Running, by LJS
Oct. 26th, 2013 09:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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giles_shortsA little trifle, in a Season Six just a step off canon --
TITLE: Running
AUTHOR: LJS
RATING: General
LENGTH: 260-ish words
CHARACTERS: Giles, Anya, Spike
SUMMARY: Just another Tuesday night in the woods.
“Move your arse, old man,” Spike shouts.
Several different crushing replies occur to Giles, but he doesn’t have the breath to speak. He’s too busy running from the Creeper demon that some bloody fool sorcerer conjured from bad memories and pestilence and that is now moving toward the Sunnydale city limits, where Buffy and Willow are battling said fool.
Bare branches lash at him, slipping over suede shoulders and back, trying to cut face and hands. He uses his dagger, slicing his way through the edge of the woods toward the light.
The Creeper is on his heels. The breath is truly, truly foul. The claws would be worse, the infection from them deadly as it draws from its victims’ pasts to dig into hearts.
“Come on, Giles!” Anya’s shout is more piercing, more worried than Spike’s. She’s bolted ahead of them both and now stands in the blessed circle she’s made; Spike hovers just outside it. Not very far – “If you don’t run faster, I’m going to discontinue your favourite potion mix!”
“Don’t…do…that,” he pants, and makes one last sprint, and crosses into safety. Anya’s got his hand as soon as he’s in, and then together they chant Spike’s name and the word of protection, and drag him by his duster into the circle.
“Mind the leather,” Spike says crossly.
“Sod off,” Giles says, and then the three of them face the Creeper, and raise their linked hands, and speak the counter-spell to send the demon back to its own past.
The three of them have enough bad memories. Nobody needs more.
TITLE: Running
AUTHOR: LJS
RATING: General
LENGTH: 260-ish words
CHARACTERS: Giles, Anya, Spike
SUMMARY: Just another Tuesday night in the woods.
“Move your arse, old man,” Spike shouts.
Several different crushing replies occur to Giles, but he doesn’t have the breath to speak. He’s too busy running from the Creeper demon that some bloody fool sorcerer conjured from bad memories and pestilence and that is now moving toward the Sunnydale city limits, where Buffy and Willow are battling said fool.
Bare branches lash at him, slipping over suede shoulders and back, trying to cut face and hands. He uses his dagger, slicing his way through the edge of the woods toward the light.
The Creeper is on his heels. The breath is truly, truly foul. The claws would be worse, the infection from them deadly as it draws from its victims’ pasts to dig into hearts.
“Come on, Giles!” Anya’s shout is more piercing, more worried than Spike’s. She’s bolted ahead of them both and now stands in the blessed circle she’s made; Spike hovers just outside it. Not very far – “If you don’t run faster, I’m going to discontinue your favourite potion mix!”
“Don’t…do…that,” he pants, and makes one last sprint, and crosses into safety. Anya’s got his hand as soon as he’s in, and then together they chant Spike’s name and the word of protection, and drag him by his duster into the circle.
“Mind the leather,” Spike says crossly.
“Sod off,” Giles says, and then the three of them face the Creeper, and raise their linked hands, and speak the counter-spell to send the demon back to its own past.
The three of them have enough bad memories. Nobody needs more.