(no subject)

[doyle]

I'm doing the icon/drabble meme a bit differently - drop a comment to this post with the icon you want a drabble for and I'll do my best to supply. I've been finding that writing these is good for the (frequent) sticky parts of the fic I'm in the middle of.

These are both icons of gwynnega's.





It’s a peculiar sort of bias; Xander falling asleep over the books prompts a sigh, eyes rolled to the library ceiling as he wonders whether the pages will survive unmarked by drool. But when he emerges from his office to find Willow with her head pillowed on the Puarquisan Text, he spends a full minute just watching her sleep. She’s a beautiful young woman, he realizes, and is instantly ashamed of the somewhat abstract thought. She’s barely seventeen, after all.

She smiles, and stirs in her sleep. When she says Oz’s name, Giles is astonished at how much it stings.





"We're like mochas," Willow said, staring thoughtfully into her cup. "With the coffee. And the chocolate. And the putting two good things together and making one super-good thing."

Buffy raised her eyebrows, not quite seeing where this was going; it seemed like an Oz-type metaphor, but she didn't say that. Mentioning her new girlfriend's newly-ex boyfriend? Okay, so they were both still finding their way around the girl/girl thing, but that had to be of the bad.

"Am I the coffee?" she guessed. "Slayer power, kind of like the caffeine-y goodness? Ooh! And keeping you up all night." She smiled, pleased with herself for following the logic train.

"That makes me the chocolate," Willow moped. "I'm cocoa. I send people to sleep."

"But also deliciously addictive. And, hey." She started to look around, see if there was anyone nearby, and then she decided to hell with it. She'd saved the world. She could hold her girlfriend's hand in the middle of the Espresso Pump. "The only person you're allowed to send to sleep is me. Except you don't. And that was more romantic when it was inside my brain."

"It was plenty romantic." Willow squeezed her fingers. "Wanna hear my theory about Giles' tea?"

Comments

[doyle_sb4.livejournal.com]

Sunday morning, the New York Times spread in pieces over the covers, she reads to him from the Bhagavad Gita. "For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time,” she says. Sheets pushed away, naked against white pillows and newsprint, she reads, "The soul can never be cut to pieces by any weapon, nor burned by fire, nor moistened by water, nor withered by the wind.”

He could spend the rest of his life listening to her speak. “You believe in all that? Past lives, reincarnation?”

She marks her place and sets aside. “I think it’s possible.” When she smiles down at him, head ducked and her hair falling around her face, he thinks she looks like an angel. But that doesn’t sit right, makes him uneasy.

Pulls her down to him, skimming his fingers all along her thigh, hip, side; he kisses the spot above her breasts. She’s not shy any more, not like she was at first, and he always thought it was silly to be so self-conscious of that tiny little wine-stain birthmark over her heart.

Later, she makes pancakes shaped like animals. He plays his guitar, a song coming into his head like a dream he’d forgotten; she asks when he wrote it and he says he doesn’t think he did. Knew it when he was a kid, maybe. His mom calls to ask did they go to church. He says, yeah, he worshipped a higher power this morning, and his girl muffles her giggles against his back.

The afternoon, they go for a walk. It’s summer, sunny, and she’s talking about her students at the community college. Her hand’s loose in his, and he’s already forgotten what she read to him this morning, only how she sounded, how she looked.

This is all the life he could ever want.

[remember-nomore.livejournal.com]

*sigh*

You so need to keep writing them. I'll beg. lol