by Needfire
*****
“Lollypop? You made that up, there’s no way stiff upper lip British people go into a store and ask for a lollypop. Hee, Giles asking for a lollypop! Come on, you can tell me, that’s a Dru word, isn‘t it?”
“I’ll have you know, Harris, that lollypops have been consumed by royalty, and please do not bring Rupert into the conversation when we are in this position.”
“I always thought the British were mad…all that in-breeding and, God, you undead fiend, don’t put the words Rupert and position in the same sentence, you’ll spoil my appetite.”
“Oi! Bloody Colonial! And spoil your appetite? That’s a buggering oxymoron if ever I heard one.”
Looking up at the dark eyes he was unable to keep up the pretence of perceived insult and leaned up for a kiss. Upon release he smiled, then frowned.
“There’s that noise again. What is that?”
A dark head nuzzled into his shoulder. “Shh, probably just your vamp hearing picking up signals from space. Ignore it and it’ll go away.”
Twisting his neck to kiss the dark hair. “Signals from space? How you do blather on.”
“Well, shut me up then; wow me with your spotted dick.”
“My dick is not spotted! It’s a miracle of smooth perfection; it’s monumental, not a bloody pudding.”
“See, there’s another one. Pudding. That’s just a stupid word that we got stuck with.”
“Oh, and corn dog’s the height of culinary classification.”
“It’s descriptive, straight up. No fancy shilly shally. Good old American frontier fighten butchness.”
“Mmm, that right? How do you explain your beloved Twinkies, then?”
The head shifted and outraged eyes glared into his. “There will be no profaning the Twinkie. The Twinkie is holy and not to be abused!”
He smirked and rolled his eyes. “It’s a bloody Swiss roll that you lot managed to convert into a chemical mutilation… nice with a bit of egg custard.”
“It’s not mutilated it’s…evolved. Spongy, creamy goodness in pocket sized portions.”
“Right, that's why you need seven of them per sitting, then?”
An evasive glance and the head returned to his shoulder. “I’m a growing boy.”
He smirked, his hand drifting lower. “That you are, pet.”
Ignoring the groan as he pulled his hand away, he shifted slightly. “Now, in my day, if you felt peckish, there was bread and dripping. None of your anaemic slices. Great hulking doorstops we had, and if Cook was in a good mood there’d be Dundee cake to go with.”
“I don’t want to know what dripping was, do I?”
“Meat juice. We would have a roast dinner most nights. All the trimmings, soup to start then the main course with veg and gravy and a home made pudding to finish up.”
“Stop, you're making me hungry.”
He shifted again, frowning at the wet warmth on his skin. “There’s that noise again, what? It sounds like banging. Is that the door?”
Arms tightening around his chest. “Shh, go to sleep. They can come back later.”
“If you're sure, pet. Won’t the water get cold?”
“Only for a little while, just rest our eyes.”
Smiling, accepting the kiss,
he closed his eyes.
He was brought to screaming waking when they tried to take the boy from him. Long blind, he could only feel them pulling at him, vaguely familiar voices and hands, shouting and yanking. Demanding answers to questions he no longer had the mind to understand.
He remembered the birthday party; the slow panic when they realised they couldn’t leave. Hiding in the attic as his hunger got worse, watching them die one by one until only he and the boy were left. The affection built on the common ground of their starving isolation. The long months feeding on dead blood and dead flesh, hoping that someone would come. Holding the boy as he screamed and wept at the pain of organs collapsing from lack of sustenance until he had found the compassion to override his fear of being alone and he snapped the boy’s neck.
Crawling from where he had
been dropped he found the boy's body, pulling it into his arms. Ignoring
the wet drip of decomposition, he fell back onto the floor and listened
to the dismay as the Watcher and the poof realised they couldn’t leave.
Smiling at the brush of
dark hair, he closed his eyes.
“Lollypop? You made that up, there’s no way stiff upper lip British people go into a store and ask for a lollypop. Hee, Giles asking for a lollypop! Come on, you can tell me, that’s a Dru word, isn‘t it?”
*****