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Attack of the Scribble Monster

by Am-Chau Yarkona

Title: Attack of the Sribble Monster!
Author: Am-Chau Yarkona
E-mail: amchau@popullus.net
Summary: It's early season 2. Buffy is getting bored with patrolling. Angel isn't sure, but Slayers can be very persuasive.... Rating: G
Pairing: Buffy/Angel
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Bad spelling (oops! A clue!) Author Notes: Fluff, without dictionary. Please excuse. Hugs and kisses to Emily for the beta read.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing in Joss' sandpit, with Buffy and Angel on the swings, getting all hot, and wanting to strip each other off and... Excuse me. I'm dreaming, and I don't make any money from it.

"This is dull," she complains again. "No vampires in sight- boyfriend excepted- and no demons to fight. Let's do something different."

It seems to me that I recognise the expression she is wearing. Dru's Childe used to wear it when he had some particularly silly, and far from evil but- what he considered- amusing plan in mind. Last time I saw that face on a Scooby, Willow taught me how to play Cubis on MSN. I've very quickly learned to dread it.

"Did you have something in mind?" I say, wanting to be cautious but also to make her happy- and if that means dreaming about Cubis squares, or any other torment, I'm willing to try it.

"Umm..." and I can see that this is only for effect. Cordelia may want to be an actress, but Buffy could be. "We could play a game."

"What kind of game?" If she's hedging about like this it can only mean that she thinks I don't want to do... whatever.

"Scrabble?" she suggests. I think my face must show more reaction than is suitable for the ever-stoic vampire, because she tries to back off. "Forget it. Might as well patrol the Bronze."

"No... Buffy. We don't have to. You're tired, and... and, cold. We should take you home."

"I don't need taking home. I can go myself. But if you wanted to come..." And she's got me again, pulling me in like some poor fish on a line.

"Yes?"

"We could play Scrabble?"

I sigh. Loving Buffy gives me lots of practice at that, and even my under-used lungs are getting accustomed to the gesture. "Do I know how to play Scrabble?"

"It's not hard," she says, cheerily. "You can learn."

"Is it, you know, a computer game?" I ask, as I follow her through the damp grass of one of Sunnydale's smaller cemeteries.

She glances back at me, a puzzled grin on her face. "No, silly, it's a board game." At my look of complete incomprehension, she goes on, "See, you have this cardboard playing board, with little squares marked on, and then you have plastic tiles with letters on. You have to put the tiles down so they make words, and then you get scores, and Willow or Giles always wins."

I remain silent. I can read, and write, but it isn't my strongest point, if you know what I mean.

"Well, Willow and Giles won't be playing, so they won't win this time. But they normally do. It's fun. You can make all these silly words, and try to pass them off as real. When Giles plays, we have to ban him from using Latin."

I suspect I will be banned from using words Buffy doesn't know, and indeed words she does know that would let me win. However, first I'd have to know how to spell them, and that seems unlikely. Of all the languages I speak: English, Spanish, Korean, Russian, Italian, Gaelic, German, Chinese, French; English is the hardest to spell correctly. Okay, Chinese doesn't have spellings as such, but it's not as bad as English.

Damn it! I grew up a Catholic in invaded Ireland! I was taught to hate the English, and that Gaelic, or better still Latin, was the proper method of communication. I'm a master vampire! I shouldn't have to play- Scribble, or whatever it's called. But you know what?

I will. I will because I love her, and I'd do anything for her. It's daft, but if it'll make her happy, I will.


"You can't make `trousers' into a plural. It's a plural already!" We don't shout, but only because that would wake Joyce.

"I can. Two pairs of trouserses!" Buffy says, but can hardly stop herself giggling.

We've been playing for nearly two hours, mostly because neither of us will resign even the daftest positions, and her dictionary is downstairs, where- she claims- it would disturb Joyce to go and get it. I hadn't realised that Buffy could be so stubborn. I mean, even I know that `disappoint' has one `s' and two `p's, and that `kem' isn't a word, but she's fought long and hard for both of them.

Admittedly, the last time I checked `carpal' was spelt with two `a's not an `e', but that isn't the point. `Carpel' should be a word. Not my fault if it isn't, is it? I only tried to spell it that way because she used the spare `a' space for `stak', which I remain certain should have a `c' in.

However, she didn't believe me, and when she kissed me and then told me it was my turn, I couldn't be bothered to argue anymore. She is beating me soundly, possibly because I let her keep score, but also because I can't argue with her when she smiles at me. And when she's winning, she smiles a lot.

"Buffy," I say. "It's three in the morning. Shouldn't you get at least some sleep?"

"Just because you're winning," she accuses, but then sighs. "I guess I should. It's been fun, though."

"It has. And you're winning." I stand up, preparing to go.

"You'll patrol with me tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Come here." I go. Of course I go.

We kiss once more, and I can taste sunlight in her mouth. Sweet, and yet with the edge of bitterness because I can never really have it.

"Goodnight," she whispers.

I climb out the window carefully, and wander slowly home through the darkness. When I take my coat off in the hallway, I find that she's slipped a Scrabble tile in my pocket, presumably as we kissed: B, for Buffy.


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