Five season six Buffy
drabbles for open_on_sunday
's current challenge, rush
: for Xander, Willow, Dawn, Buffy and Spike.Choose Life
He’d asked her to marry him: a statement, a wish, a declaration. Xander wasn’t a hero, and for all his jokes he’d never been like Buffy or Spike: quips spilling from their mouths between blows, as they fought the darkness. So the ring did the job for him: sex, and a proposal. Defiance against death.
But Xander had never thought about this. Things were becoming so complicated, and suddenly there was talk of houses and taxes and babies – rushing forward towards the death he’d been defying.
He told himself it’d be alright on the day, and picked out a tux.~*~Dominatrix“Can’t it be over? Just cos I say so?”
She’d wanted to control her emotions after Oz. If Tara hadn’t left her, maybe this cold-turkey pain wouldn’t be so bad. She’d messed up that memory spell, and now the mingled glories of magic and love – magical love – had gone.
Tara knew her better than anyone. She was her always, and she’d been unable to keep her, even with her superior witchcraft.
Her friends were sympathetic about her losses. Tara, knowing her so well, undoubtedly knew the truth.
It wasn’t the magic that gave her the rush. It was the power.~*~Out Of Mind
Dawn wished it was last year; everyone had been better. Things were different now. Not everything. Accessorize was still here, and she still couldn’t afford the sparkling things on display.
Her throat went tight at the sight of a silver skull ring. Before Glory, it had been enough of a rush to sit in a crypt and hear scary stories. After Buffy, it had felt safe.
The night Buffy came back, Spike had looked through Dawn, at Buffy. He still did.
Dawn slid the ring into her pocket.
If she was invisible, she might as well take advantage of it.~*~Quiet Night, Holy Night
Heaven had been golden-still; there had been no need for the rush of movement and the final thrust that was being the Slayer.
But now... Once more she existed in the blood cry, the penetrating wound. Time meant something now: slow and pained, crippled seconds limping past.
So she went to him who knew what it was to die and return. Sometimes she thought he left grave dirt on her clothes.
But when she was coming, eyes rolling back in her head so she couldn’t see Spike –
For long, golden moments, time was gone and she was back in Heaven.~*~Quickies
He’d always dreamed of the rush; the suicidal fever-dream of being a vampire taking a Slayer. He’d imagined it: her small, strong body running blood-hot, slamming against his. The adrenaline knowledge of Slayer power, and the intensity of recognition: they were the same, fast and furious and connected.
Quickies aren’t everything, though. Sometimes a vamp likes something slower. Caressing, not bruising.
“C’mon, luv. More haste, less speed.” He rolled his eyes at his own phrase. She slammed his head against stone and fled, leaving him lying with his head ringing.
Give it time. She’d learn to let herself love him.