Fic: A Dollar Seventy-Five Won't Buy You Much (In Space) (BtVS/Firefly, Graham/Nandi)
Title: A Dollar Seventy-Five Won't Buy You Much (In Space)
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Firefly
Pairing(s): Graham/Nandi
Word Count: 265
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Home is where you lay your head.
Notes: Written for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxoniensis' Porn Battle IX.
"Where I'm from -"
And stalls. He promised he'd stop saying that.
Nandi doesn't seem to mind. Or maybe she doesn't notice.
(Home is where you lay your head -
He thinks that means get over it.)
"We have a game," he says. "Quarters."
She looks at him, cool, eyebrow raised. No quarters here; none but the seven in his pocket, a dollar seventy-five to remind him of home.
(Where you lay your -)
And then she leans forward, lips quirked. It's more patronising than not, quaint customs from Earth-that-was, but he'll take whatever she offers.
"A game," she says, and it's a challenge.
(He's a curiosity, a puzzle she hasn't quite put together. She offers him her bed like it's an experiment, then an expectation, and in return he doesn't speak of things that have no place here.)
"A game," and he smiles; he isn't drunk, but closer than he thought. "I'll show you."
A hand running down her elbow, coins sliding off the edge of the table. She laughs, and his hand slips.
"Better," he says, and she's almost there; the sixth quarter hits the rim of the glass and bounces off.
She never asks the point, and they never reach the end of the game.
(His hand twines with hers, under her skirts, his head fuzzy from one too many drinks and his mouth fused to the pulse point on her neck. The last quarter hits the floor when his pants do, and he doesn't chase it when it rolls away.
He's done, he thinks, chasing after what's already gone.)
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Firefly
Pairing(s): Graham/Nandi
Word Count: 265
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Home is where you lay your head.
Notes: Written for
oxoniensis' Porn Battle IX."Where I'm from -"
And stalls. He promised he'd stop saying that.
Nandi doesn't seem to mind. Or maybe she doesn't notice.
(Home is where you lay your head -
He thinks that means get over it.)
"We have a game," he says. "Quarters."
She looks at him, cool, eyebrow raised. No quarters here; none but the seven in his pocket, a dollar seventy-five to remind him of home.
(Where you lay your -)
And then she leans forward, lips quirked. It's more patronising than not, quaint customs from Earth-that-was, but he'll take whatever she offers.
"A game," she says, and it's a challenge.
(He's a curiosity, a puzzle she hasn't quite put together. She offers him her bed like it's an experiment, then an expectation, and in return he doesn't speak of things that have no place here.)
"A game," and he smiles; he isn't drunk, but closer than he thought. "I'll show you."
A hand running down her elbow, coins sliding off the edge of the table. She laughs, and his hand slips.
"Better," he says, and she's almost there; the sixth quarter hits the rim of the glass and bounces off.
She never asks the point, and they never reach the end of the game.
(His hand twines with hers, under her skirts, his head fuzzy from one too many drinks and his mouth fused to the pulse point on her neck. The last quarter hits the floor when his pants do, and he doesn't chase it when it rolls away.
He's done, he thinks, chasing after what's already gone.)