Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This ficlet has no nutritional value--
Feedback: But it does have heart. And no small amount of soul, can ya dig it?
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set between S4 and S5.
Summary: A ficlet written for the ![[info]](/communitygif.gif){kind=small}
spander132 moodring prompt: surprise.
The First
by
Beetle
“Well?”
“Hey--I’m trying to decide, here! You just don’t spring a question like that on the Xan-man and expect him to remain calm!”
“Calm, schmalm, git, just gimme a yes or no?”
“Oh, you’d like me to think it’s that simple, but I happen to know better. If I say no--”
“So your answer’s no?”
“--then you point at me and mock me. If I say yes--”
“Your answer’s yes, then?”
“--if I say yes, you’ll point at me and mock me even harder.”
“Would I do such a dastardly thing? Set you up like that, just for a laugh at your expen--right, stupid question.”
“Very. Anyway, it’s not yes, but it’s not no, either. It's an 'I-need-time-to-think'.”
“Oi! You can’t do that!”
“The fact that I just did says otherwise.”
“You’re bloody annoying. Can’t stand you, sometimes.”
“Are you pouting? And here I thought the Big Bad only pouted when he missed Passions. . . .”
“I’m really starting to hope something with big, blunt teeth wanders along and eats you.”
“Yes, reminding me of my own mortality at a wildly inappropriate moment . . . nice move, bleacho.”
“Or maybe a Stregath demon, yeah? Be great fun watchin’ one of those slither along and slurp you up like a strand of screaming, flailing, floppy-haired spaghetti.”
“Spike, you do wonders for my self-esteem.”
“Save the flattery--you made up your mind yet?”
“Ah, the clarity of a one-track mind--or I guess no-track, in your case.”
“Oi! You’re the one still dithering--”
”Dithering? The year eighteen ninety-six called for you, Captain Peroxide. It wants it’s slang back.”
“Oh, yeah? Well the year two thousand called for you, you wanker, and said answer the sodding question sometime this millennium!”
“And anyway, it’s not dithering; I prefer to call it a weighing of pros and cons.”
“Bollocks! This isn’t Sophie’s Choice, mate!”
“Maybe not to you.”
“Then maybe we should call this whole thing off. It was a stupid idea, anyhow--”
“Come on, Spike, don’t be like that. . . .”
“Feelin’ a bit tired, me. Should just call it a night, turn in. . . .”
“Oh, fine. Fine, ya big baby--my answer is a) Dolph Lundgren and yes, that is, indeed, my final answer.”
“Ha! The answer was d) the Red Sea! Too bad, loser!”
“Comes the pointing and mocking, right on cue. . . .”
“And for future reference, Harris, Dolph Lundgren is never the answer to a multiple choice question. Ever.”
“Gee, thanks for the tip. This game sucks.”
“The questions are ridiculous, but the entertainment value is undeniable.”
“Let’s play something else. Canasta, maybe, or Uno. . . .”
“You didn’t even make it to the four thousand dollar question--that has to be some kind of record--”
“Try to sound a little less gloaty, Fangless.”
“I’m dead and I’m more well-informed than you.”
“Spike--”
“The American school system really has failed your generation--”
“Damnit, Spike!”
“What?!”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“. . . .”
“Bloody hell . . . never woulda thought you were the kiss-on-the-first-date type--not that I’m complainin’.”
“I’m not--I don’t . . . but for you, I made an exception.”
“Clearly. . . .”
“But don’t let it go to your head. Hey, wait a minute--this is your idea of a date?”
“Got kissed, didn’t I?”
“Spike, it’s Saturday night and we’re playing board games in the Basement of Doom. I may be cheap, and I may be easy, but I’m not that cheap or that easy! Tonight does not count as a date.”
“Bugger . . . I suppose, instead of shagging right away, you’ll wanna take this slow; go on proper dates, see movies, get to know each other, et cetera?”
“Well . . . considering my track record, yeah. Slow is very of the good, because--”
“Because?”
“I--I have reasons, you know, valid ones. Very valid--”
“I’m sure they are, love.”
“--something about--out of the frying pan and into each other’s pants--dear God, Spike!”
“Hmm?”
“Stop making me hard!”
“. . . .”
“I mean stop making it hard for me to think!”
“Hmmm . . . no.”
“You are such--gah!--an evil bastard.”
“Every day of the week and twice on Sundays . . . now then, pet, what else don’t you do on first dates. . . ?”
The End
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