The Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG.
Spoilers: None. Very much none.
Summary: Drabbles of 100 words or less in honor of the four seasons – frankly, slash drabbles beat Vivaldi any day.
Warnings: None.



The Four Seasons


by
Rayne Jelly





Icecapades

Icy hands against Xander’s neck, curling into the warmth and he yelped. “Sorry mate, m’cold.” He thought about what it really meant, not being able to generate body heat. How many times he’d gone in weather for hours, below freezing, walking around, cold but alive because he generated heat. Even through layers of clothing the liquid in Spike’s body would freeze, the human body is seventy-five percent water, a vampire body is seventy-five percent water and Spike would freeze in place, cold, solid, beautiful, conscious, terrified statue until the sun rose and he was beautiful dust.

“Spike, let’s go inside.”





Allergies

Xander sneezed and reached for another tissue, blowing into it miserably while Spike looked on with a superior smirk. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, the trashcan over flowed with tissues and scraps of toilet paper courtesy of Xander’s uncomfortable nose.

He sneezed again, and Spike smirked louder. “Don’t say it.”

“I might be dead, mate, but at least I don’t have springtime allergies.”

“Or body temperature. Ass.”





Take What You Can Get

Spike frowned contemplatively and decided that he was, in fact, too hot to move. He wondered if his skin was going to melt, fuse itself to the cheap polyester fabric of Harris’ house and only accelerated vampire healing would keep him from literally cooking in his skin until winter rolled around again. Functioning sweat glands would be nice, at least for sweltering afternoons where he was stuck in an airless basement about ready to die a second death, but then he would smell. Like Xander, who accused him of being a big icicle and laid down on him. “Mm… cold.”





Fashion Statements

“It’s just wrong I tell you.” Xander snickered at Spike’s apparent plight. He thought vampires looked just fine against falling leaves, reds and golds, everything living and dying, everything changing except for them. The world was a riot of color and while Spike didn’t exactly fit in, he sure did stand out, which was probably the point – the quintessential vampire weather, except: “I have dead leaf goop caked all over my boots.”

“It’s a tragic consequence of the life style – noble heroism and dead leaf goop.”

“Shut it, you.”




The End



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