TITLE: "Unmentionables" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net
SITE: http://fangy.net
PAIRING: Spike/Tara
SUMMARY: Christmas and underwear.

* * *

It's a little thing, an everyday thing, remarkable only in its simplicity, daringly garish with steamy familiarity. It's not festive, unlike everything else around them. The fake three-foot tree, dressed in lights and stars - but no angel, she thought it was pretty funny how she did that on purpose - glows warmly in the corner, little and sufficient. It's this time before the big night, when things are beside themselves with mere anticipation, him included. Her enthusiasm for sandy cookies and nog has pleasantly rubbed off on him, and she picks the red and green jimmies from his chest, the little sugary bits sprinkled on his shirt like on a Lite Brite. She's hovering half over him, and he's giving the little cotton contraption across her hipbones a leisurely inspection.

He runs a curious finger across her hip, along the line where skin meets underwear, a warm patchwork. She leans in and kisses him, because that's one of the most pleasant things to do when face to face. The couch cushions sink like they always do and he goes down with them, trapped amidst obsolete green velour and a quietly trendy girl who decided a little while back that boys were alright after all. She hovers, still, and sometimes he spares a thought for how she always manages to do that, to be this lithe thing, while he's been enjoying all this time the fact that she's not. The radio - it's on, somewhere across the room, and the station doesn't come in right unless you put the matchbook in the dial - has started playing the appropriate seasonal songs weeks ago, and tonight it adds just the right thing to a cozy evening. Hot mouths part and nib playfully, and the wood frame of the couch - which belongs on a curb more than in a tiny hole-in-the-wall apartment - protests weakly when they move.

He reaches and knows where to find where they narrow into a thinner strip, molded to her. She has child-bearing hips, and he's attracted to that for purely non-reproductive reasons. The apparel rides low by design, and he likes feeling, against his own taunt stomach, her softer one, a slight curve, a rounded surface, convex, perfect. She feels more woman than girl, and she tastes healthy. He also suspects she spiked the nog, just for tonight, just to see.

She's been walking around their place in her delicates and a little white tee with a candy cane on it, and he just went about his business - fully dressed, him - like he wasn't busy following her around with his eyes, like his head didn't tilt to follow the curve of her back when she looked away, like his silence, however comfortable, wasn't a little too forced. But then maybe she knew all along, and just liked to toy with him. She took perverse pleasure in watching him, out of the corner of her eye, struggling with uncooperative wrapping paper and sticking his own fingers to presents with scotch tape that was clearly out to get him.

He eventually relented and stacked the gifts into a small pile on the kitchen counter, where they're still waiting for significant others that aren't, and people they enjoy calling friends for lack of better ones with a little less history. And they sink on ugly furniture, him still with jimmies on his shirt and her still delightfully under-dressed, and it's Christmas in Sunnydale.