433 - Badge - Dragon's Phoenix - BtVS

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Title: Ballad of the Blooming Onion
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: 433 - Badge
Rating: G
Summary: Part 2 of Shanshu
Note: Written for a prompt at Taming the Muse: Badge
Note: Part 2 of Shanshu
Word Count: 710

Catching sight of Morgan through the wide windows of the cafe, Will turned his attention back to the interior of The Sunflower. It was a mistake. The pale green walls, decorated with a banner of sunflowers, created a cheerful environment that Will, seemingly by instinct, found contrary to a poetry venue. Expecting dingy walls and smoke-filled rooms, Will had learned long ago to stare out the window until his subconscious caught up with the bright and outgoing reality of the space.

Will, startled by the disjoint between what he expected and what he saw, didn't move quickly enough. Morgan stepped through the doorway and slapped Will on the shoulder. “So what can we look forward to tonight. A paean to a hamburger? A sestina on the virtues of Coca Cola? An ode to french fries?”

Morgan, with a cowlick he couldn't keep down, heavy framed glasses, rumpled t-shirt – something called Mothra this week – jeans and sneakers looked, to Will, more of a nerd than a poet. Will kept the supposed discrepancy to himself. His friends had told him, many times in Jess' case, that he was too formal. Good manners eased awkward situations like grease eased a squeaking wheel, but his friends, indeed almost everyone he knew, didn't seem to mind awkwardness. Some seemed to revel in it.

“Hey, I brought food boy with.” Morgan flopped down into a chair while Will nodded at the two ladies. Jess, the more outgoing of the sisters, raised an almost empty beer in welcome while Ash grinned back with an accepting smirk. When he'd first found, or more likely rediscovered, poetry, what he'd seen as little more than common courtesy had been seen as a mockery of manners to those around him. They'd been shocked to discover he hadn't meant to appear satirical and Ash had worked with him for weeks to tone down his presentation. Ash was still amused by the remnants of formality that he couldn't quite make himself do without. Blooming onions were a delight to prepare, even after four years. Morgan, jaded buffoon that he was, had no joie de vivre. Worse, he resented anyone who did.

Chopping onions, eyes sting as if splashed with Holy Water. Granted it was an odd metaphor, one that Will didn't quite understand although it had been a hit with the poetry crowd. Carol had raved and rambled on and ended up talking about sex and death but she did that with everything so Will wasn't sure that said much. Still it hadn't been a bad poem. Morgan was a poophead though for bringing it up. As he returned to the table, Will grinned at the thought. He doubted he'd every say anything like it in public, but in the privacy of his own mind the mild vulgarity did amuse.

The evening went as they usually did. None of the poetry was brilliant but some was good enough. Some was downright awful and to make it worse Morgan blamed Will for Buzzcut's rendition of “I hate the horrid toilet bowl.”

“You opened that door with your cooking the blooming onion poem.”

Will had felt the blush spreading across his cheeks. “I certainly didn’t expect anyone to write about that!”

Another poem Will as never going to live down and this one wasn't even his. Closing time came as a relief. “We're fine to get home on our own,” Jess had announced, forestalling Will's offer of an escort. He'd lost count of how many times it had been explained to him: women power, independence, no pedestal. He understood his offer was unwelcome but it felt wrong to allow two ladies of his acquaintance to walk home alone.

Blue and red lights flashed from across the street. “What are the badges up to, then?”

“The what?” Jess asked.

Badges, Will thought. Coppers. Pigs. Policemen. Officers of the law. His mind did this occasionally, came up with unexpected and coarse associations. It had led him, more than once, to wonder what sort of man he'd been before he'd lost his memories.

There was a man, arms handcuffed behind his back, being led to a police car. He had an eyepatch. Will noticed that right off, then the dark hair. The man stared straight at him. “Spike?”