Word count: 100/per
Disclaimer: Don't own or profit from them. Love them.
Notes: I was cleaning out files, and I found these drabbles that I wrote but never posted for open_on_sunday. They were written at different times and not meant to be connected in any way, but when I looked at them again, they kinda sorta seemed to go together. I really don't remember the prompts, except for one, which was "wind." It's entirely possible that whatever the original prompts were have disappeared via editing. Here they are.
And on top of everything else, a black cat was hanging around the basement door.
Xander shooed it away, but every night, there it was again, prowling spookily across his path, or brushing against his legs in the dark. It was a mangy thing, fur matted, tail bent.
“First you, and now a cat,” Xander groused. “Oh, I picked up your blood.”
“Black cats mean good luck,” Spike offered, eyes on the TV. “Heat up a mug, yeah?”
“They’re bad luck,” Xander said.
“Matter of perspective, isn’t it?”
The microwave dinged. Xander sighed. His life was suddenly filled with strays.
Oh, fuck, Xander thinks as he wakes. This was so not a good idea.
It just happened, okay? And, okay, it was good. Okay, it was great. Okay, it was mind-blowing bliss.
But now, here he is, naked in Spike's bed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Only -- Spike’s looking at him softly, with something like affection. Gently winding Xander's hair around his fingers.
"Who are you?" Xander asks.
Spike gives him a feral grin. "I'm the big bad, baby."
Xander snorts. "You're a contradiction in black leather," he says, settling back.
Spike tries not to look pleased.
Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?
It had been thirteen days and more orgasms than he could count.
Okay, thirty-two. And those were just his.
Still, they weren’t really big with the whole emotional intimacy thing. Actually, they weren’t really big with the whole talking thing. So he felt a little funny asking about it.
But it was impossible to ignore, hell, it was always there, and after thirteen days of wondering, he had to know.
“Is it a vampire thing, being hard all the time? Or is it just you?”
Spike looked at Xander, and yanked him close. “Neither,” he said. “It’s just you.”
Whatever force destroyed the world, it had a sense of humor. And Xander, the butt of its final, cosmic joke.
Two survivors. The other being Spike.
Xander swallows his anger, keeps moving. Searching for others, all evidence to the contrary.
Futile, Spike says, but he follows.
Months and miles, until Xander’s feet crack and bleed.
Spike frowns, bandaging the wounds. His hands are gentle, and in his eyes --
So much time and effort spent looking away. Xander never even noticed.
Two survivors. The other seems to love him.
The world is cold and empty now, and yet, this tender mercy.