Title: Centennial Spike
Pairings/Characters: Kinda Buffy/Spike, Tom
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K.Rowling. Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon and assorted others.
Note: Ficathon fic for Jo-Anne Storm. This is as close to Spike/Buffy that inspiration let me get. Also – my computer started stuffing up around noon my time, so I’m posting this with a little under two hours left in the deadline. My time – apologies if this gets sent sometime July 9 American time.
“Y’know ‘e sky’s always blu – sic – er on the other side,” Buffy mumbled to herself. She downed the remaining amber liquid at the bottom of her mug before dropping it and pushing it away, a universal signal to bartenders everywhere to ‘fill ‘em up again, mate’.
The person…well, not really a person per say, but anyway, the being beside her muttered an agreement. She wasn’t all that surprised that he/it had heard her – enhanced senses did a lot, even catching the Slayer’s lowest mumble.
“ ‘Nother for my firnd,” Buffy slurred slightly, waving absently at the being next to her. The bartender raised an eyebrow before dropping two more drinks in front of them.
The blonde turned, lifting her drink haphazardly so a few drops sloshed over the rim. “To ‘u, m’friend, my Spike,” she proclaimed. “May your undeadness never be catching.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, luv,” Spike stated after a confused pause. He downed the rest of his own first glass, thumping it down on the bench top with a certain larger degree of strength – or perhaps just a smaller degree of compassion for the bartender who would need to clean up the bits of glass had it shattered.
Buffy sent what she thought may have been a seductive pout towards Spike – instead it just looked like she’d seen something disgusting and was about to spit on it. Considering her feelings toward Spike in the past, it may not have been entirely coincidental. “Y’u said that this…stuff,” she waved, precariously close to the empty glasses that had not yet been cleared, “…wasn’t enough to get me drunk.” She leaned towards him, conspiratorially, motioning him closer. “I t’ink ‘m drunk,” she whispered with the eternal drunk’s smile.
Spike took up his full mug, downing more than a few mouthfuls. “I think you are too.”
“‘U lied t’ me,” Buffy pouted. “‘U said ‘u wouldn’t let me get drunk.”
“No, see, that was you ‘sampling’ the Firewhiskey. Butterbeer does nothing except increase the buzz you already have. And love,” Spike pointed to the five empty glasses which had formerly held Firewhiskey that were stacked in front of her, “- those would give even me a buzz.”
Buffy blinked once or twice. “I don’t like your bar,” she managed to get out to the bartender, who was calmly drying a mug. She then fell forward unconscious.
After a few moments Tom looked at Spike. “Don’t you think you should check if she’s still breathing?”
Spike shrugged. “It’s not like I could do anything if she wasn’t, could I?”
There was a snort from beside them as Buffy nearly fell off her chair.
Moving with inhuman quickness, Spike was on her other side to catch her before she hit the ground. He propped her back up on her chair before digging through his pockets and bringing out a handful of large gold coins. “Keep it quiet that the Slayer was in here, alright?”
Tom grabbed his wand from nearby and pointed it at his mouth, his lips instantly disappearing. A few sounds came from his mouth before he rolled his eyes at himself and his lips reappeared. “Not a soul.”
Spike picked Buffy up and slung her over his shoulder. “Tell your grandkids to look out for me in about eighty years.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll tell my grandma’s portrait that you dropped by for your centennial visit.”
A sudden smile burst upon the blonde vampire’s face. “Ah, Sara…she was a good old bird.” He continued out the door of the Leaky Cauldron. “Bye Tom.”