@infiernc
Fresh from the mayhem of the Bronze ( that had since been tempered, thanks to swift unscheduled slayage ), Buffy paces a few brisk steps across the concrete. There’s nothing left but a quiet lull of indistinct music that filters out into the dank back alley, to accompany this somewhat terse encounter. Her opponent had almost given as good as he got, but then again… he’s dust. She’s better. The scrapes and cuts and bruises were simply superficial.
Buffy offers a withering half-hearted stare, the arm that had been yanked and forced out of joint held gingerly at her side. Like a ghost, sure enough, he’s there. He’s always there, watching her. “ —Are you done with the running commentary? I’m fine. ”
With a flick of the wrist his lighter is alive, cherrying his cigarette. Spike leers, leaned up against the brick wall of the alley. Even shrouded in smoke he makes the tongue he presses against his front teeth conspicuous, salacious. “Certain you don’t need a pop?”
His brows quirk - wipe the scum off his sentiment and she’ll find it’s an honest offer. It isn’t likely to be accepted easily, he understands. Stranded in the Mojave, he’d have to pull teeth to get the slayer to accept a glass of water from him. Even still, Spike pushes off the wall, the cigarette stuck in the crook of his mouth and his hand gesturing for her arm slung at her side.
