|Title : Responsibilities
Author : Gunbunny
E-mail : firstname.lastname@example.org
Distribution : Ask first. www.kabukivice.co.uk
Pairing : Spike/Xander
Summary : A chat takes place on a cliff top.
Rating : Dunno. A bit of swearing occasionally.
Dedication : My lovely and evil siblings.
Disclaimer : I own the whole universe. Joss just happens to own some characters, a few settings, that kind of thing.
Feedback : Or I'll set the Smurfs on you. Everything appreciated.
Dinas Head, Powys. Wales for the geographically ignorant. There's a dark-haired young man standing near the edge of the cliff. Out of the darkness, another man appears, leather trenchcoat flapping around him in the breeze.
The dark-haired one speaks up as the other approaches. "Remind me again why you chose such a damp, godforsaken place for our meeting, Spike?"
Spike lights a fag, inhales, then exhales very slowly. "Privacy. No-one'd find us here."
"That's because no-one would be stupid enough to follow us here. You were the one that told me this country was a horrific place, full of sheep and gangs of rugby-obsessed men that roam the countryside, terrorising people with their close harmony singing."
"It's a good description." Spike shrugs. "Richard Curtis knew what he was talking about."
"He was right." Xander turns to look at him. "And you're right about the privacy. Haven't had time to myself in a long while."
" 'S what you get for becoming Master of LA on purpose."
"That still doesn't mean I wanted people begging at my door every minute with requests for favours and judgement. I even had Angel do it a few times."
"Before Peaches got himself killed defending a rich tart. Never did have an ounce of sense." Inhales again. "How're the snobby bitch and the twit?"
Xander shakes his head. "Fifty years and you still call them that."
Spike smirks. "Still suits 'em. LA safe in their hands, then?"
"Cordy and Wesley make better deputies than they ever did failed actresses and watchers. Speaking of which, how's London doing without its Master? All the reports say it's pretty well under control."
Spike grins. "Thanks for the compliment. They know if they screw up they'll get hung up by their balls. Works."
"Pretty good for someone who never wanted the job in the first place."
He growls. "Bastards tricked me into it, you know that. 'Just sort out a couple of disputes. Clean this bit up.' Next thing you know it, I'm sodding well lumbered with it. No-one wants London unless they're insane. Too many fifes, half the country's problems to be dealt with. Nothing like Sunnyhell ever was. I spent half of fucking yesterday in talks with the Master of Birmingham on a dispute. Talks. I should be sodding well ripping her lungs out after that unions strike, not talking to the bitch." Breaks off, exasperated, steps forward and tugs Xander into his arms. "Enough with the sodding bureaucracy. I called you here to see you, not gripe about work."
"Spike, I didn't know you cared." Xander replies, tracing a fingertip over the other's lower lip.
"If I didn't sodding well care, I wouldn't've got my poof of a sire to turn you, pet."
"And here I thought it was his great taste in brunettes."
"Nah, more like mine. He knew if he laid a finger on you he was dead, chip or no chip at that point. Far as I know it wouldn't've affected the chip if you were driving a steamroller."
Xander blinks. "But wouldn't that have messed up his hair?"
"Pet, shut up before I have to do it for you, ey?"
Pout. "But I like it when you do it for me."
Spike leers. "Love to, but trust me, shagging you blind isn't a wise thing to do on a clifftop. Now c'mere, your tonsils need cleaning."
"Last of the great romantics. I knew there was a reason I fell for you." Xander grins as he's pulled into the kiss.
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