Fic: "Food Fit For A Vampire". 1/1
Author: Angel Interceptor
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These don't belong to me, they belong to
Joss Whedon and the TV company and some other people.
No copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback: would be appreciated, especially constructive criticism (I'm a sucker for pain.)
But PLEASE, no flames. Unless you're man enough to sign in and admit whatever it is you want to say with your name.
Think that's it. Enjoy!!
Warning: This fiction involves slash, that is, a relationship between two men. If you don't like this genre and don't like to read it, I would appreciate it if you hit the back button and reversed, quick-sharp. You have been warned.
"Food Fit for a Vampire"
"Do you think anyone guessed?" Giles murmured, as he pulled his front door shut behind him, slipping out of his coat.
"Guessed what?" the vampire had already got the fridge open, and was helping himself to cold spaghetti bolognese.
Giles stifled a grin, and promptly forgot his train of thought. "You do realise, don't you Spike, that that has garlic in it?" Giles was in the lucky position of being able to see the vampire regurgitate the whole spoonful back into the middle of the bowl.
"Garlic?" he spluttered, stuffing the bowl back onto the crowded shelf. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stuck his head back in the fridge. "Got any vampire-friendly foods in here?"
"Why would I want any of those, may I ask?" Giles leaned across to where Spike had deposited Giles's culinary speciality, and with a practiced air, spooned the whole plateful in the bin. "I take it that you know that there are starving children - human children - in this world who would have appreciated that helping of spaghetti. But no, the vampire had to spit in it."
"Stick it in a jiffy bag and send it to Africa then."
Giles shot him a reproving glance, "Spike," he warned.
Holding his hands up in surrender, Spike took a step backwards, bumping into the cabinet behind him as he did so. "Sorry mate. but seriously, they probably wouldn't want it."
Giles raised his eyebrow, wondering where this was going.
"Well, to be blunt, Giles, my man, you're not the best cook in the world, are you?" He jumped up to sit on the worktop, and peered into the biscuit tin, wondering if he'd have more luck in there. Nope, only digestives; no custard creams. And Giles called himself an Englishman? "Rupe, baby, you've got a lot to learn on the food front. I may only have eaten at a couple of Michelin restaurants over the years, but you're nowhere near three star yet." he stopped, having caught Giles' eye.
"This coming from the dead boy, who drinks blood through choice?" Giles muttered dryly.
"Just because I drink blood doesn't mean I can't appreciate the finer things. We've been through this before, old-watcher. you just keep entertaining that stereotype that vampires are nothing but evil,
blood-sucking fiends with no thought in their minds beyond their next kill." Spike decided to have a biscuit anyhow, regardless of the fact that digestives were a practical non-entity. Urgh. it was soft. Soft digestive biscuits were even worse than a fresh, crunchy one. Giles needed some serious education in the kitchen department. "For example," He went on, "I like a fine wine and a nice opera CD as much as the next guy."
"Except when the next guy happens to be me; someone who can tell opera from a symphony." Giles shook his head and pulled open the fridge. He had a sudden urge to start frying something - anything - in garlic butter. "Stop being a bloody idiot, Spike, or else."
"Or else what?" The vampire smiled, and slid off the kitchen work bench, his leather coat creaking with the movement.
"Or else." Giles murmured, sliding round to face Spike, a garlic bulb in his hand. They were only inches away from each other. "Or else. I'll have to start coating everything in garlic. I'll boil my
potatoes in holy water. I'll buy cutlery with crosses etched into the handles - tastefully made of course." Nonchalantly, he tossed the bulb from one hand to another, wondering if the smell would linger. He didn't intend smelling of garlic for long periods of time merely to illustrate a point.
"Of course," Spike conceded, "Wouldn't like to think that anything bought purely to piss me off wouldn't fit in with your colour scheme."
"I do try."
Spike sighed. "Why do we always spend so much bloody time bickering? I can think of much better ways of spending ten minutes."
Giles' eyebrow shot up, "Really?"
"Yes, really." He grinned, and slowly beckoned Giles to him. "We haven't got long. the others will be wondering where we've got to."
The bulb rolled out of Giles's hand and onto the floor. Haphazardly, as Spike's cool hands grazed the skin under his shirt, Giles wondered if life could get any better. Spike's lips skimmed his neck, his cheek, his mouth. Mmmmmm, Giles murmured, his lips grazing Spike's. It most definitely could.
The End.
Author: Angel Interceptor
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These don't belong to me, they belong to
Joss Whedon and the TV company and some other people.
No copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback: would be appreciated, especially constructive criticism (I'm a sucker for pain.)
But PLEASE, no flames. Unless you're man enough to sign in and admit whatever it is you want to say with your name.
Think that's it. Enjoy!!
Warning: This fiction involves slash, that is, a relationship between two men. If you don't like this genre and don't like to read it, I would appreciate it if you hit the back button and reversed, quick-sharp. You have been warned.
"Food Fit for a Vampire"
"Do you think anyone guessed?" Giles murmured, as he pulled his front door shut behind him, slipping out of his coat.
"Guessed what?" the vampire had already got the fridge open, and was helping himself to cold spaghetti bolognese.
Giles stifled a grin, and promptly forgot his train of thought. "You do realise, don't you Spike, that that has garlic in it?" Giles was in the lucky position of being able to see the vampire regurgitate the whole spoonful back into the middle of the bowl.
"Garlic?" he spluttered, stuffing the bowl back onto the crowded shelf. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stuck his head back in the fridge. "Got any vampire-friendly foods in here?"
"Why would I want any of those, may I ask?" Giles leaned across to where Spike had deposited Giles's culinary speciality, and with a practiced air, spooned the whole plateful in the bin. "I take it that you know that there are starving children - human children - in this world who would have appreciated that helping of spaghetti. But no, the vampire had to spit in it."
"Stick it in a jiffy bag and send it to Africa then."
Giles shot him a reproving glance, "Spike," he warned.
Holding his hands up in surrender, Spike took a step backwards, bumping into the cabinet behind him as he did so. "Sorry mate. but seriously, they probably wouldn't want it."
Giles raised his eyebrow, wondering where this was going.
"Well, to be blunt, Giles, my man, you're not the best cook in the world, are you?" He jumped up to sit on the worktop, and peered into the biscuit tin, wondering if he'd have more luck in there. Nope, only digestives; no custard creams. And Giles called himself an Englishman? "Rupe, baby, you've got a lot to learn on the food front. I may only have eaten at a couple of Michelin restaurants over the years, but you're nowhere near three star yet." he stopped, having caught Giles' eye.
"This coming from the dead boy, who drinks blood through choice?" Giles muttered dryly.
"Just because I drink blood doesn't mean I can't appreciate the finer things. We've been through this before, old-watcher. you just keep entertaining that stereotype that vampires are nothing but evil,
blood-sucking fiends with no thought in their minds beyond their next kill." Spike decided to have a biscuit anyhow, regardless of the fact that digestives were a practical non-entity. Urgh. it was soft. Soft digestive biscuits were even worse than a fresh, crunchy one. Giles needed some serious education in the kitchen department. "For example," He went on, "I like a fine wine and a nice opera CD as much as the next guy."
"Except when the next guy happens to be me; someone who can tell opera from a symphony." Giles shook his head and pulled open the fridge. He had a sudden urge to start frying something - anything - in garlic butter. "Stop being a bloody idiot, Spike, or else."
"Or else what?" The vampire smiled, and slid off the kitchen work bench, his leather coat creaking with the movement.
"Or else." Giles murmured, sliding round to face Spike, a garlic bulb in his hand. They were only inches away from each other. "Or else. I'll have to start coating everything in garlic. I'll boil my
potatoes in holy water. I'll buy cutlery with crosses etched into the handles - tastefully made of course." Nonchalantly, he tossed the bulb from one hand to another, wondering if the smell would linger. He didn't intend smelling of garlic for long periods of time merely to illustrate a point.
"Of course," Spike conceded, "Wouldn't like to think that anything bought purely to piss me off wouldn't fit in with your colour scheme."
"I do try."
Spike sighed. "Why do we always spend so much bloody time bickering? I can think of much better ways of spending ten minutes."
Giles' eyebrow shot up, "Really?"
"Yes, really." He grinned, and slowly beckoned Giles to him. "We haven't got long. the others will be wondering where we've got to."
The bulb rolled out of Giles's hand and onto the floor. Haphazardly, as Spike's cool hands grazed the skin under his shirt, Giles wondered if life could get any better. Spike's lips skimmed his neck, his cheek, his mouth. Mmmmmm, Giles murmured, his lips grazing Spike's. It most definitely could.
The End.