TITLE: "At Play" (1/1)
AUTHOR: mcee (mcee@fangy.net)
SITE: http://fangy.net
ARCHIVE: list archives, or just ask.
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy
SUMMARY: "Yes yes, us superheroes are not beneath taking advantage of our freakish natures to put a little awe in a grade schooler."

* * *

We find a kid, this kid, a random kid, in the park where we ventured at what poetic poet types might like to call twilight. And we play with this child, because it seemed like the kind of thing to do in the circumstance, to play with a kid in a park while we, the grown-ups, were just passing by for a stroll. But we don't really *stroll*; we shuffle, we wander about, we toss each other around like idiots who don't look any older than the tenderly oblivious ten-year-old who is currently running his little legs to the other end of the park, to fetch the baseball my beloved threw a pinch too far, what with the superstrength and all. We exchange glances, but it's neither knowing or conspirational, just a habitual meeting of the eyes while we stand there waiting for the kid to get the goddamn ball so we can go back to having fun, dammit--the fun must be had *NOW!*--because this doesn't feel quite right, we're not the playing-with-child type, neither of us is, and we're a little afraid that any minute now we'll be found out. We are poseurs, but truly subversive ones. Also:

We cheat.

Yes yes, us superheroes are not beneath taking advantage of our freakish natures to put a little awe in a grade-schooler. He is the unfortunate, if willing, guinea pig to our mad-scientist attempt to gage our ability to keep a child alive, preferably unharmed. Our current charge, her sister, is rather vocal with her displeasure at our parenting skills, but we think she may be biased and generally giving us a hard time just for the heck of it, something we may inadvertently have taught her ourselves--thusly reinforcing the idea that we're not to be trusted with the rearing of any living being, much less an impressionable child, or worse yet, a teenager. Tricky stuff.

The ball, thrown by a weak wrist, catches me in the gut. I am laughed at. The kid guffaws loudly, while the other traitor just smirks; I am losing points. I throw like a girl, I'm told, an accusation I protest vehemently. *I do NOT!*

The ball is tossed back and forth a few more times and then the kid tires. They never last. We're bored. He goes home, we go on our way. There is mocking, teasing about missed catches and throws, unflattering impressions, a little action against a tree while no one's looking. We're also not adverse to a bit of public indecency if the timing is right.