Short fluffy ficlet that could take place as an
interlude in several of my stories. It would work particularly well in
the Childe & Sire verse as well as the Sun series.
PG-13.
As always feedback is greatly appreciated, and even more so here
because I never seem to get much response if any at all for my
standalone fics.
Happy Birthday
When he woke, Spike was alone in bed. He wasn’t used to it anymore.
Usually, he was the one who woke first. Who woke her. With his lips and
his hands, kisses and soft words, caresses and even softer touches. And
to be robbed of his morning cuddle wasn’t exactly the nicest way to
start the day, even if it was almost noon. But then again, this one day
of the year rarely proved good in any way for him.
Before he could do more than start pouting, though, the door creaked
open and Buffy peaked in. With the light of the candles scattered
around the room, he could see her smile as she walked toward him. The
candles added fire to the long golden tresses hanging free on her
shoulders and back, and shimmers to the silk robe that covered her just
as silky skin. Captured by the heavenly vision that she was, he barely
noticed the tray she was carrying.
“Good morning, love,” she said in a purring voice. “Time to rise and shine.”
“Shining would end with a bed full of ashes,” he replied, still a
little grumpy about waking up alone. “’M sure you wouldn’t fancy it.”
“My, aren’t we grouchy today,” she teased as she sat next to him and
settled the tray on the bed. “Any particular reason for that?”
More than one, he thought glumly.
“You left me.”
“I was getting you breakfast,” she said with an indulgent smile. “Or lunch, seeing how late it is already.”
He replied with an inarticulate grumble, and she kissed his pouting
lips. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so cold anymore. It was just a chaste
kiss, fast and sweet, the kind of kisses he could never get enough of.
“Now drink your blood while it’s still warm.”
She tried to pull away, but his face followed her, his mouth gliding along her skin.
“’Would rather drink you,” he mumbled in the crook of her neck, and she laughed quietly.
“Note to self. Lover gets cranky when left alone in bed. Doesn’t care for hard work put in preparing tray.”
Despite the teasing in her tone, there was the barest twinge of disappointment, too, and he regretted having caused it.
“Of course I care,” he protested as he sat back up, propped against the
pillows, and reached for the tray, pulling it to his lap. “See? All
nice and cozy.”
For the first time, he really looked at what she had prepared for him.
He picked up the full mug of warm blood that was resting on a bed of
dark red petals and took a long drink. There was a long stemmed rose on
the left side of the tray, and on the right… On the right was a slim
package, wrapped in a dark blue paper slashed with gold, and on top of
it, an envelope.
“What is this?” he asked blankly as he touched the envelope with the
tip of a careful finger, as though it might attack him. He could
already guess, of course, but it just felt so… unexpected. Foreign,
even…
“Why don’t you open it?” she suggested softly, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
He did open the envelope, after placing the mug back on the tray while
trying not to let her see the slight tremor in his hands. He pulled out
a computer-printed card, read it, smiled hesitantly.
“I had to make my own,” she said quietly. “Hallmark doesn’t have anything past one hundred. You like?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to say a word.
“Good. Open you gift, then.”
Again, he followed her directions, and unwrapped the first edition of
an anthology of poetry. A look at the year of publication widened his
smile.
“Happy birthday, love,” she murmured as she placed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“How did you know?” he asked, delicately turning pages that were as old as he was.
“I have my sources.”
He chuckled at the mysterious tone she had adopted. It really wasn’t
hard to guess who her source of information was exactly. It was more
surprising, however, that Angel had remembered. Angelus and Darla
hadn’t exactly been keen on celebrating birthdays – as Spike had
painfully discovered the first time he even mentioned the concept.
“Thank you,” he murmured, touched by her attentions. “It’s the nicest birthday I ever had.”
“Is it?” she replied, mischievous, as she removed the tray from his lap
and placed it on the floor. “But the day is just starting. You should
wait to see what other surprises I have for you before you decide if
it’s truly a good birthday.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering what would come next – or who.
She had the rose in her hand, and was tracing her mouth with the
flower. The petals were barely a shade darker than her lips, and
probably not as soft.
“Read to me?” she murmured, and he could only comply.
As he looked for an appropriate poem, she pulled on the sash of her
robe and shrugged it off, revealing not bare skin, as he had expected,
but another kind of wrapping. For what was certainly another gift…
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
He went through the first three verses of the poem, reciting them from
memory so that he could follow with his eyes the path of the rose
sliding along delicate lace and tempting skin. On the word ‘together’,
he lost patience and pounced on her.
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poem from Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The characters and names used in these stories do not belong to me. All copyrights remain with Fox and Mutant Enemy. No profit is made from this fanfiction.
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