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sb_fag_ends2013-03-26 11:13 pm
drizzlydaze.livejournal.com) wrote in sb_fag_ends2013-03-26 11:13 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Student
Title: Student
Creator: drizzlydaze
Rating: PG
Setting: Post series
Word count: 440
Prompt: Go back to something I’ve already made and ‘make it light’.
A/N: Now this really is a riff on an old theme. Alternate scenario to Professor.
She sits at the very back of the small lecture hall with a notepad and pen laid out tidily on the desk. She has her bag placed neatly on her lap. She has her serious face on, her interested face, as she looks to the front of the hall. The first comfort is that the hall is entirely full. The second is that he is late. He’s more of the same, if he’s late.
The smile on her face grows wider and wider as the lesson goes on. There’s an inexplicable happiness in her, and a curious anguish. This is Spike, alive and well. And here.
When class ends, her plan for a swift exit falls to pieces. Instead, she dawdles and lingers, edges her way to the front of the hall to him. He looks up as she approaches, far too soon for her to have finished gathering her thoughts. He quirks up a smile, slightly nervous and totally ignorant. “Hello, may I help you? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your…”
He doesn’t remember. Of course not. Wouldn’t be much of a respite if he did. Along with her disappointment she feels strange relief; if he had remembered and didn’t seek her out… “Buffy,” she says, finding it easier to act cheerful than usual. “Buffy Summers.” She sticks her hand out.
He takes it in a warm hand and shakes. “Miss Summers.”
She barely suppresses a laugh.
She has a plan. It’s rather good plan. It’s also rather selfish. But hey, she’s been saving the world for a little under a decade; surely she deserves some selfishness? So she’s sitting at the very front of a small lecture hall with a stupid smile on her face as she watches Spike rant on about someone called Lord Byron and the Romantics.
And sometimes she catches his eye, and he pauses for just a moment. Something tugging at him, something moving behind his eyes, and then dissipated. That’s when her most selfish thoughts hit, that she can have him again, restored, intact.
She goes up after class and talks as he packs up. Students, boys and girls alike, eye her suspiciously as they stream out. When the last is gone and he is looking expectantly at her, she asks him out for lunch. Every day he says no—it wouldn’t be appropriate, he barely knew her, she didn’t know him—and every day still she asks the same. She may or may not slip in some, um, innocent touches here and there, but all’s fair in love and war, right?
This, she thinks, certainly counts as both.
Creator: drizzlydaze
Rating: PG
Setting: Post series
Word count: 440
Prompt: Go back to something I’ve already made and ‘make it light’.
A/N: Now this really is a riff on an old theme. Alternate scenario to Professor.
She sits at the very back of the small lecture hall with a notepad and pen laid out tidily on the desk. She has her bag placed neatly on her lap. She has her serious face on, her interested face, as she looks to the front of the hall. The first comfort is that the hall is entirely full. The second is that he is late. He’s more of the same, if he’s late.
The smile on her face grows wider and wider as the lesson goes on. There’s an inexplicable happiness in her, and a curious anguish. This is Spike, alive and well. And here.
When class ends, her plan for a swift exit falls to pieces. Instead, she dawdles and lingers, edges her way to the front of the hall to him. He looks up as she approaches, far too soon for her to have finished gathering her thoughts. He quirks up a smile, slightly nervous and totally ignorant. “Hello, may I help you? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your…”
He doesn’t remember. Of course not. Wouldn’t be much of a respite if he did. Along with her disappointment she feels strange relief; if he had remembered and didn’t seek her out… “Buffy,” she says, finding it easier to act cheerful than usual. “Buffy Summers.” She sticks her hand out.
He takes it in a warm hand and shakes. “Miss Summers.”
She barely suppresses a laugh.
~~~~~
She has a plan. It’s rather good plan. It’s also rather selfish. But hey, she’s been saving the world for a little under a decade; surely she deserves some selfishness? So she’s sitting at the very front of a small lecture hall with a stupid smile on her face as she watches Spike rant on about someone called Lord Byron and the Romantics.
And sometimes she catches his eye, and he pauses for just a moment. Something tugging at him, something moving behind his eyes, and then dissipated. That’s when her most selfish thoughts hit, that she can have him again, restored, intact.
She goes up after class and talks as he packs up. Students, boys and girls alike, eye her suspiciously as they stream out. When the last is gone and he is looking expectantly at her, she asks him out for lunch. Every day he says no—it wouldn’t be appropriate, he barely knew her, she didn’t know him—and every day still she asks the same. She may or may not slip in some, um, innocent touches here and there, but all’s fair in love and war, right?
This, she thinks, certainly counts as both.
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