Slayage and Skinny Ties
Still don't own Buffy or Stargate. Author's Note
They don't meet yet, but they will, they will. Muwahaha. Sorry. Anyways, had fun writing this one, always loved fun slayage Buffy.
As always, I like all flavors of feedback.
Buffy sat with her legs swinging off the edge of a rather nice looking gravestone. Two angels embracing.
“Robert and Jane Smythe,” she gave a mock salute, “I really salute you: fifty two years of marriage, and buried next to each other for another fifty.”
She toyed with the cross pendant that hung low around her neck. Buffy was of the fidgety; her spidey senses knew someone was trying to not stay dead tonight, but she was getting to know the locals first.
“You know, in this day and age,” she checked the date on the grave marker again--Jane had died in 1943, nine months after her Robert, “that just doesn’t happen. I think coffee dates last longer than some marriages. I mean, my mom and dad--and I so use that term loosely. Trip the guy if he comes your way, little nudge of a tree root with your corpsey toe? Anyways, they were married with all the bells and whistles that any free-loving hippie could want. Mom had flowers braided into her hair. Dad, too, actually. Yeah, should have clued her in, right?”
Buffy shifted her weight on the marble slab; recrossing her legs, she held Mr. Pointy loosely in her right hand.
“Anyways, Robert, he never grew up. And you know--” she cut herself off again, hearing a shifting in the earth a few yards to her left. “Ah, spidey sense was right once again.” She launched herself off the Smythes’ grave marker.
“Nice chatting. Stay dead-- just a little slayer humor.” She shook her head and took a slow saunter over to where a Mr. Todd Lewis was digging himself out of his own grave. Leaning over, she grinned.
“I know, I know. We just met, should be Mr. Lewis, right?” She curled the end of her hair coyly with one finger. Being blonde was so much fun. “It’s just that, in moments such as these, I think a slayer should be on a first-name basis with her slayee, don’t you agree?”
“Uh yeah, sure,” Todd Lewis agreed, pulling himself clumsily out of the earth. His suit indicated it had been new before he had dragged it through the dirt, well, new in 1980.
“Oh. Ouch. Skinny tie.” Buffy shielded her eyes.
“What? They’re cool.” Fang-face Todd had probably been a really nice guy. “They ARE cool,” he roared, lunging at the small blonde. Had been. Right, onto the slayage.
“Whatever.” Buffy back-flipped away, quickly righting herself and using one well heeled-boot to roundhouse the skinny-tie-lover in the face. Too bad Todd wasn’t quite as stupid as his tie: he grabbed her ankle and yanked her to the ground. Lunging, he went in for the kill.
Mr. Pointy wasn’t having any of that. With one quick thrust that Todd didn’t see coming she dusted him all over her.
Buffy sneezed. Loudly.
Looking around she didn’t see anyone that could have witnessed the oldest living slayer inhaling half of a dead vampire. She really thought she had learned to exhale at such moments.
“And this was a new shirt,” she growled as she picked herself up off the ground. Dirt, vampire dust, and her personal favorite, right after blood: grass stains.
Life on the Hellmouth had taught her one unfortunate fact of life: the newer and cuter the outfit the better her night of slaying would be. Demons and vampires would definitely be slayed...and the new outfit, too.