† PAGING @urbxnlegxnd
The night gathers around her like something hungry. A few speckles of stars were settled in the indigo, thin and deliberate. Buffy breathes out a sigh, the cold slipping towards her skin like a careful hand. As the quiet of the street settles around her, she holds her breath for a moment as the yellow streetlights flicker. Somewhere off in the distance, a car alarm blares off as she cuts the corner.
She sees it, then. A wooden box, angled almost church like. White wood closing off the red body. In the middle, a black door with the word CLOSED to restrict access. She tilts her head, eyes squinting, her footsteps haltering a smidge from the obscurity. When she resumes, her heeled boots trudge gingerly; a practice of past ease. She closes the distance, the words now clear to her, WORLD’S SMALLEST MUSEUM.
Breath hitched as her brows cinch together, a scrutiny of her bewildered gaze as she reaches out to touch the door. The wood is cold under her fingertips as her eyes depart the black frame. She takes another moment before her hand reaches towards the knob. But her heartbeat quickens, a betrayal ever so small, and before her skin meets the metal, she feels it, the presence behind her creeping up with pinpricks, the cold rush of wind on the nape of her neck almost stiffening her. Abruptly, she turns, her face veiled in surety.
Honey blonde hair whips around her as she turns, the leather of her jacket creaking in the motion. Buffy plants her feet more firmly, refusing to get caught off guard.
“ I see someone came home.”
No patience in the lilt, her snark ever ready as silence stretches a moment. “ and you’re officially the creepiest exhibit I’ve seen or the most intense museum security guard I’ve ever met.” She takes him in, her shoulders tense. No sense of an evil dread who’s hoping to kill her, but no human either. “This toybox’s yours?”