Humble minion (humbleminion) wrote,
Humble minion

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I swore I'd never, ever do this...

I have perpetrated fanfic. Don't worry, it's not going to become a habit.

This was born from a conversation I had with liz_marcs, in which she bemoaned the fact that so much of the Buffy fic that focuses on Xander had him either becoming a trenchcoat-clad gun-happy supercommando or else getting magic powers and running around shooting lightning out his ass.

Well, that's not a mental image I could reasonably be expected to leave alone...

(Author's note: All use of the word 'ass' in this post reflects the spelling that Xander (and liz_marcs!) would use, and is in no way intended to imply that this weird Americanism is the correct spelling. It's arse, dammit!)

(Author's note 2: Same goes for 'odor' and 'odour'.)

* * * * *

Buffy knew the signs by now, so she was already diving and rolling for cover behind Giles' ever-so-Mr-Darcyish (and ew to that mental image!) leather armchair by the time the first lightbulbs started to explode.

It was the hair, she decided. It was good hair. VERY good hair, in fact, and mayshejustpointout that anyone who even coughed the words 'dye job' or 'bottle blonde' always seemed to mysteriously end up on bathroom cleaning duty when the following month's chore rosters were written up, so mind your own business, hmmm?

But yes, good hair. Silky hair. Shiny hair. Hair that did what it was told, and certain little sisters could do well to follow its example in that department. So when it started going all Edward Scissorhands entirely of its own accord, she knew that any minute now there was going to be another...


Buffy pressed her face into the carpet. Actinic light flared. Dust fell from the ceiling. The floor shook, and resounding thunder echoed ringing in Buffy's ears for a good five seconds, before fading out with an expensive-sounding broken tinkle that made her wince.

"Xander, please tell me that wasn't the plasma TV?"

Silence. Uh oh.

"Um, Xand, you do know that American Idol is on tonight, don't you? And you know what Dawn gets like if she misses it..." The business with the Honourable Union of Monster-hunting Professionals and the Great Slayer Strike of '06 was one of those things that nobody ever wanted to speak of again. Buffy sighed. HUMP indeed. While Summers blood had many admirable qualities, acronym-creating ability was clearly not one of them.

"Xander?" Buffy peered cautiously over the chair back.

Yep, it was the plasma TV. Dawn and Linda and Brianne and the rest were going to be mutiny-y. Er. Mutinouser. Whatever. While the continual blackouts and rising toll of fried hairdryers, iPods and other electric gizmos was bad, the amount of wobbly middle-aged butt-crack on display as yet another plumber was called in to fix yet another 'inexplicably exploded toilet' was enough to put even a hungry Slayer off her lunch. The increaingly frequent sight of Xander fleeing back to his room to change his smouldering trousers for a pair without a large, charred, smoking hole in the seat was probably one of the few things preventing outright rebellion. The girls liked to look. Photos may or may not have been taken.

Buffy had not looked. Honest. Dawn had not looked either, if she knew what was good for her.

"Hey Buff," said Xander with a wan smile. "Maybe I shouldn't have had that third bowl of chilli, even if Andrew said that it was ... hey, what are you looking at?"
Buffy's brain realised her jaw was hanging open, and shut it. Unfortunately in doing this it relinquished control of her vocal chords, which promptly blurted out "Xander, what are you wearing?"
Xander went red. Buffy felt like she'd just kicked a puppy. Stupid brain, embarrassing Xander like that. Just because it couldn't handle what her disbelieving eyes were telling it. It was only Xander, after all.

Wearing a Catholic schoolgirl's skirt.

"Oh, you mean this? That's my, um, kilt. Very manly, don't you think? Boldly masculine. Bravehearty. Though if Mel Gibson wore one of these in winter then I think other bits of him might have been braver than his heart." Xander dusted television shrapnel off the pleated tartan with a woebegone look in his eye.

Ah, so this explained why Faith was paralytic with mirth in the kitchen. Buffy bit her lip. I will not laugh I will not laugh I will not laugh...

"It's very, um, contemporary, Xand." Hah, Buffy thought, go me! Voice steady, straight face, only the barest hint of a snicker. I am so going to heaven. Again.

"You know, I was thinking. Us superheroes, we've got a tradition to uphold, right? Slayers wear girl-clothes because hey, girls. Superman wears tights. Why shouldn't I wear a sk- kilt? Maybe I could get one made out of ruby quartz, 'cos it'd go with the whole one-eyed thing and oh god you have no idea what I'm talking about do you?"

Buffy's brain had finally gotten over Xander-in-skirt enough to envisage Xander-feeling-onset-of-his-'problem'-and-flipping-up-the-back-of-his-skirt-to...

Ack. Who knew that there was this much wrong in the universe?

"Wills' powdered linnorm scale just arrived, thanks be to the internet," she said, valiantly remembering what she came here to tell him. His skirt drew her gaze magnetically, and she fought to keep her eyes on his. Was this what guys felt like when they tried to talk to you while you were wearing a plunging neckline? She had a bit more sympathy for them now. Perhaps the next one would escape with only minor bruising. "She's upstairs now drawing the runic circle to summon Odor..."
"... whoever, so he can pass on your apologies to that other guy. You do have apologies to pass, right? There had better be apologies! Susan is going to want her ... kilt back eventually, you know."

Xander shot her a skeptical look. Well, ok, Buffy had to admit, while Susan was all dowdy tartan uniform and sensible shoes during school term, on her own time she wore her hemlines so high that her as-yet-unconcieved children could feel the breeze in their hair, and the likelihood of her actually wanting her skirt back was remote at best. But that wasn't the point!

"This is all your own fault, you know," she continued, stomping forward to finger-prod Xander in the chest. "How many times have I warned you about making fun of shor- petite people? Just because Thor's a god doesn't mean he's not sensitive about his height. Serves you right." Xander glared. Buffy glared back for a full five seconds before the corner of her mouth gave a traitorous twitch and both of them dissolved into giggles.

"But Buff, you don't get it! In the comics he was always this huge Schwarzeneggery guy with muscles out to here and wings on his hat. When Will told me she was going to summon him, I - I brought my hammer along so I could get him to sign it and then trade it to Andrew for his immortal soul. Cos hey, it's always handy to have a spare! But then he shows up with his teeny little hammer and he's all waist-high and squeaking "Fear me, I am Thor, All-powerful God of Thunder" like a little viking Chipmunk? I mean, I couldn't help it. It just slipped out."

Buffy laughed. "Just don't say it again, or we'll take it out of your pay, Watcher man. If you knew how much they're charging for linnorm scale on eBay at the moment ... well, let's just say that Ingrid Gunnhildsdottir from Miss Ingrid's Online Occult Emporium in Oslo might be coming down with a nasty case of boils once Will gets her credit card bill."

"Miss Ingrid, hey? Just my luck. I join up with the Watcher's Council to be an International Man of Mystery, and when my exciting life of danger and thrills finally crosses paths with a hot Scandinavian named Miss Ingrid, here I am wearing a dress. Still, maybe there's a chance for me and my beautiful blonde valkyrie. Did you ask if she liked Braveheart?"
Buffy rolled her eyes fondly.
"Come on, Agent Powers..."
"Agent Fury!"
"... Willow's waiting. You've got to meet a god and make with the grovelling. I want to see you grovellier than ever before, and can I just say how gross that sounds? So do you think you can make it all the way upstairs without invoking the wrath of any other Deities Of Diminished Stature, or whatever it is they're calling it these days?"
"Wrath? Hah! I am a great warrior against the Forces of Darkness! I am big, strong, and really good at hiding behind the sofa while my wonderful, generous, forgiving friends beat up scary things. Come with me?"
"You know I'll always be at your side, Xander," Buffy said, throwing her arm around his waist and pulling him into a hug as the two moved off towards the door. "And do you know why?"
"Because you cannot resist my wit, charm, and smoulderingly hot bod?"
"Nuh-uh! Because standing behind you is just a leetle too dangerous at the moment..."

Buffy's grin matched Xander's pout, and her bright laughter led them out the door. Xander grumbled cheerfully to himself, muttering about the so-called friends who mocked him and belittled him and underappreciated him (and loved him beyond words).

Oh yeah, Buffy thought. Thor would accept Xander's apology, because if he didn't then she would personally take his godly little horned helmet off his godly little head and shove it someplace that godly little horned helmets were never meant to go. Stupid touchy little gods, messing with Xander. After all, he just said what everyone was thinking.

"All-powerful God of Thunder my ass!"

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