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Friendship Ficathon
May. 1st, 2005 02:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupTitle: Supernatural Opera
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
libco
Rating: PG
Author’s Note: thanks tomarried_n_mich for the beta, additional information gleaned from Gilbert & Sullivan Archive
______________
Spike wasn’t absolutely sure why he kept at it, but one evening, after a particularly grueling day of demon contracts, wiccan legalese, and a supreme court case, Gunn finally agreed to go out with Spike for a drink. And that would be why Spike started holding up the doorframe of his office at 5:15.
“Be ready in a minute.”
“No problem, mate, though you really shouldn’t let the wanker work you so hard.”
Gunn looked at him, “I like what I do, Spike, and nobody makes me do anything.”
Spike just shrugged and sauntered over to the semi-circular armchair in front of Gunn’s desk. After sitting with a flourish, he propped his boots up on the edge of the desk.
Gunn glared at him for a few seconds, but Spike was busily picking at his nails and twisting his rings.
“Put your feet down, please.” Gunn’s voice sounded tight, barely restrained. Give someone a big desk and a nice chair and look at the attitude they sport! Spike just stared at him. Sighing, Gunn shook his head and refocused on the bit of paper in front of him.
“What ya got there?”
“A will.”
“For who?”
“A client.”
Lawyer-boy sure was a tough nut.
A few minutes later Spike said, “Saw that on opening night, ya know.”
Gunn looked up from his work, startled by the apparent non-sequitor. “What?”
“Ruddigore. That bit you were humming. Me and Dru. Opening night.” Spike was flipping what looked like a bronze coin from knuckle to knuckle across the back of his hand.
“You. You were at a Gilbert and Sullivan opening?” Gunn sounded incredulous.
“’Course. They were the biggest thing going and me and Dru were nothing if not fashionable.”
Spike turned his hand and caught the coin in his palm, then looked out the window with a wistful look, “Plus she sorta fancied the bloke playing Robin, and I occupied myself for a time with Zorah and Ruth while she had her fun.”
Gunn had laid his pen down and intrigue and repulsion battled on his face. Spike smirked as he could almost hear the cursing coming from inside the black man’s head. Spike plugged along.
“You know what I didn’t get though? Why didn't Ruthven die the first day he went crimeless after Sir Roderic's death? It’s been bugging me for the past century or so.” Spike looked genuinely curious.
A few minutes passed as Gunn digested the question and let his eyes wander over Spike in assessment of the situation. Finally, he spoke.
“The curse falls upon the heir, regardless of the nature of his descent. As we see in the opera, it may pass from uncle to nephew. Brother Despard may still inherit, as may his children or grandchildren, if Ruthven dies childless. Indeed, given that there have been 21 Baronets in only two centuries, or roughly one every ten...”
Spike sighed. He was starting to regret having asked. Just trying to get a bit of chatter started, get the bloke away from work so they could get out of here and get to the drinking. But now…he’d obviously started in on the wrong topic. Lawyer-boy was all worked up now. He came back in as Gunn’s inflection changed, indicating he was about to get to the point and shut his yap.
“...even if one has to go back to the distant relations of the unfortunate Rupert, and work down to the present again.”
“You don’t think they just cocked up? Forgot about the rules of the curse and just went for convenience rather than continuity? ‘Cause that’s an awful long way to go, even with your great brain.”
Gunn’s expression was outraged, he started in, “Of course not! Upon occasion the finer details do have to suffer to move the plot along, but overall, the consistency and...”
Spike faded out again and focused on the desk and Gunn’s natty attire and the stubble coating his head. Lawyer-boy sure could talk. Folks in the courtroom probably just let him win so he’d shut up.
Finally, Gunn seemed done.
Spike looked suitably impressed. “Haven’t thought about that much, have ya?”
Taken aback, he smiled in spite of himself and Gunn said, “Naw, not much.”
“Ready then?”
Gunn stood and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair, “Yeah.”
They spent most of the drive to the pub in on and off chatter, mostly focused on music; from G&S to Dizzy Gillespie (Spike ate his drummer), Pavarotti (Gunn had an autographed copy of an Aida playbill), The Ramones (Dru ate a groupie while Spike moshed) and 50 Cent (WR&H owned his soul).
They sat at the bar. It was a dive, and Spike assessed Gunn in this environment. He’d rolled up his sleeves, removed his tie, unbuttoned and now looked like he might just fit in…depending on what he ordered.
The burly bartender came and stood in front of them, no social niceties here, just order and get on with the drunk. Spike looked to Gunn.
“JD with a beer back.” Not bad lawyer-boy, not bad.
“Irish Carbomb.” The bartender’s eyes narrowed for a minute and then he snorted and went to fetch the sauce. The wanker actually thought his order was the poofy one!
Over the course of the evening, Spike carefully picked away at the image of him that Angel was sure to have constructed—untrustworthy, belligerent, insensitive, and immature. Something akin to what the great poof had a tendency to, only without as much flash.
Spike felt the subtle shift after about the fourth round, and further discussion of people and places that seemed to fascinate Gunn, but Spike had never really given much thought to, other than as entertainment—but, come on, he didn’t have a soul then. Seemed about right to pop the ultimate test question.
“So there’s these cavemen and these astronauts...”
“No such thing as ‘cavemen.’ Neanderthals? Australopithecus? Cro-Magnon? You’ve got to give me a species.”
Spike goggled at him. “I dunno, mate! Hunched, big heads, covered with hair, clubs, no speech. Cavemen!”
Gunn sighed, “Fine, we’ll go with Neanderthal. The astronauts, what country are they from?”
Shaking his head Spike looked down at the bar as if he might cry, “Bloody hell! Astronauts! They go up in a shuttle and fly to the moon and whatnot, what’s it matter where they’re from you brainy wanker?”
“Each country’s astronauts have different strengths and weaknesses; their training focus as well as their equipment can be radically different from country to country, developing emphasis in different scientific, physical and military areas.”
Spike raised his head and looked at Gunn blearily for a few moments. “You need more to drink. Can’t continue this with that much brain on the table.”
Smirking, Gunn hailed the bartender. “Bring us two more of those,” he pointed at Spike’s drink, “each.”
Spike let a loud laugh fly and clapped Gunn on the back, “We’ll be continuing this conversation in no time!”
Strangely, Gunn found himself looking forward to it. He really did.
*********************
Request: Spike/Gunn
Alternate request: Harmony/Wesley
Prompts: Cocktails, argument over music, "cavemen vs astronauts" (if Spike/Gunn), a moment of wistfulness
Please do NOT include: Sad ending, character bashing
Written for
libcoRating: PG
Author’s Note: thanks to
married_n_mich for the beta, additional information gleaned from Gilbert & Sullivan Archive______________
Spike wasn’t absolutely sure why he kept at it, but one evening, after a particularly grueling day of demon contracts, wiccan legalese, and a supreme court case, Gunn finally agreed to go out with Spike for a drink. And that would be why Spike started holding up the doorframe of his office at 5:15.
“Be ready in a minute.”
“No problem, mate, though you really shouldn’t let the wanker work you so hard.”
Gunn looked at him, “I like what I do, Spike, and nobody makes me do anything.”
Spike just shrugged and sauntered over to the semi-circular armchair in front of Gunn’s desk. After sitting with a flourish, he propped his boots up on the edge of the desk.
Gunn glared at him for a few seconds, but Spike was busily picking at his nails and twisting his rings.
“Put your feet down, please.” Gunn’s voice sounded tight, barely restrained. Give someone a big desk and a nice chair and look at the attitude they sport! Spike just stared at him. Sighing, Gunn shook his head and refocused on the bit of paper in front of him.
“What ya got there?”
“A will.”
“For who?”
“A client.”
Lawyer-boy sure was a tough nut.
A few minutes later Spike said, “Saw that on opening night, ya know.”
Gunn looked up from his work, startled by the apparent non-sequitor. “What?”
“Ruddigore. That bit you were humming. Me and Dru. Opening night.” Spike was flipping what looked like a bronze coin from knuckle to knuckle across the back of his hand.
“You. You were at a Gilbert and Sullivan opening?” Gunn sounded incredulous.
“’Course. They were the biggest thing going and me and Dru were nothing if not fashionable.”
Spike turned his hand and caught the coin in his palm, then looked out the window with a wistful look, “Plus she sorta fancied the bloke playing Robin, and I occupied myself for a time with Zorah and Ruth while she had her fun.”
Gunn had laid his pen down and intrigue and repulsion battled on his face. Spike smirked as he could almost hear the cursing coming from inside the black man’s head. Spike plugged along.
“You know what I didn’t get though? Why didn't Ruthven die the first day he went crimeless after Sir Roderic's death? It’s been bugging me for the past century or so.” Spike looked genuinely curious.
A few minutes passed as Gunn digested the question and let his eyes wander over Spike in assessment of the situation. Finally, he spoke.
“The curse falls upon the heir, regardless of the nature of his descent. As we see in the opera, it may pass from uncle to nephew. Brother Despard may still inherit, as may his children or grandchildren, if Ruthven dies childless. Indeed, given that there have been 21 Baronets in only two centuries, or roughly one every ten...”
Spike sighed. He was starting to regret having asked. Just trying to get a bit of chatter started, get the bloke away from work so they could get out of here and get to the drinking. But now…he’d obviously started in on the wrong topic. Lawyer-boy was all worked up now. He came back in as Gunn’s inflection changed, indicating he was about to get to the point and shut his yap.
“...even if one has to go back to the distant relations of the unfortunate Rupert, and work down to the present again.”
“You don’t think they just cocked up? Forgot about the rules of the curse and just went for convenience rather than continuity? ‘Cause that’s an awful long way to go, even with your great brain.”
Gunn’s expression was outraged, he started in, “Of course not! Upon occasion the finer details do have to suffer to move the plot along, but overall, the consistency and...”
Spike faded out again and focused on the desk and Gunn’s natty attire and the stubble coating his head. Lawyer-boy sure could talk. Folks in the courtroom probably just let him win so he’d shut up.
Finally, Gunn seemed done.
Spike looked suitably impressed. “Haven’t thought about that much, have ya?”
Taken aback, he smiled in spite of himself and Gunn said, “Naw, not much.”
“Ready then?”
Gunn stood and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair, “Yeah.”
They spent most of the drive to the pub in on and off chatter, mostly focused on music; from G&S to Dizzy Gillespie (Spike ate his drummer), Pavarotti (Gunn had an autographed copy of an Aida playbill), The Ramones (Dru ate a groupie while Spike moshed) and 50 Cent (WR&H owned his soul).
They sat at the bar. It was a dive, and Spike assessed Gunn in this environment. He’d rolled up his sleeves, removed his tie, unbuttoned and now looked like he might just fit in…depending on what he ordered.
The burly bartender came and stood in front of them, no social niceties here, just order and get on with the drunk. Spike looked to Gunn.
“JD with a beer back.” Not bad lawyer-boy, not bad.
“Irish Carbomb.” The bartender’s eyes narrowed for a minute and then he snorted and went to fetch the sauce. The wanker actually thought his order was the poofy one!
Over the course of the evening, Spike carefully picked away at the image of him that Angel was sure to have constructed—untrustworthy, belligerent, insensitive, and immature. Something akin to what the great poof had a tendency to, only without as much flash.
Spike felt the subtle shift after about the fourth round, and further discussion of people and places that seemed to fascinate Gunn, but Spike had never really given much thought to, other than as entertainment—but, come on, he didn’t have a soul then. Seemed about right to pop the ultimate test question.
“So there’s these cavemen and these astronauts...”
“No such thing as ‘cavemen.’ Neanderthals? Australopithecus? Cro-Magnon? You’ve got to give me a species.”
Spike goggled at him. “I dunno, mate! Hunched, big heads, covered with hair, clubs, no speech. Cavemen!”
Gunn sighed, “Fine, we’ll go with Neanderthal. The astronauts, what country are they from?”
Shaking his head Spike looked down at the bar as if he might cry, “Bloody hell! Astronauts! They go up in a shuttle and fly to the moon and whatnot, what’s it matter where they’re from you brainy wanker?”
“Each country’s astronauts have different strengths and weaknesses; their training focus as well as their equipment can be radically different from country to country, developing emphasis in different scientific, physical and military areas.”
Spike raised his head and looked at Gunn blearily for a few moments. “You need more to drink. Can’t continue this with that much brain on the table.”
Smirking, Gunn hailed the bartender. “Bring us two more of those,” he pointed at Spike’s drink, “each.”
Spike let a loud laugh fly and clapped Gunn on the back, “We’ll be continuing this conversation in no time!”
Strangely, Gunn found himself looking forward to it. He really did.
*********************
Request: Spike/Gunn
Alternate request: Harmony/Wesley
Prompts: Cocktails, argument over music, "cavemen vs astronauts" (if Spike/Gunn), a moment of wistfulness
Please do NOT include: Sad ending, character bashing
no subject
Date: 2005-05-01 10:19 pm (UTC)This is a great, fun read. Thanks.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:38 am (UTC)I'm pleased you enjoyed!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:40 am (UTC)What a marvelous compliment! Thanks! I was so nervous about my portrayal of him.
But then again...you're partial (and that's perfectly acceptable).
no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:42 am (UTC)Glad you enjoyed!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 04:47 am (UTC)from G&S to Dizzy Gillespie (Spike ate his drummer)
At that point I started laughing so hard I woke my dog. She hasn't stopped barking since.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:44 am (UTC)Can't give a boy all that knowledge and expect him NOT to use it! ;-)
Happy you liked!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 01:11 am (UTC)Perfect voices.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 10:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 01:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 02:14 am (UTC)Just wanted to let you know that the fic I wrote for your request (Spike/Faith, Giles/Dawn) is up at
http://www.livejournal.com/users/willowgreen/29464.html?view=52760#t52760
I hope the Giles/Dawn interaction isn't too father-daughterish!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:48 am (UTC)and I'm off to read mine now!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 04:47 am (UTC)Whooo! I'm glad you appreciated it, 'cause that was the toughest part of the whole shabang!
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 11:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-02 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-01 12:55 pm (UTC)