( it's not like all of september goes anywhere, once the veil lifts. buffy fell into a habit with the ritual side of things, and it takes some getting used to — not wanting to bruise everything she touches, not looking over her shoulder expecting to see either spike or giles following closely behind. all that to say: closed doors are almost a novelty, now. she forgets to knock, and only realizes it's an issue when she sees spike, mid-change, shirt lifted over his head. )
Oh — sorry.
( she's not that apologetic, though, because it's not like it's something she hasn't seen before. still, she moves to step back and close the door, before frowning, eyes catching on spike's chest. )
What is that? ( she steps in, not reaching out to touch but tilting her head in morbid fascination, eyebrows knotted. deep scars lining the left side of his chest, red and angry. ) Spike ...?
[ It’s a relief, to be mostly lucid. Might be how fast it’s all moving, the game keeping him alert for Buffy’s sake.
It’s only when Spike’s alone that he slips, sometimes, staring too long at the shadows in a corner, an open door that stretches into a dark hallway, rooms full of ghosts. Buffy catches him tonight when he’s not-quite-sideways, blue eyes deer-startled as he tugs the shirt back down. Too late. ]
A relic. [ A hitch of a breath that doesn’t make it all the way to a laugh, one arm wrapping itself around his waist, the other hand clenched in the hem of his shirt as Spike looks at the floor, not at her. ] Broke it when I—crawled back out.
( crossing that last distance then, her hand reaching out to unkindly bat his away, pining his shirt herself so she can look. of course, she knows what she's looking at. still, her expression goes a little soft, head tilting from one side to the other, her fingers darting out to stroke the red, angry lines across his heart. they fit in, right at the height of the scars — perfectly aligned inside the chaos, three diagonal lines she traces from beginning to end.
buffy looks up at him, mouth frowning to one side. )
[ Spike's hands tense a moment, then fall to his side, allowing. Watching her, stomach muscles taut as she touches. Wasn't like he'd keep it secret from her forever. ]
Remember when you said--the next time we saw each other, we'd be enemies or something else. [ Spike doesn't quite meet Buffy's gaze, fingers flexing. There's still a shiny pink cap over his knuckles, the slow heal of skin after he dug himself out of his grave. ]
Had to kill the part that would've been enemies. Had to--meet it in the mirror. In the dirt.
( almost trance-like she strokes the lines, finding a ridge of jagged skin to trace back and forth with her fingertips, almost rhythmically. last month isn't far away at all, so spike's peculiarities (see: nonsense) aren't as unsettling as they otherwise might've been. buffy's turns her gaze up to him after a weighted second, dropping her hand enough that her knuckles play the xylophone on his abs. )
What does that mean? "Kill the part that would've been enemies."
( she twists a smile to the side, scrunchy, apologetic. )
Guess that's not it, really. [ Almost to himself, lulled by Buffy's touch. By the fact that she's asking without yelling at him, without being angry. Spike wonders if she'll be angry once she really knows, even though he did it for her. ]
I let the good parts kill me. Old rusty things. [ His chin dropping, a hand lifting to where Buffy's was a moment ago. Fingertips hovering over the scratches, before he touches his knuckles to them. Over his heart.
Murmuring, ] Now we're all--in here together. Don't fit quite right.
Edited (double phrasing my nemesis) 2025-10-20 03:02 (UTC)
( enunciated syllables — figuring spike has gone back to that place where sense refuses to touch. buffy withdraws her hand, tucking it into her back pocket, acting like spike's chilly skin hasn't seared feeling back into her hand. )
Well. If you and your bad fitting, rusty parts are hungry, I just slaughtered a chicken. Yep, that's something I can just say now. You favorite gross red stuff is draining out as we speak, so. ( an awkward hand gesture. ) I guess I'll leave you to it. Unless you want to explain what your "good parts" are.
( her eyes drop briefly to the abs region (lower?) on spike's body. um? )
[ Spike looks at Buffy a long moment: seeing her, seeing through her, a tilt of his head before he gives it a brief shake. Comes back to himself, pulls his shirt back down over his scars, his stomach. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— action
Oh — sorry.
( she's not that apologetic, though, because it's not like it's something she hasn't seen before. still, she moves to step back and close the door, before frowning, eyes catching on spike's chest. )
What is that? ( she steps in, not reaching out to touch but tilting her head in morbid fascination, eyebrows knotted. deep scars lining the left side of his chest, red and angry. ) Spike ...?
no subject
It’s only when Spike’s alone that he slips, sometimes, staring too long at the shadows in a corner, an open door that stretches into a dark hallway, rooms full of ghosts. Buffy catches him tonight when he’s not-quite-sideways, blue eyes deer-startled as he tugs the shirt back down. Too late. ]
A relic. [ A hitch of a breath that doesn’t make it all the way to a laugh, one arm wrapping itself around his waist, the other hand clenched in the hem of his shirt as Spike looks at the floor, not at her. ] Broke it when I—crawled back out.
no subject
( crossing that last distance then, her hand reaching out to unkindly bat his away, pining his shirt herself so she can look. of course, she knows what she's looking at. still, her expression goes a little soft, head tilting from one side to the other, her fingers darting out to stroke the red, angry lines across his heart. they fit in, right at the height of the scars — perfectly aligned inside the chaos, three diagonal lines she traces from beginning to end.
buffy looks up at him, mouth frowning to one side. )
Crawled out of where?
no subject
Remember when you said--the next time we saw each other, we'd be enemies or something else. [ Spike doesn't quite meet Buffy's gaze, fingers flexing. There's still a shiny pink cap over his knuckles, the slow heal of skin after he dug himself out of his grave. ]
Had to kill the part that would've been enemies. Had to--meet it in the mirror. In the dirt.
no subject
What does that mean? "Kill the part that would've been enemies."
( she twists a smile to the side, scrunchy, apologetic. )
I'm not following.
no subject
I let the good parts kill me. Old rusty things. [ His chin dropping, a hand lifting to where Buffy's was a moment ago. Fingertips hovering over the scratches, before he touches his knuckles to them. Over his heart.
Murmuring, ] Now we're all--in here together. Don't fit quite right.
no subject
( enunciated syllables — figuring spike has gone back to that place where sense refuses to touch. buffy withdraws her hand, tucking it into her back pocket, acting like spike's chilly skin hasn't seared feeling back into her hand. )
Well. If you and your bad fitting, rusty parts are hungry, I just slaughtered a chicken. Yep, that's something I can just say now. You favorite gross red stuff is draining out as we speak, so. ( an awkward hand gesture. ) I guess I'll leave you to it. Unless you want to explain what your "good parts" are.
( her eyes drop briefly to the abs region (lower?) on spike's body. um? )
no subject
I could eat. Thanks for it.