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We're Moving In

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So, moving in wasn’t quite as easy as he’d expected. Yes, the minions had fallen over themselves to be helpful after he’d seen off the Annoying One, yes they’d found furniture, then better furniture after he’d smashed the first lot (Dru said it was arguing with her and the pixies), yes they’d gone out to find a bigger TV and a tasty snack or two as TV dinners. But their fawning got old pretty quickly, and there was sod-all on the TV after all the faffing about.

Dru took some seeing too, naturally; she hadn’t got a lot of energy, but what she did have she used creatively. And she looked luscious, pale on the pale bed. Something wasn’t right, though. As he fondled her, tempted her with yet another screeching little morsel, stroked her body and brushed her raven locks, his mind wandered despite his genuine efforts.

He had all he wanted of ivory and lace, ebony hair and red, red lips. Tasty. But his mind’s eye was full of gold – golden hair and skin, tanned as Dru never could be. And a determined voice, a figure small but intense, moving like a goddess on the dance floor but beyond description in a fight, just liquid magic.
He shook his head. Get that stupid thought right out of his head, right now. Slayers were for killing, for sucking the juices and snapping the necks. This one was an annoyance on a grand scale, too – how in hell had that creepy Council of Wankers produced one with so much gumption? And family? And bleeding friends, civilians who nonetheless had some idea what to do? Just not bloody fair.

Still, the problem would be dealt with in due course. All he had to do now, as Drusilla slept the dreamless sleep of the totally un-innocent, was to bloody well find something to do.

One last irritable flick through the channels perhaps? That was the trouble with the sodding colonials – hundreds of channels and the same crap on all of them, with adverts every ten seconds. Who in hell wanted that sixties show about a suburban witch - as if such creatures existed? There were times Ye Olde had its attractions. Even bleeding Attenborough and his mating reptiles was better than this. He finally settled on a repeat of a repeat of a repeat – gawd, these TV channels showed any old crap at this hour. Still, Jack Lemmon was funny, that Mills chit was tasty, and stolen corpses always had an appeal. An old film called Avanti could take his mind off hazel eyes and golden hair. Easy.

Eventually.