[ficlet] Television (Spike/Xander, R)
Dec. 12th, 2008 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wondersheepTitle: Television
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG-13 'cause Spike says a naughty word. Oooer, I'm telling.
Word Count:
Disclaimer: Not mine. Joss owns. Don't sue. Not responsible for schmoop-related injuries.
A/N: Post-, uh, everything. Canon is for other people. I blame it on the au jus and impending snow. Yeah, it probably sucks, so you shouldn't click the cut tag. Really.
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This is how it goes: No candy hearts, no stupid flowers. Just him and me and a bottle of wine passed between us. Spike barely has the energy to put his boots up on the coffee table. I make a halfhearted attempt to shove them off.
"Fuck off, Harris," he growls at me, words slurred by exhaustion and alcohol. My honor is satisfied, I fall back on the couch and stare at the television.
We've been tracking this demon over hill and dale and through some of London's more scenic shopping districts for the last three days.
"Xander." Spike nudges me with the wine bottle. I continue to stare at the television.
"Xander." He nudges harder, and I manage to wrap my hand around it. But he doesn't let go. "the TV isn't on," he points out.
"I know."
He snorts and settles back into the couch cushions. "Can I watch with you?"
I don't take my eyes off the television, but I do reach over and fumble around until I find his hand. Then it's a simple matter of folding our fingers together. "Shh." I told him. "Teevee."
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: PG-13 'cause Spike says a naughty word. Oooer, I'm telling.
Word Count:
Disclaimer: Not mine. Joss owns. Don't sue. Not responsible for schmoop-related injuries.
A/N: Post-, uh, everything. Canon is for other people. I blame it on the au jus and impending snow. Yeah, it probably sucks, so you shouldn't click the cut tag. Really.
-------------------
This is how it goes: No candy hearts, no stupid flowers. Just him and me and a bottle of wine passed between us. Spike barely has the energy to put his boots up on the coffee table. I make a halfhearted attempt to shove them off.
"Fuck off, Harris," he growls at me, words slurred by exhaustion and alcohol. My honor is satisfied, I fall back on the couch and stare at the television.
We've been tracking this demon over hill and dale and through some of London's more scenic shopping districts for the last three days.
"Xander." Spike nudges me with the wine bottle. I continue to stare at the television.
"Xander." He nudges harder, and I manage to wrap my hand around it. But he doesn't let go. "the TV isn't on," he points out.
"I know."
He snorts and settles back into the couch cushions. "Can I watch with you?"
I don't take my eyes off the television, but I do reach over and fumble around until I find his hand. Then it's a simple matter of folding our fingers together. "Shh." I told him. "Teevee."
