Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

no excuse, really



"I feel sorry for these people," Xander said.

"Why? They're getting paid."

"You don't know that." Xander seemed mesmerized by the screen. "That kitchen could be another dimensional hell beamed to us over cable. They could be trapped there, watching bad movies and frying fish until the end of mankind's reckoning...."

They pondered this together in a moment's silence, while the host and hostess of TV Dinner Theater exchanged scripted banter and explained how to cook scrod.

"What's scrod again?" Xander wondered.

"A nice, young, tender fish," Spike noted, leering closer with each adjective and walking his fingers up Xander's thigh. "Split and boned for all ready for--"

"Hey, are you writing this down? White wine, for the marinade. Write this down."

Spike, who'd brought his chin to rest on Xander's shoulder like a cat's, turned his head a few degrees, cheeked that thick muscle, and pondered the winy scrod. On the telly. The whiny scrod on the couch was imponderable.

"White wine, paprika, lemon juice, shut up," he said after a moment, giving no word or phrase more than its due.

"I just think I should be able to cook something other than scrambled eggs at my age."

"Pfft. You're a child."

"Spike, you're old enough to be my great, great, great, great-grandfather."

"Hey! You slipped in an extra 'great'."

"I want to have something nice next time Buffy and Willow come over for dinner."

"Don't know what's wrong with burritos." Spike nudged his face forward and licked Xander's neck after this remark, right over the Adam's apple, then chewed it for a bit, contemplatively.

"Could you not do that?"

"Sure," Spike offered agreeably. "I could not do that." Silly question.

"The killer sharks are back on." Xander was moving his head, trying to see over and around Spike. "You don't want to miss any of the gory deaths. Mmmmm." He gave a low hum as if trying to tempt Spike with a can of tuna. "Gory deaths." Tasty, his tone implied, but Spike wasn't to be distracted. He twisted and draped himself across Xander's lap, face up and boneless and right across the juicy bits, then waited for a treat.

"Good kitty," Xander said absently, gaze glued to the TV, one hand stroking Spike right where his shirt had pulled free from his jeans.

Spike's eyes closed. That'll do, he decided.
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