( 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. ]
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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.