Kennedy/Willow: Tequila and Candlelight
Jun. 7th, 2004 03:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleTitle: Tequila and Candlelight
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Kennedy/Willow
Rating: PG
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aaronlisa for the Potentials ficathon, request was Willow and Kennedy’s life in Brazil.
Willow doesn’t seem to get that couples can fight and it not be the end of the world; Kennedy argues like other people sink into a hot bath at the end of a long day. It’s her release, her tension-breaker, and she never means anything by it. Just something to get her blood going, her heart racing, and making up’s the fun part anyway.
Kennedy sometimes thinks about whether she might have been – she hates the word ‘nice’ but it’s the best fit – a nice person, if she hadn’t been a Potential. She was seven years old the day Mrs. Pierson, her first Watcher, told her what she was. That was when she put a name to the thing that had always been there, making her get suspended from her exclusive school for fist-fights with wussy little boys who tattled on her, making her unable to sit still in class, making her spend her afternoons at the athletics track where she’d run and run and run and try to pretend she wasn’t just going in distorted circles.
Chicken and the egg: she always wondered if she was tapped as a Potential Slayer because something out there knew she’d be good, or if all the Potentials were this way. Her parade of Watchers never answered questions, not the important ones, and at Buffy’s months-long slumber party she never asked the other girls. Kennedy didn’t, doesn’t, make friends easily.
Most of the time she thinks that this restless energy is just who she is, and if she hadn’t been a Slayer, hadn’t had a means to vent some of it into years of training, she would have spontaneously combusted before her twentieth birthday. Lucky thing, then, that she is a Slayer, and here they are in Brazil, and today’s the day. Twenty candles on her cake. Willow’s already made the joke about 1984 being the Chinese Year of the Brat, but there’s still that worry/apology in the corners of her eyes when she says something like that, her honey-I’m-just-kidding look that Kennedy always has to kiss away before it drives her crazy.
Willow tastes like lime and salt from the tequila shooters that used to inhabit the empty glasses lined along the floor. They’re in their small apartment’s small kitchen, sitting on the tiles because it’s raining again and the balcony’s flooded. Kennedy loves this part of South America. It feels like every breath she takes is saturated with that fresh, clean wet of the trees. Last month she chased a vampire through the Carnaval, unconsciously weaving and running in time with the beat, and after she staked him she danced with her girl till after the sun came up and dried the rain from their clothes, steam rising between them where their bodies met.
Rain and all, she’d rather be on the balcony, but she really does have a cake. Can’t let the baked goods get drenched, no matter how much she’d like to see that blouse of Willow’s soaked to her skin, peel it off her slowly and stand naked with her under the sky.
Willow naked? Best thing on earth, second only to Willow naked in the rain. But nobody ever made something specially for her before, and Kennedy’s hard-earned cynicism is suffering a full frontal assault in the face of this birthday cake.
The cake’s vanilla and cream, twenty candles on the top in a spiral that she blows out in one breath, and this is the first year in thirteen that she doesn’t have to wish to be a Slayer.
The candles are magic – store bought magic, not Willow’s usual kind – and they relight right away.
“Now I don’t get my wish,” Kennedy pretends to pout.
Tiddly with tequila, Willow strokes her arm. “Aren’t I your wish? I think I’m eminently wishable.”
In the background, the CD changer flips to an Indigo Girls CD that Kennedy proudly counts as the most-mocked thing that Willow owns, and she wants to make fun of it. All her targets are sitting waiting for her like yellow plastic ducks at a carnival, and she just has to pop them off. Get Will on the defensive, pull out some of the heat that she knows damn well is simmering just below the surface.
She looks at her cake, the pink striped candles dripping wax onto the imperfect yellow icing. Remembers the immaculate, dull creations the caterers always came up for her parties back home, and the look on Willow’s face that said she was ready to be called lame for baking it for her, or for doing anything for her birthday that didn’t involved a debauched day in bed.
The rain’s a soft drumbeat on the roof and the windows, only just louder than the music, and Kennedy watches her candles and holds her girlfriend close, careful not to speak. Inside, for maybe the first time in her whole life, she’s quiet and still, and ‘I love you’ would only spoil the moment.
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Kennedy/Willow
Rating: PG
Notes: For
aaronlisa for the Potentials ficathon, request was Willow and Kennedy’s life in Brazil.Willow doesn’t seem to get that couples can fight and it not be the end of the world; Kennedy argues like other people sink into a hot bath at the end of a long day. It’s her release, her tension-breaker, and she never means anything by it. Just something to get her blood going, her heart racing, and making up’s the fun part anyway.
Kennedy sometimes thinks about whether she might have been – she hates the word ‘nice’ but it’s the best fit – a nice person, if she hadn’t been a Potential. She was seven years old the day Mrs. Pierson, her first Watcher, told her what she was. That was when she put a name to the thing that had always been there, making her get suspended from her exclusive school for fist-fights with wussy little boys who tattled on her, making her unable to sit still in class, making her spend her afternoons at the athletics track where she’d run and run and run and try to pretend she wasn’t just going in distorted circles.
Chicken and the egg: she always wondered if she was tapped as a Potential Slayer because something out there knew she’d be good, or if all the Potentials were this way. Her parade of Watchers never answered questions, not the important ones, and at Buffy’s months-long slumber party she never asked the other girls. Kennedy didn’t, doesn’t, make friends easily.
Most of the time she thinks that this restless energy is just who she is, and if she hadn’t been a Slayer, hadn’t had a means to vent some of it into years of training, she would have spontaneously combusted before her twentieth birthday. Lucky thing, then, that she is a Slayer, and here they are in Brazil, and today’s the day. Twenty candles on her cake. Willow’s already made the joke about 1984 being the Chinese Year of the Brat, but there’s still that worry/apology in the corners of her eyes when she says something like that, her honey-I’m-just-kidding look that Kennedy always has to kiss away before it drives her crazy.
Willow tastes like lime and salt from the tequila shooters that used to inhabit the empty glasses lined along the floor. They’re in their small apartment’s small kitchen, sitting on the tiles because it’s raining again and the balcony’s flooded. Kennedy loves this part of South America. It feels like every breath she takes is saturated with that fresh, clean wet of the trees. Last month she chased a vampire through the Carnaval, unconsciously weaving and running in time with the beat, and after she staked him she danced with her girl till after the sun came up and dried the rain from their clothes, steam rising between them where their bodies met.
Rain and all, she’d rather be on the balcony, but she really does have a cake. Can’t let the baked goods get drenched, no matter how much she’d like to see that blouse of Willow’s soaked to her skin, peel it off her slowly and stand naked with her under the sky.
Willow naked? Best thing on earth, second only to Willow naked in the rain. But nobody ever made something specially for her before, and Kennedy’s hard-earned cynicism is suffering a full frontal assault in the face of this birthday cake.
The cake’s vanilla and cream, twenty candles on the top in a spiral that she blows out in one breath, and this is the first year in thirteen that she doesn’t have to wish to be a Slayer.
The candles are magic – store bought magic, not Willow’s usual kind – and they relight right away.
“Now I don’t get my wish,” Kennedy pretends to pout.
Tiddly with tequila, Willow strokes her arm. “Aren’t I your wish? I think I’m eminently wishable.”
In the background, the CD changer flips to an Indigo Girls CD that Kennedy proudly counts as the most-mocked thing that Willow owns, and she wants to make fun of it. All her targets are sitting waiting for her like yellow plastic ducks at a carnival, and she just has to pop them off. Get Will on the defensive, pull out some of the heat that she knows damn well is simmering just below the surface.
She looks at her cake, the pink striped candles dripping wax onto the imperfect yellow icing. Remembers the immaculate, dull creations the caterers always came up for her parties back home, and the look on Willow’s face that said she was ready to be called lame for baking it for her, or for doing anything for her birthday that didn’t involved a debauched day in bed.
The rain’s a soft drumbeat on the roof and the windows, only just louder than the music, and Kennedy watches her candles and holds her girlfriend close, careful not to speak. Inside, for maybe the first time in her whole life, she’s quiet and still, and ‘I love you’ would only spoil the moment.
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no subject
on 2004-06-07 07:53 pm (UTC)Mmm... rainsoakedness.
"this is the first year in thirteen that she doesn’t have to wish to be a Slayer."
Aww.