migrate

“don’t tell me you’re a prude now.” she’s always eager to challenge, provoke, ignite the powder keg within angel that she was, once upon a time, uniquely familiar with. embarrassing as it is, vanessa revels in that split second, fraction of an atom, his gaze dips down her body. it’s a fragment she’ll cling to, happy to fan old flames. “you can make yourself useful,” she adds, shimmying into her skin-tight dress, collects her unruly dark waves with a manicured grip. “zip me up in the back, yeah?”

doesn't gotta tell her it's bad optics, she already knows. it's what she's gunnin' for, if he had to guess. "yeah, looks like we're both different now." which-- and she's not, really. still feisty and antsy and too much. what surprises him is her new role as arm candy, playing house wife. he thought she'd sink her claws in something better than that. he turns, begrudging, seam of his mouth a flat line as he uses the edge of his thumb to pop up the zipper at the top of her ass and drags it up. his other hand's forced to bunch the fabric in the middle of her back, giving some slack to the too-tight material so it'll close. "want me to tie your shoes, too?" he suggests, deadpanned and sardonic.

Buffy rolls her eyes so hard it practically hurts, dropping her hands to her hips as she stares him down. "First of all, lose the kitten before I make you eat that leather jacket, Spike. Second, I don't care about your little imaginary property lines. This entire zip code is my territory, and last I checked, you don't pay rent here." Seriously, the nerve of this guy. Like she has the time or the patience for his usual posturing. Her boots are already totally ruined from the damp grass, Giles is bound to give her a lecture tomorrow anyway, and the last thing she needs is a vampire with a bleached-blonde ego trying to play landlord in a cemetery.

"touchy," he chides, clicking his teeth, making the whole thing take much longer than's strictly necessary. shoulders roll under the bliss of her attention, clipped though it may be. all the same to spike, and he considers these little tiffs with the slayer a new unmined vein of satisfaction in the wake of his defanging. "frayer, eh?" tongue sucks against his canine. "yeah, i know the beast. been dabbling in the fresher corpses, has it?" he feels for the thing, making do with what it's got while dreaming of the hot-blooded stuff it prefers.

Buffy looks up at him, a faint, slightly crooked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She shifts just enough to give him room, her eyes tracking the easy, boyish slouch of his shoulders. There is something deeply grounding about him. Something that smells like starch and laundry detergent instead of graveyard dirt and mouldy crypts. It’s nice. It’s terrifyingly nice. She looks away for a second, watching a couple of his frat brothers attempt a deeply uncoordinated beer slide across the kitchen counter, before landing back on his face. "Corn-fed normal is highly underrated, Riley. Trust me. Some days I wish I could just put the weight down. Like, just be a girl at a party who worries about her grades or what she's going to wear tomorrow, instead of always waiting for the next impending disaster."

"you look like a girl at a party to me," he tells her, fond. a little narrow of his eyes. "could be a little more worried about her grades." all his grins have been easy since the era of buffy, the one on his face now is no exception. she is the exact last thing he expected to find on this whole sunnydale mission. any sort of relationship was going to be a nonstarter, but she is the specific exception to the rule. sometimes he wonders if, to her, he is the rule. something normal. innocent. easy.

he fingers through vinyl like nothing happened and she doesn't wait for the joke to land. a burst of laughter is inevitable, andie's no stranger to public humiliation, or at least the attempt of it, so she moves quick to the counter and snaps the book shut, stuffs it in her bag on the ground and kicks the sack further under the register.

Buffy pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, slow breath that is roughly ninety percent exhaustion and ten percent sheer disbelief. She stares at the ancient, dust-caked tome open on the table between them, then blinks up at her sister, wondering for the hundredth time how a cosmic key of pure energy could be so deeply, single-mindedly invested in the Volkswagen catalogue. "First of all, if we are summoning anything right now, it's information on how to stop a primal evil from eating the town, not a early-2000s compact car. And second... Minty green? Really? Because nothing says stealthy Slayer backup like a pastel roller-skate with the top down."

scoff rips from dawn's open mouth. "right, 'cause you've never patrolled in pastels before." head cocked, half a smirk edging her lips. the expression of a little sister who knows she's right. buffy sure knows how to kill the good times though, the pride stung right off dawn's face as she blinks down to the book. right. research. translation.

“stupid and squirmy, aren’t we a pair?” lou’s not exactly proving him wrong, worming their way deeper into the scratcher and, much to his delight, away from dylan, albeit briefly. a man of meager and curious sustenance, even a chiding response is enough to immediately lift his spirits. “a brat? really?” his head tilts back with a bark of laughter, somewhat surprise when it quickly hardens. “see, that’s quite something, yeah, because from where i’m standing,” towering physically, dancing on thin ice in every other way, “you’re the bratty one. feels like i haven’t gotten a word from you in fuckin’ forever, and upon our reunion, it’s nothing but insults. honestly, what gives?” he’s trying to keep a game face, his pride undeniably wounded yet unwilling to falter. in fact, seems he’s resigned to make it worse. “you know what little blonde actually returns my calls…?”

"mmmmaybe 'cause every time i see you, you're, like, rage baiting me?" she suggests, brows drawn up, shoulders, too, like it's really anyone's best guess. and he really is so fucking good at it. her lips press together hard, eyes darting away. "bas, i really don't give a fuck that you're screwing jenny, okay? like, enjoy the cooties in silence." it actually hurts her frayed feelings from both ends, but at least jenny has had the decency to cut her out, spare her the details. sucks, too, that it's too hard not to give him the reaction he's obviously gunning for. "this isn't a reunion, b-t-w," she adds, an air of humor shadowed in her face again, even as she snaps her eyes to his and tries to steel herself into seriousness. "if you're gonna be a dick, like--."

@orumad

it should be no consolation to piper that paige immediately shuffles into the kitchen with a look of scandalized reproach, brows furrowed together, mouth screwed up. "i did too buy the stupid baking powder!" there is actually a completely different, possibly worse reason for paige's avoidancy, thanks! "it's not my fault this kitchen looks like it was organized by somebody with ocd from hell. here -- see, i put it right in here, with all the other boxy things." voice is muffled, then reemerges from the pantry, a box of baking soda in her hands.

The sound of his laugh was a welcome surprise, and while Jo's body did flinch, it was out of astonishment that she'd managed to illicit such a reaction out of him. A ghost of a proud smile flickered over her features, the feeling welcome and warm despite the chilly night. "Me?", the redhead countered quickly, her voice raising a little like it did every time she was about to tell a half-truth. "I'm always relaxed!" The notion was laughable even to her own ears. Even before, she had been unable to stay still and not practice; maybe if he'd been in her life from before, he would've known relaxing just wasn't running in her blood. Now, though, there was another reason for it, something that made his presence needed in order to be able to sleep at night. "I can't not worry about you. Sometimes I think if you knew how boring your job was going to be, you wouldn't have agreed to it." It's an innocent tease, because at the end of the day, who didn't want an easy job? And while her threat was always going to be real, it didn't mean that her life was truly valuable. "Food doesn't sound that bad, actually. Do you want to make dinner at home? I promise I'm getting better at the kitchen!"

i can't not worry about you. it draws his gaze, eyes sliding sidelong to find her face. he knew some things about bonding on the job, familiar with the slow shift from strictly professional to vaguely friendly. usually angel wasn't scared of making a connection, usually he wouldn't consider it a problem, no big distraction from his work. usually. his jaw works back and forth, head tilts. "that's you, uh... projecting," he tells her, humor ghosting his features. "m'not bored. that's all you." but he figures, to her, boredom is ideal to the alternative. he thinks they can figure out a happy medium. a soft exhale through his noise passes as a doubtful laugh. "mm. yeah, i never somebody could burn spaghetti. that's... yeah, that's almost impressive." he rolls his shoulders, nods distantly. "i can handle it. let's go."

@orumad

of all the chesterfield chairs in all the parlors of all his father's estates, kathryn, as usual, has used her demonic intuition to choose the one he was headed for. he knows better than to betray the thought by stalling though, doesn't miss a step as he continues into the room, white sea island cotton button up flapping untucked around his waist. the headmaster keeps a meticulous diary of every student's psychological breaking point. he purses his lips together -- who doesn't?