Singing in the Rain: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fic
A thunderstorm, a bottle of whiskey, and a soaking-wet Slayer make Spike a happy boy.
“I’m shingin’ in th’ rain… just shingin’ in the rain…”
Sheets of rain beat down on peroxide and leather as Spike danced clumsily along the dark and deserted street, swinging his half-empty whiskey bottle and merrily stamping his Doc Martins in the gutter. A jagged streak of lightning split the sky, and he staggered to a halt, raising his bottle to the clouds in a drunken toast. “ ’At’s it. You tell ’em, Yahweh…” A mutter of thunder greeted this friendly blasphemy.
Whiskey sloshed in the bottle and his stomach as he stumbled sideways down the darkened street. He hummed a few notes, then broke into song once more.
“What a glooooorious feeeeeling…” He broke from his caterwauling to launch himself at a nearby lamp-post, swinging himself around it before losing his grip and collapsing into the gutter with a splash.
“Ow. That ’urt.” Another streak of lightning lit up the sky, and he giggled idiotically. “Ooh, look at the clouds. That’s a bunny — ” this while pointing to the almost-indistinguishable ink spots roiling over his head — “an’ that’s a ship — an’ that’s a woman’s privities!” He broke into a gale of wild laughter, ending with a splutter as he choked on the heavy rain.
“And I thought this night couldn’t get any worse,” said a sardonic voice. Spike craned his head back as far as his neck would allow and grinned into the upside-down face of the very bedraggled Slayer. “Hello, little girl,” he crooned sweetly. “Wanna watch clouds wif me?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Buffy squatted down next to him. Her pert little nose wrinkled in disgust as she caught a whiff of the whiskey. “Oh. You’re drunk.”
“I most certainly am,” he said gravely, trying to frown at her. “But I’m very responsible. No — hic — no driving, y’see. Walking.”
“Thank God for that.” Buffy reached for his collar and unceremoniously yanked him upright. “Go home before something kills you. No, scratch that. Go home before I kill you.”
“Bossy bitch,” he said cheerfully, smiling at her in a friendly manner as he flopped back down and crossed his arms beneath his head. Without a change of expression Buffy shot out her hand and seized him firmly by the ear, dragging him to his feet over his profane protests. “Fuck!” he snarled, breaking away from her grip to rub his ear. “You remind me of Mum.” The thought sent a shudder down his spine, and he raised the bottle hastily to his lips. “Nope,” said Buffy, snatching it from his hand, “No more for you. Go home and sleep it off.” He frowned down at her. God, she was short. “I told you, I’m not driving,” he said, beginning to feel disagreeable. She frowned back up at him. “One more swig and you’re down for good, boozer. And I don’t feel like carrying you.” He made a lunge for the bottle, but she skipped agilely away and he ended up on his face. “Ow,” he said to the pavement. “Serves you right.” sniffed Buffy, slipping the bottle into her weapons sack. “And I’m not helping you up this time.”
“Awww…” He rolled onto his back and pouted at her. “Come on…”
Buffy rolled her eyes until the whites showed. “God, I hate you.” Reluctantly she held out her hand. He took it and yanked, pulling her down onto him. The whiskey bottle skittered out of her sack and across the pavement, ringing musically as it danced through the puddles. Spike giggled in Buffy’s ear while she let out a string of mumbled swearwords and struggled to regain her feet. “Can’t keep yer ’ands off me, can ya?”
“Fuck you, Spike — “ She pulled back her arm for a punch, and he took the opportunity to roll them over until he was on top of her, deflecting her punch and pinning her arm to the ground. “Oo-hoo-hoo, Summers. If you insist.”
She kneed him in the groin. It was not her fault that she missed; two hundred years of painful experience as a male vampire had taught Spike to avoid that particular attack. He twisted agiley, and her kneecap crunched into his thigh. He was going to have a nice bruise tomorrow. “OW! BITCH!” The pain made him double up slightly, and he found himself literally nose-to-nose with a very pissy Slayer.
For a moment he was close enough to see her face in the flickering lightning — the traces of tinted lip gloss, the ravelling eyeliner, the small strands of hair which matted on her cheeks. Her pupils grew and shrank as he watched, and she blinked suddenly as a raindrop fell into her eye. Beneath the rain and graveyard dust, he smelled her cheap cologne; in her blood he smelled hot cocoa and iron.
Normally he would have seen the punch coming seconds before it hit. Heck, normally he would have remembered to pin the other arm. As it was, the blow came as a complete surprise, connecting wetly with his chin and sending him flying off of her. “Yawgh!” he bellowed, his rage made incoherent by whiskey and a throbbing jaw. Buffy picked herself up off the ground, radiating disgust. “Bastard. Get eaten by a demon, for all I care.” Shouldering her weapons sack, she stalked off into the night, her wet form quickly hidden by curtains of misty rain.
Staring after her, Spike shoved himself to his wobbly feet, absently retrieving the half-submerged bottle from the gutter. “Bloody bitch,” he muttered aloud. “Should have kissed her when I had the chance.” He took an absent-minded swig from the bottle, making a face at the diluted liquor but swallowing it anyway. Couldn’t waste perfectly good whiskey. He suddenly remembered he had half a bottle of Southern Comfort waiting for him in his crypt. The disagreeable knot in his stomach faded as quickly as it had come. With a grin, he turned towards the graveyard and began a disjointed skip, a slightly off-key tune rising once again above the sound of the rain.
“I’m shingin’ in the rain… just shiiiiingin’ in the rain…”
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