![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Paper Pusher
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Pairing: Spike/Fred
Warnings: This chapter is rate PG for language.
Summary: This is a new ongoing series forsockmonkeyhere's Fantasy Island request on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
nekid_spike. The events of this story include plot points from Angel: After the Fall. Spike is working at a medical examiner's office to earn extra cash after being brought back from Hell. Gunn arrives with a proposition that Spike can't refuse.
In the previous chapter...
The elevator jerked to a stop suddenly causing Spike to brace himself to keep from losing his balance. A white light flooded into the lift as the doors opened. Spike shielded himself with his arms out of habit, the inherent fear of coming into contact with sunlight. When he realized the light did not have any negative effects, like burning him to a cinder, Spike looked up.
“It’s a big, white room,” the blonde said, looking around.
“You’ve very perceptive,” Gunn shook his head as he got to his feet.
The White Room was laid out before them, an endless expanse of nothing in particular, a dimension within a dimension outside of normal reality, home to the Conduit to the Senior Partners, but it didn’t appear that the Conduit was home.
Paper Pusher
Chapter Seven
The White Room was as still as the grave, but far cleanlier, which made it all the more disconcerting. There was no echo of the elevator ding as the door opened within the expansive space. The normal sounds of the Los Angeles night that could penetrate even the thickest of vault walls were not present in the White Room. Spike took the first step out of the elevator, surveying the surroundings, his eyes narrowing to try and perceive if a far wall even existed. He then stared down at how starkly his black leather boots contrasted with the eerily pristine floor. It reminded Spike of the cell he had woken up in inside of the Initiative.
“So, this is where you got the dark mojo to trap Pavayne?” the blonde vampire let his vision continue to pan around the seemingly endless room.
Gunn was reluctant to leave the lift. He licked his lips nervously before joining Spike, “Yeah, the Conduit gave me a piece of itself.”
“By the sounds of it, it wasn’t as easy as borrowing a cup of sugar,” Spike tilted his head, trying to sense any other presence in the room.
“It was more than easy, but later… I underestimated what the Conduit was, what it was for,” the other man spoke very softly, his body very rigid and on edge.
“Such is the curse of popularity,” Angel said from six feet in front of the pair.
Spike gave the figure a once-over with a bit of a sneer, “Nice costume, but you’re a bit off the mark by about a century.”
The Conduit had taken the guise of Angel as he appeared at the turn of the Twentieth Century, dressed in a billiard jacket made of grey serge and crisply pressed trousers. His long hair half-hid his face, and Spike absently wondered if using Angelus's smirk was some sort of trademark infringement.
“Just look at the two of you,” the Conduit seemed highly amused as it looked them over. “‘Chocolate and Vanilla- they’re cops,’” it continued with a movie-announcer tone of voice. “The script practically writes itself.”
“I think you might need a serious rewrite,” Spike stated unamused. “And a better costume."
“At least I have more than one,” the Conduit replied cooly, shifting in the span of a blink from a Victorian style of dress to a classy 1950’s suit with a gesture that insinuated to ask Spike if this look was more preferable. “If you don’t like the buddy cop thing, what about CHiPs? You both know a little something about pissing off the people who have access to your minds.”
It took a lot to refrain from wincing. Spike could feel the faint scar along the back of his head every time he cut or coloured his hair. The scars of Gunn’s mental intrusions were not so visible.
“That lawyer know-how has come in handy even after all that business in Hell, Mr. Gunn,” the Conduit pushed further, “You seem to have been pretty casual about a cerebral implant you know nothing about. Nice of the Senior Partners to just walk away from a juicy entry point into your mind after you royally screwed them over.”
Gunn growled out, “Enough of these games…” He made a motion to move forward, but maintained his distance. The memory of the very real bruises he received from the Conduit during his last visit was still fresh.
The Conduit only chuckled darkly before turning to Spike, “You and Charles here have something to bond over. The nightmares of waking up on some slab with someone cutting into your brain, being made completely powerless, must keep you up during the day.”
“I sleep just fine,” Spike’s eyes narrowed as the Conduit stood firm with its arms crossed.
“It’s not like you have to worry about the chip anymore, right? I mean, it’s not like the only proof that you have that it’s not there and not merely deactivated is the word of the soldiers that did it to you in the first place,” the Conduit was obviously enjoying his cruel taunting, and it couldn’t pass up another dig, “That’s enough to make you wonder though… A little tinge in the back of your head, a dull ache that you can’t explain…”
Spike’s gameface emerged momentarily before he restrained himself. He was stressed, his thoughts running off in a million directions since Gunn had brought him along on this devil’s picnic, and it was becoming harder to keep the demon inside trapped in the bit of soulful Tupperware that prevented him from ripping the borrowed face off of the Conduit's skull... assuming it had a skull.
“And that,” the Conduit said with a shit-eating grin worthy of Angelus himself, gesturing to Spike as one would a bearded lady in a freak show, “is why using mind-control on vampires is fairly pointless; eventually, they can overcome implanted thoughts and do something stupid and get themselves killed… or get the wrong person killed. Now, humans, on the other hand, are far more mortal yet much more malleable.”
The Conduit glanced pointedly at Gunn.
“If this is an attempt to scare us away by making us think that we’re falling into the Senior Partners’ plans, you can try a new tactic because it’s not going to work,” Gunn sounded as though he was once again trying to reassure himself.
The Conduit smiled, eyes twinkling with a kind of malevolent merriment, “I don’t need both of you to think it; just one.”
Spike spoke flatly, “Don’t be daft. The Senior Partners wouldn’t give a bloke fair warning if they were trying to fleece him. What’s your real angle?”
“Now that’s using that squishy gray matter, William. You might just make it out of this…”
Before Spike can reply further, he feels the world falling away from him. The light emanating from the White Room grew blinding, and he could hear the Conduit’s voice clearly but growing fainter.
“When Duncan is asleep, whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey soundly invite him…”
Just as he was beginning to feel like Alice down the rabbit hole, Spike landed roughly on his back inside of Gunn’s truck-bed. Gunn hit the area beside him a split-second later with a grunt. It was quiet for several moments before Spike’s vision cleared as he sat up, spotting the kids from the Teen Center engaged in a fight across the street.
Rolling out of the truck in tandem, both men rushed to help fight off whatever demon Wolfram and Hart had sent out with them. They were disappointed, however, when there was no monster, but rather another set of teenagers who had thrown some insults at the group. The aggression and frustration that might have been abated by fighting a crawling creature were soon unleashed through some very strong words being levied at the young people.
The ride back to the Teen Center was made in silence, the kids having been rightly shamed by their behavior while Spike and Gunn managed their exhaustion. Spike held the duffel bag containing the contracts and the Hargreaves' book close to his chest as he tried to steady himself and keep his thoughts clear. Gunn focused his gaze on the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly. After watching the last of the teens enter the Center's front door, Gunn left the truck idling as he leaned back in his seat.
"What did the Conduit mean about Duncan being asleep?" Gunn spoke, sounding as though he had been holding the question in the whole ride.
Spike searched the pockets of his jeans for his cigarettes, "It's Lady Macbeth while she's trying to rouse her hubby's courage in their plot to kill the King. When Duncan is asleep, where to the rather shall his day’s hard journey soundly invite him… His two chamberlains will I with wine and wassail so convince that memory, the warder of brain, shall be a fume…"
Gunn appeared to consider the words for a few moments, “Do you think it's some type of warning?”
Finding a crumpled package of Morleys, Spike dug out the last fag from the cellophane wrapping. It was half-crushed, so he neatly broke the filtered end off and put it to his lips.
“Makes me wonder if the Conduit is trying to imply that we are being misled, and that someone is plotting against us beneath our noses. Someone who might have sent us in this direction in the first place,” the vampire replied, lighting his cigarette and letting the smoke from his first drag fill the cramped truck cab. No point in mincing words about his feelings in regards to the Hargreaves and their suspiciously helpful behavior.
“It could just be another trick, getting us to mistrust each other,” Gunn responded, obviously not appreciating Spike's insinuation.
Spike sucked in another deep pull of smoke. It would be an easy ploy, pushing him towards the distrust he already held towards Gunn, against his choice to align himself with the Hargreaves. Spike felt fortunate that he was too stubborn to even acknowledge that his fears might be unfounded.
When Gunn took custody of the contracts and dropped Spike off at North Mission Road for the last portion of his shift, Salafia was waiting for him in the security cage just inside the parking garage entrance. Her expression was very concerned, and Spike took a smidgeon of comfort in that, not that he wanted her to worry but that she seemed to care about his welfare.
"Are you all right? You look... well," she bit her lip searching for the right word, "frail."
"You always know just what to say to make me feel better," Spike replied without holding back any sarcasm, though he had to wonder what picture he painted to make her say that.
The Doc crossed her arms, trying to sound more annoyed than she actually was, "Sorry, it's just you seem shaken. Where did you go?"
"It's a long story," he responded, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal grate around the security cage. "And I'm really tired."
When Dr. Dominick put her hand on his arm and offered to take him home, Spike didn't refuse. However, after falling into a restless sleep in her car during the drive, he realized that the Doc had meant her home. Unlikely as it given city employee salaries, Spike had always imagined that the Doc lived in an upscale brownstone, something bohemian yet provincial, and he couldn't help but be surprised by the rather shabby walk-up above a bodega that greeted him.
After inviting him into the apartment, the Doc smiled somewhat self-consciously, "It's not much, but the cheap rent allows me to keep up with my World of Warcraft subscription..."
Salafia turned to Spike, beginning to say that he was welcome to fold out her couch to sleep on, but he'd already passed out in the recliner before she had even returned her keys to her purse. She held back a laugh as she brought a brightly coloured afghan blanket from her bedroom and draped it carefully over Spike so as not to wake him.
The following afternoon Spike awoke to the sounds of screaming, or what he thought was screaming. In reality, it turned out to be Salafia's blowdryer echoing in the bathroom. He bolted upright in the recliner, not remember at first where he was. He sleepily rubbed his face with his hands and looked down at the gaudy purple and orange blanket that was tucked in around his legs.
"I've died and am now trapped in grandma hell," he mumbled, lazily unclipping his name badge from his shirt, fussing over the weird crimp-y impression it left.
"Hey," Salafia stuck her head out from the hallway, her hair still a little damp and clinging to her face and neck, "my grandma made me that throw!"
"Well, she obviously had no idea what these colours and patterns would do to someone who is sensitive to scintillation," Spike huffed, standing up and stretching his limbs. "What time is it?"
Salafia went to her kitchenette and opened of one of the smallest stoves Spike had ever seen. A delicious scent filled the whole apartment as the Doc donned bright pink oven-mitts and removed a baking tray covered with piping hot treats.
"It's time for delicious whoopie pies," she grinned, setting the tray on a cooling rack.
Spike quirked an eyebrow as he let his elbows rest on the formica kitchen bar, "That sounds really dirty."
Taking a bowl of frosting away from Spike's reach, she replied, "That's 'cause you're a filthy pervert."
Spotting a nearby retro Kit-Cat clock, Spike could see that it was almost four o'clock. He only had a few hours to get himself cleaned up for his Saturday night through early Sunday morning gig delivering newspapers throughout the city. However, the sun had yet to set, so he was in no immediate rush. Truth be told he found it very relaxing to watch Salafia prepare her desserts, spreading the fluffy cream over chocolate cakes. Spike could almost forget the stress of participating in Gunn's plan, worrying about what was going on behind his back, behind all of their backs. All that mattered was breaking their Wolfram and Hart contracts if nothing else, but he could not shake the lingering desire to see Fred again and tell her the things that he didn't get to before Illyria came along. It was selfish, but if he and Angel got a second and third chances to live, why shouldn't Fred?
"Don't make that face. You look like pigeon with cheekbones," Salafia spoke holding one of the cake sandwiches under his nose.
After making a disgruntled pigeon-cooing noise, Spike took the dessert from her and ate it with gusto, "You're a pretty good baker. Ever think of a career change?"
The Doc shrugged, "Not so much. I like having a hobby away from work. Besides, being elbow-deep in someone's innards is sorta like being elbow-deep in batter..." Pausing, she appeared crestfallen and took a bite of cake, "Saying stuff like that is why I don't have a boyfriend."
Spike gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, "Chin up, kid. There's got to be someone out there who enjoys discussing murder and meringue at the same time."
"Yeah, Hannibal Lector maybe," she harrumphed.
"Well, he seemed like a classy guy," Spike said before quickly adding, "if you ignored the whole cannibalism and face-eating thing."
Dr. Dominick sighed, shaking her head, "Do me a favor and never start a dating advice column."
"Deal," Spike laughed, "toasting" their tasty cakes to the agreement. "Cheers, love."
To be continued…
Previous Chapters: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six.
x-posted onnekid_spike and darker_spike
Author:
fenderlovePairing: Spike/Fred
Warnings: This chapter is rate PG for language.
Summary: This is a new ongoing series for
sockmonkeyhere's Fantasy Island request on nekid_spike. The events of this story include plot points from Angel: After the Fall. Spike is working at a medical examiner's office to earn extra cash after being brought back from Hell. Gunn arrives with a proposition that Spike can't refuse.In the previous chapter...
The elevator jerked to a stop suddenly causing Spike to brace himself to keep from losing his balance. A white light flooded into the lift as the doors opened. Spike shielded himself with his arms out of habit, the inherent fear of coming into contact with sunlight. When he realized the light did not have any negative effects, like burning him to a cinder, Spike looked up.
“It’s a big, white room,” the blonde said, looking around.
“You’ve very perceptive,” Gunn shook his head as he got to his feet.
The White Room was laid out before them, an endless expanse of nothing in particular, a dimension within a dimension outside of normal reality, home to the Conduit to the Senior Partners, but it didn’t appear that the Conduit was home.
Paper Pusher
Chapter Seven
The White Room was as still as the grave, but far cleanlier, which made it all the more disconcerting. There was no echo of the elevator ding as the door opened within the expansive space. The normal sounds of the Los Angeles night that could penetrate even the thickest of vault walls were not present in the White Room. Spike took the first step out of the elevator, surveying the surroundings, his eyes narrowing to try and perceive if a far wall even existed. He then stared down at how starkly his black leather boots contrasted with the eerily pristine floor. It reminded Spike of the cell he had woken up in inside of the Initiative.
“So, this is where you got the dark mojo to trap Pavayne?” the blonde vampire let his vision continue to pan around the seemingly endless room.
Gunn was reluctant to leave the lift. He licked his lips nervously before joining Spike, “Yeah, the Conduit gave me a piece of itself.”
“By the sounds of it, it wasn’t as easy as borrowing a cup of sugar,” Spike tilted his head, trying to sense any other presence in the room.
“It was more than easy, but later… I underestimated what the Conduit was, what it was for,” the other man spoke very softly, his body very rigid and on edge.
“Such is the curse of popularity,” Angel said from six feet in front of the pair.
Spike gave the figure a once-over with a bit of a sneer, “Nice costume, but you’re a bit off the mark by about a century.”
The Conduit had taken the guise of Angel as he appeared at the turn of the Twentieth Century, dressed in a billiard jacket made of grey serge and crisply pressed trousers. His long hair half-hid his face, and Spike absently wondered if using Angelus's smirk was some sort of trademark infringement.
“Just look at the two of you,” the Conduit seemed highly amused as it looked them over. “‘Chocolate and Vanilla- they’re cops,’” it continued with a movie-announcer tone of voice. “The script practically writes itself.”
“I think you might need a serious rewrite,” Spike stated unamused. “And a better costume."
“At least I have more than one,” the Conduit replied cooly, shifting in the span of a blink from a Victorian style of dress to a classy 1950’s suit with a gesture that insinuated to ask Spike if this look was more preferable. “If you don’t like the buddy cop thing, what about CHiPs? You both know a little something about pissing off the people who have access to your minds.”
It took a lot to refrain from wincing. Spike could feel the faint scar along the back of his head every time he cut or coloured his hair. The scars of Gunn’s mental intrusions were not so visible.
“That lawyer know-how has come in handy even after all that business in Hell, Mr. Gunn,” the Conduit pushed further, “You seem to have been pretty casual about a cerebral implant you know nothing about. Nice of the Senior Partners to just walk away from a juicy entry point into your mind after you royally screwed them over.”
Gunn growled out, “Enough of these games…” He made a motion to move forward, but maintained his distance. The memory of the very real bruises he received from the Conduit during his last visit was still fresh.
The Conduit only chuckled darkly before turning to Spike, “You and Charles here have something to bond over. The nightmares of waking up on some slab with someone cutting into your brain, being made completely powerless, must keep you up during the day.”
“I sleep just fine,” Spike’s eyes narrowed as the Conduit stood firm with its arms crossed.
“It’s not like you have to worry about the chip anymore, right? I mean, it’s not like the only proof that you have that it’s not there and not merely deactivated is the word of the soldiers that did it to you in the first place,” the Conduit was obviously enjoying his cruel taunting, and it couldn’t pass up another dig, “That’s enough to make you wonder though… A little tinge in the back of your head, a dull ache that you can’t explain…”
Spike’s gameface emerged momentarily before he restrained himself. He was stressed, his thoughts running off in a million directions since Gunn had brought him along on this devil’s picnic, and it was becoming harder to keep the demon inside trapped in the bit of soulful Tupperware that prevented him from ripping the borrowed face off of the Conduit's skull... assuming it had a skull.
“And that,” the Conduit said with a shit-eating grin worthy of Angelus himself, gesturing to Spike as one would a bearded lady in a freak show, “is why using mind-control on vampires is fairly pointless; eventually, they can overcome implanted thoughts and do something stupid and get themselves killed… or get the wrong person killed. Now, humans, on the other hand, are far more mortal yet much more malleable.”
The Conduit glanced pointedly at Gunn.
“If this is an attempt to scare us away by making us think that we’re falling into the Senior Partners’ plans, you can try a new tactic because it’s not going to work,” Gunn sounded as though he was once again trying to reassure himself.
The Conduit smiled, eyes twinkling with a kind of malevolent merriment, “I don’t need both of you to think it; just one.”
Spike spoke flatly, “Don’t be daft. The Senior Partners wouldn’t give a bloke fair warning if they were trying to fleece him. What’s your real angle?”
“Now that’s using that squishy gray matter, William. You might just make it out of this…”
Before Spike can reply further, he feels the world falling away from him. The light emanating from the White Room grew blinding, and he could hear the Conduit’s voice clearly but growing fainter.
“When Duncan is asleep, whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey soundly invite him…”
Just as he was beginning to feel like Alice down the rabbit hole, Spike landed roughly on his back inside of Gunn’s truck-bed. Gunn hit the area beside him a split-second later with a grunt. It was quiet for several moments before Spike’s vision cleared as he sat up, spotting the kids from the Teen Center engaged in a fight across the street.
Rolling out of the truck in tandem, both men rushed to help fight off whatever demon Wolfram and Hart had sent out with them. They were disappointed, however, when there was no monster, but rather another set of teenagers who had thrown some insults at the group. The aggression and frustration that might have been abated by fighting a crawling creature were soon unleashed through some very strong words being levied at the young people.
The ride back to the Teen Center was made in silence, the kids having been rightly shamed by their behavior while Spike and Gunn managed their exhaustion. Spike held the duffel bag containing the contracts and the Hargreaves' book close to his chest as he tried to steady himself and keep his thoughts clear. Gunn focused his gaze on the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly. After watching the last of the teens enter the Center's front door, Gunn left the truck idling as he leaned back in his seat.
"What did the Conduit mean about Duncan being asleep?" Gunn spoke, sounding as though he had been holding the question in the whole ride.
Spike searched the pockets of his jeans for his cigarettes, "It's Lady Macbeth while she's trying to rouse her hubby's courage in their plot to kill the King. When Duncan is asleep, where to the rather shall his day’s hard journey soundly invite him… His two chamberlains will I with wine and wassail so convince that memory, the warder of brain, shall be a fume…"
Gunn appeared to consider the words for a few moments, “Do you think it's some type of warning?”
Finding a crumpled package of Morleys, Spike dug out the last fag from the cellophane wrapping. It was half-crushed, so he neatly broke the filtered end off and put it to his lips.
“Makes me wonder if the Conduit is trying to imply that we are being misled, and that someone is plotting against us beneath our noses. Someone who might have sent us in this direction in the first place,” the vampire replied, lighting his cigarette and letting the smoke from his first drag fill the cramped truck cab. No point in mincing words about his feelings in regards to the Hargreaves and their suspiciously helpful behavior.
“It could just be another trick, getting us to mistrust each other,” Gunn responded, obviously not appreciating Spike's insinuation.
Spike sucked in another deep pull of smoke. It would be an easy ploy, pushing him towards the distrust he already held towards Gunn, against his choice to align himself with the Hargreaves. Spike felt fortunate that he was too stubborn to even acknowledge that his fears might be unfounded.
When Gunn took custody of the contracts and dropped Spike off at North Mission Road for the last portion of his shift, Salafia was waiting for him in the security cage just inside the parking garage entrance. Her expression was very concerned, and Spike took a smidgeon of comfort in that, not that he wanted her to worry but that she seemed to care about his welfare.
"Are you all right? You look... well," she bit her lip searching for the right word, "frail."
"You always know just what to say to make me feel better," Spike replied without holding back any sarcasm, though he had to wonder what picture he painted to make her say that.
The Doc crossed her arms, trying to sound more annoyed than she actually was, "Sorry, it's just you seem shaken. Where did you go?"
"It's a long story," he responded, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal grate around the security cage. "And I'm really tired."
When Dr. Dominick put her hand on his arm and offered to take him home, Spike didn't refuse. However, after falling into a restless sleep in her car during the drive, he realized that the Doc had meant her home. Unlikely as it given city employee salaries, Spike had always imagined that the Doc lived in an upscale brownstone, something bohemian yet provincial, and he couldn't help but be surprised by the rather shabby walk-up above a bodega that greeted him.
After inviting him into the apartment, the Doc smiled somewhat self-consciously, "It's not much, but the cheap rent allows me to keep up with my World of Warcraft subscription..."
Salafia turned to Spike, beginning to say that he was welcome to fold out her couch to sleep on, but he'd already passed out in the recliner before she had even returned her keys to her purse. She held back a laugh as she brought a brightly coloured afghan blanket from her bedroom and draped it carefully over Spike so as not to wake him.
The following afternoon Spike awoke to the sounds of screaming, or what he thought was screaming. In reality, it turned out to be Salafia's blowdryer echoing in the bathroom. He bolted upright in the recliner, not remember at first where he was. He sleepily rubbed his face with his hands and looked down at the gaudy purple and orange blanket that was tucked in around his legs.
"I've died and am now trapped in grandma hell," he mumbled, lazily unclipping his name badge from his shirt, fussing over the weird crimp-y impression it left.
"Hey," Salafia stuck her head out from the hallway, her hair still a little damp and clinging to her face and neck, "my grandma made me that throw!"
"Well, she obviously had no idea what these colours and patterns would do to someone who is sensitive to scintillation," Spike huffed, standing up and stretching his limbs. "What time is it?"
Salafia went to her kitchenette and opened of one of the smallest stoves Spike had ever seen. A delicious scent filled the whole apartment as the Doc donned bright pink oven-mitts and removed a baking tray covered with piping hot treats.
"It's time for delicious whoopie pies," she grinned, setting the tray on a cooling rack.
Spike quirked an eyebrow as he let his elbows rest on the formica kitchen bar, "That sounds really dirty."
Taking a bowl of frosting away from Spike's reach, she replied, "That's 'cause you're a filthy pervert."
Spotting a nearby retro Kit-Cat clock, Spike could see that it was almost four o'clock. He only had a few hours to get himself cleaned up for his Saturday night through early Sunday morning gig delivering newspapers throughout the city. However, the sun had yet to set, so he was in no immediate rush. Truth be told he found it very relaxing to watch Salafia prepare her desserts, spreading the fluffy cream over chocolate cakes. Spike could almost forget the stress of participating in Gunn's plan, worrying about what was going on behind his back, behind all of their backs. All that mattered was breaking their Wolfram and Hart contracts if nothing else, but he could not shake the lingering desire to see Fred again and tell her the things that he didn't get to before Illyria came along. It was selfish, but if he and Angel got a second and third chances to live, why shouldn't Fred?
"Don't make that face. You look like pigeon with cheekbones," Salafia spoke holding one of the cake sandwiches under his nose.
After making a disgruntled pigeon-cooing noise, Spike took the dessert from her and ate it with gusto, "You're a pretty good baker. Ever think of a career change?"
The Doc shrugged, "Not so much. I like having a hobby away from work. Besides, being elbow-deep in someone's innards is sorta like being elbow-deep in batter..." Pausing, she appeared crestfallen and took a bite of cake, "Saying stuff like that is why I don't have a boyfriend."
Spike gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, "Chin up, kid. There's got to be someone out there who enjoys discussing murder and meringue at the same time."
"Yeah, Hannibal Lector maybe," she harrumphed.
"Well, he seemed like a classy guy," Spike said before quickly adding, "if you ignored the whole cannibalism and face-eating thing."
Dr. Dominick sighed, shaking her head, "Do me a favor and never start a dating advice column."
"Deal," Spike laughed, "toasting" their tasty cakes to the agreement. "Cheers, love."
To be continued…
Previous Chapters: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six.
x-posted on
nekid_spike and darker_spike
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
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The Doc shrugged, "Not so much. I like having a hobby away from work. Besides, being elbow-deep in someone's innards is sorta like being elbow-deep in batter..." Pausing, she appeared crestfallen and took a bite of cake, "Saying stuff like that is why I don't have a boyfriend."
*snerk* I'm sure Xander would approve.
From:
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From:
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I love this bit of imagery; it's so apt:
to keep the demon inside trapped in the bit of soulful Tupperware
And this next line made me laugh out loud!
"I've died and am now trapped in grandma hell"
*applauds*
From:
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Spike needs some love, even friendly love. :D
From:
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From:
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Thanks for reading! :D