’s…just
like Daddy, hidden away on the inside where it plays hide 'n seek,” she added in a whisper, before Drusilla glanced up at him with a bemused half-smile, her eyes fever-bright. “He’s not going to like your hair.”
“Xander, stop touching
me!” Cordelia yelped in annoyance as the clumsy boy bumped into her yet again. “Normal people learn how to walk before they attempt anything as coordinated as dancing, if that’s what you call what you were doing!” Glaring at him with disgust, the popular brunette stalked off with her cohorts, who cast sneers at him over their shoulders.
Xander slumped in a seat at their table in the Bronze, still staring after Cordelia as Willow grabbed his hand. “She’s just Miss Congeniality, isn’t she? Cordelia Congeniality. She should consider a legal name change.” Turning back to his friends, he began, “So, what have my two favorite wallflowers been up…Hey! Heyheyhey!” he yelled, snatching his hand out of Willow’s grasp and gazing in dismay at his three gaily-painted fingernails. “What are you doing?!”
“We thought you needed a little color,” Buffy replied evenly, screwing the cap back on the nail polish. “No need to get huffy.”
“Men,” Xander announced, attempting to wipe off the quick-drying paint with a napkin, “do not wear nail polish. Did you ever see Clint Eastwood wearing nail polish?”
wears it,” Buffy demurred, pointing to the red-headed guitarist on stage. “And Dingoes Ate My Baby can be considered cool.”
“But his nail polish is black. Black says, ‘Hey, ladies. I play the guitar. I’m in a band.’” Glancing at the bottle on the table, he added, “Plum purple nail polish says, ‘I hope Bobby asks me to the Spring Fling!’”
Giggling openly at Xander, Buffy interjected, “You’re just not secure enough in your masculinity.”
“Nice nail polish, you geek,” came a shrill voice. “My little sister wears the same color.” With this, Harmony disappeared back into the crowd.
“And this isn’t helping,” Xander sighed, sinking further into his chair.
Willow placed a comforting arm around him. “We think you’re all man – plum purple nail polish or not.” She grinned impishly and nudged his foot. “Want us to do your toes next?”
“I never thought I’d say this to a woman, but my toes are off limits, ladies. I say we gather what shreds are left of my dignity and head for home. How about making it a Blockbuster night?”
The three headed for the door, Buffy and Willow walking arm in arm as they shared a mischievous glance.
“Hey, Xan, I feel like watching The Color Purple
“I was thinking The Purple Rose of Cairo
,” Willow objected.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” Xander turned in the doorway to stare back at them, looking stern. Then his lip twitched, and he said, “My vote is Purple Rain
“So, your mom’s out of town again
?” Xander asked with jealous amazement.
Buffy nodded absently, grabbing another handful of popcorn. “To San Francisco to look for ‘Mariner art’…which means a lot of driftwood carved into seagulls.”
“Did you hear something?” Willow interrupted uneasily, her eyes turning towards the kitchen.
Buffy bounced to her feet after grabbing a stake from the stash hidden under the couch, her two friends scrambling up behind her. “It’s probably the neighbor’s cat getting into our trash again. Mr. Tibbles has developed an addiction to Cheesy Chips. I’ll go check it out.”
Not wishing to be left alone, her friends pressed in behind her, Xander crashing into her back when she paused abruptly in the doorway at the scuffling sound on the porch.
“Xander, stop touching
me!” Buffy hissed under her breath. “You two keep back.”
In a single bound, Buffy tore open the kitchen door and nearly dropped her stake in shock at the sight of a white-clad Drusilla extending a ragged clump of flowers towards her, clods of dirt still thick around the roots.
“My mummy always said it was proper to bring a gift when visiting.” Her eyes scanned the room, her forehead wrinkling with worry. “But I don’t have enough for everyone,” she whimpered, her lower lip trembling at the oversight. “Spike!” she scolded. “We didn’t bring enough to share.”
A muddy, blood-spattered figure suddenly appeared behind her, his breathing labored. “I-it’s okay, Princess. You just need something for the hostess.” Drusilla smiled widely at the news, her cares placated, and she extended the bouquet once more.
Buffy’s mouth dropped open, her face twitching in readiness to laugh. “Spike, nice hai-….”
“Shove it, Slayer. You can make fun of me as much as you like, after
you invite us in.”
“I can do that just fine already, so why would I invite you in?” Buffy asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Does it say vacant
across my forehead?”
A series of shrill, growling screams erupted from down the street, and Spike’s eyes widened in something resembling fear.
“Because if you don’t, Slayer, your lawn is soon going to host a convention of uglies that don’t need an invitation to go anywhere. And they like fresh meat just as much as dead.” He leaned forward, his eyes glowing intently.
“Help us, Slayer, or we all
Spike strolled out of the bathroom, the light gleaming off the pale angles of his naked body as he busily towel-dried his hair. “I had enough mud on me to build a bloody hut. Thanks for the use of your shower, Slayer.”
Suddenly realizing that the room had become deathly quiet except for a long sigh from Drusilla that sounded like, “Little Spike,” he gazed into three sets of horrified teenage eyes, pointedly ignoring the crossbow still aimed at his chest. Buffy and Willow both stood almost paralyzed, their cheeks a faint pink, while Xander’s darted everywhere but where Spike stood.
The vampire grinned, his bravado returning as he went to the bed and slipped on a pair of black silk boxers. "You and Red look like you’ve never seen a naked vampire before,” Spike leered reaching for his pants. “You mean you’ve never seen Angel’s-….?”
Buffy cut him off sharply, gesturing towards the bedroom door. “Let’s move this to the kitchen.”
“It looks like sunshine on a summer day!” Drusilla exclaimed, poking at the pale amber gelatin with her fingertip.
“You ‘aven’t seen a summer day in a hundred years, ducks,” Spike admonished with an affectionate smile.
“I-it’s white grape jell-o,” Willow stammered, keeping a safe distance from the enraptured vampire as she stabbed her finger repeatedly into the goo.
“What’s it taste like?” Drusilla asked, her dreamy eyes focusing on the petite red-head in the corner. “Does it taste like bubbles?”
Willow’s mouth gaped open, unsure of how to respond, when Xander intervened. “It tastes like white grape jell-o. Not much of a story there.”
“You have the blood of a poet,” Drusilla cooed, pinning him with her suddenly sharp gaze. “I’ll bet you taste of bubbles, as well….”
“Tell me about these guys,” Buffy demanded, gesturing towards Drusilla with a pointed wave of the crossbow until Spike strode over to distract her from Xander, who had settled nearer to Buffy when the weight of Drusilla’s gaze never lessened.
“They’re a bad bunch. Even vampires tend to stay away from ‘em,” Spike explained, adding more salt to the line at the kitchen window.
“What’s up with all of the salt?”
“They don’t like it,” Spike said succinctly, eying the line around the door.
“High blood pressure?” Xander guessed with a stifled laugh. “Monsters with a heart condition…maybe we can just scare them to death.”
“So why do they want you?” Buffy asked. “Why shouldn’t I just let them have you?”
“Let’s just say Angel and I pissed off the wrong…let’s call it a person, shall we?” He leaned over the counter, his blue eyes boring into hers. “I’m not kidding ‘bout this, Slayer. When he comes after someone, he means business, and he brings some nasty friends. You think Sunyhell is bad now?”
Spike stood upright, the light from above casting his eyes in shadow as he hovered protectively over Drusilla's slim form.
“Just you wait.”Author's Note: This was written for an acquaintance's birthday challenge over a decade ago. It was probably my first attempt at fanfic ever. I never finished it (and I never will ), but I found the draft as I was cleaning out junk in old folders in my bedroom (it was written on paper!), and I felt this had to go somewhere before I threw it away. I can see how I could easily turn this into a crossover with Supernatural, and tweaked a little of the description to indicate that. It has never been beta-ed, so I apologize for any errors, and for the prose.