♥, you, even if your wacky crossovers are fiendish.
Well, then. For the purposes of this snippet, Oz's cousin was not named Jody and was not five years old. Also, I have paid no attention whatsoever to timelines. And technically there's no cuddling. *hands*
Frank tilts his head and looks at the Brit sitting next to him at the bar. "You're really fucking drunk. Like, really. Also, your hair looks like--you look like my lead singer does, actually."
The Brit (vampire, Frank's nose reminds him), lifts his head from the bar desk and looks at him blearily. "Obviously I'm pissed. Or there'd be something wrong with all this bloody alcohol I drank. And my hair is bleached because--nah, you wouldn't know anything about real punk. Wanker." He puts his head back down on the bar desk.
Frank blisters. "I wouldn't--" but then he takes a deep breath. No getting angry, right. (Oz's exercises are so difficult; Frank hardly ever makes them work.) "You're Spike, right? I'm supposed to take you home."
Or so Buffy had said. Frank's not too sure about why they need this guy, but whatever. He's stranded in Sunnydale until Brian can get him out of here; he'll help out the local do-gooders while he's waiting. Which apparently means he'll go to the local demon's bar and pick up drunk vampires. His life, seriously. The fact that Gerard'll be jealous as hell is small comfort.
Spike looks a little more attentive. "I'm not--not going home with you. Don't sleep with men."
Frank snorts. "But you should get home before sunrise, right?"
"Sun," Spike says, and would have fallen off his stool if Frank hadn't caught him. "Sun, I don't like sun."
"Burns, right?" Frank says, staggering under the weight of drunk vampire suddenly standing upright. Or trying to.
"Yes, burns." Spike says solemnly, and then slumps against Frank's shoulder.
"Motherfucking fucking fuck," Frank says, steadies himself, and pokes at Spike. "Let's go. You have a bed somewhere, I know it."
Spike nods.
Frank stops, swears again, and continues, "If you don't get your mouth away from my neck, I'm going to damn well leave you in the street."
"Don't have to be nasty about it," Spike mutters, slurring his syllables.
"Come on," Frank says, and they get going, Spike clinging to him to stay upright, and Frank vowing to lift some weights. Or something. He realizes he's out of practice at this, lugging around falling-down drunk people, and he's suddenly fiercely glad, even though his shoulders hurt and his knee is protesting.
There's two weeks until full moon, but he kind of feels like howling and running until he falls over. He'll take it out on stage (take it out on Gerard), but for now he settles for smiling and humming. Don't go around tonight...there's a bad moon on the rise.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-25 10:20 am (UTC)Well, then. For the purposes of this snippet, Oz's cousin was not named Jody and was not five years old. Also, I have paid no attention whatsoever to timelines. And technically there's no cuddling. *hands*
Frank tilts his head and looks at the Brit sitting next to him at the bar. "You're really fucking drunk. Like, really. Also, your hair looks like--you look like my lead singer does, actually."
The Brit (vampire, Frank's nose reminds him), lifts his head from the bar desk and looks at him blearily. "Obviously I'm pissed. Or there'd be something wrong with all this bloody alcohol I drank. And my hair is bleached because--nah, you wouldn't know anything about real punk. Wanker." He puts his head back down on the bar desk.
Frank blisters. "I wouldn't--" but then he takes a deep breath. No getting angry, right. (Oz's exercises are so difficult; Frank hardly ever makes them work.) "You're Spike, right? I'm supposed to take you home."
Or so Buffy had said. Frank's not too sure about why they need this guy, but whatever. He's stranded in Sunnydale until Brian can get him out of here; he'll help out the local do-gooders while he's waiting. Which apparently means he'll go to the local demon's bar and pick up drunk vampires. His life, seriously. The fact that Gerard'll be jealous as hell is small comfort.
Spike looks a little more attentive. "I'm not--not going home with you. Don't sleep with men."
Frank snorts. "But you should get home before sunrise, right?"
"Sun," Spike says, and would have fallen off his stool if Frank hadn't caught him. "Sun, I don't like sun."
"Burns, right?" Frank says, staggering under the weight of drunk vampire suddenly standing upright. Or trying to.
"Yes, burns." Spike says solemnly, and then slumps against Frank's shoulder.
"Motherfucking fucking fuck," Frank says, steadies himself, and pokes at Spike. "Let's go. You have a bed somewhere, I know it."
Spike nods.
Frank stops, swears again, and continues, "If you don't get your mouth away from my neck, I'm going to damn well leave you in the street."
"Don't have to be nasty about it," Spike mutters, slurring his syllables.
"Come on," Frank says, and they get going, Spike clinging to him to stay upright, and Frank vowing to lift some weights. Or something. He realizes he's out of practice at this, lugging around falling-down drunk people, and he's suddenly fiercely glad, even though his shoulders hurt and his knee is protesting.
There's two weeks until full moon, but he kind of feels like howling and running until he falls over. He'll take it out on stage (take it out on Gerard), but for now he settles for smiling and humming. Don't go around tonight...there's a bad moon on the rise.