[ Buffy comes and goes from the crypt, the way she does. Without knocking, though Spike never knocks, either, once he's been invited into a place. Still strange not to have to run to and fro with a blanket catching fire overhead, but he's not complaining.
So Spike just opens her door. Knocking's for when it's locked, and it's not, on this sunshine-y morning. ]
Buffy! You left your—
[ Bra, leopard print with lacy trim, which dangles from Spike's thumb when his brain computes the dark hair that greets him instead. Girl he's seen around--talked to on the net, maybe, but they definitely haven't been properly introduced.
Doesn't faze him, anyway. He just hangs off the open door, looking around to see if Buffy's ducked under the bed or something. ]
( okay. so buffy is way more popular than ani thought.
no, that isn't right. she's exactly the type of popular ani would have expected. goody-two-shoes cheerleader type, with the boys drooling over her pleated skirts from the stands. as bubbly and warm as soapsuds, the kind you want to sink into for comfort after a long day. (long life, too.) it's why ani's here, after all — beyond the now defunct, incorrect theory that she'd get some fucking peace and quiet. case in point: spike's loud entrance, the instinctive coil of ani's muscles at the intrusion. a leg dangles off the bed, anchoring to the floor. the promise of being able to move, if he tries some stupid shit.
her eyes narrow, knife-slit pupils staring down spike's silhouette in the doorframe. making a threat-level assessment. flat affect, unimpressed: )
Dude. What the fuck.
( dangling from the coat rack of spike's fingers: a lacy-trimmed bra, at odds with ani's mental catalogue of what buffy's underwear drawer must look like (satiny bows and ribbony laces — sugarplum princess shit, not wildcat leopard print; huh, ani thinks, eyeing it with arced eyebrows — you really do learn something new every day.) resting in ani's balled-up fist: a porcelain ashtray, which may or may not be better suited to some rich fuck's fine china collection, rather than the collection of cigarette ashes sprinkled into its basin.
could have been better suited to braining his grey matter into the floor, if he met ani mikheeva on the wrong day, in the wrong mood. and she always is, these days, for guys who want to trample into her space. she lets the ashtray thunk onto the bed, within perfect reaching distance. the way she always keeps something heavy close by, in case embry moore ever comes to finish what he started. )
Look around. Is she home? ( slow, syrupy enunciation, like she's talking to someone a few colors short of a rainbow. she shrugs, careless; licks her index finger to flip through the glossy page of a magazine. ) Think she's out with that other guy. At least he brought us breakfast. You should probably step your game up, bro.
[ Somehow, it's always the same with Buffy's friends. No matter how many times he saves their rears, it's always 'Spike's evil, we can't trust him, blah blah blah.' And this one hasn't even been properly menaced by his past actually evil self to be on alert the way she is.
Spike just stands in the doorway a moment, assessing her, before he taps the door shut with the heel of his boot and tosses the bra onto Buffy's pillow. ]
Who, Giles? 'Course he's playing fussy nanny. What'd he get you, tea and Weetabix?
[ Spike eyes the ashtray, then Ani. ]
That's not gonna be necessary. [ The way she was wielding it, he means. Brows arched, he pats his back pocket, procures a crumpled pack and a lighter. Spike places a cigarette between his lips before holding the pack out for Ani. Mouth full, ]
( tea and weetabix, whatever the hell that is. some healthy breakfast shit whose nutritional content vera would responsibly swear by, probably, if ani's circadian rhythm wasn't as anemic and sun-allergic as dracula. a creature whose diet relies on night and nicotine, through and through. a rasp of a laugh wafts out of her, a little flicker of what the fuck in the pull of her eyebrows. the equivalent of watching some drunk in a piss-soaked alley slur through nonsense sentences, entertained and exasperated in equal measure. )
No shit. ( ani's gaze rakes over him like a tease of a zipper. slow descent, build to the anticipation of sizing him up. the conclusion, cool inflections of a shrug: ) I could take you easy.
( it's stripped of hostility. just a tone that suggests it's sure of itself. the same factual certainty of considering the odds of a cage match, right before laying money on a wager — because if there's any outcome ani can bet on, any one damn thing she can invest faith in, it's that she'll always come swinging. so she doesn't brandish it like a fucking hammer when she tips the ash tray his way. doesn't flinch when she slips one cigarette from its pack with something close to feline entitlement; like if her eyes can see it, if her mind can dream it, it's hers for the taking.
she clicks on her own lighter, recouped from buffy's bedside table. lets it eat up the paper of his cigarette, common courtesy when you're participating in the communal tradition of sharing a smoke. or maybe it's just an olive branch, that silent agreement to ignore ani had been spooked into nearly braining him two minutes ago. )
Try some fuckin' flowers next time if you're looking for a crowd-pleaser, Sid Vicious. Tip's on the house — you gotta pay a subscription fee to get the rest.
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delivery (vampire-shaped)
So Spike just opens her door. Knocking's for when it's locked, and it's not, on this sunshine-y morning. ]
Buffy! You left your—
[ Bra, leopard print with lacy trim, which dangles from Spike's thumb when his brain computes the dark hair that greets him instead. Girl he's seen around--talked to on the net, maybe, but they definitely haven't been properly introduced.
Doesn't faze him, anyway. He just hangs off the open door, looking around to see if Buffy's ducked under the bed or something. ]
Hello, love. Blondie home?
no subject
no, that isn't right. she's exactly the type of popular ani would have expected. goody-two-shoes cheerleader type, with the boys drooling over her pleated skirts from the stands. as bubbly and warm as soapsuds, the kind you want to sink into for comfort after a long day. (long life, too.) it's why ani's here, after all — beyond the now defunct, incorrect theory that she'd get some fucking peace and quiet. case in point: spike's loud entrance, the instinctive coil of ani's muscles at the intrusion. a leg dangles off the bed, anchoring to the floor. the promise of being able to move, if he tries some stupid shit.
her eyes narrow, knife-slit pupils staring down spike's silhouette in the doorframe. making a threat-level assessment. flat affect, unimpressed: )
Dude. What the fuck.
( dangling from the coat rack of spike's fingers: a lacy-trimmed bra, at odds with ani's mental catalogue of what buffy's underwear drawer must look like (satiny bows and ribbony laces — sugarplum princess shit, not wildcat leopard print; huh, ani thinks, eyeing it with arced eyebrows — you really do learn something new every day.) resting in ani's balled-up fist: a porcelain ashtray, which may or may not be better suited to some rich fuck's fine china collection, rather than the collection of cigarette ashes sprinkled into its basin.
could have been better suited to braining his grey matter into the floor, if he met ani mikheeva on the wrong day, in the wrong mood. and she always is, these days, for guys who want to trample into her space. she lets the ashtray thunk onto the bed, within perfect reaching distance. the way she always keeps something heavy close by, in case embry moore ever comes to finish what he started. )
Look around. Is she home? ( slow, syrupy enunciation, like she's talking to someone a few colors short of a rainbow. she shrugs, careless; licks her index finger to flip through the glossy page of a magazine. ) Think she's out with that other guy. At least he brought us breakfast. You should probably step your game up, bro.
no subject
Spike just stands in the doorway a moment, assessing her, before he taps the door shut with the heel of his boot and tosses the bra onto Buffy's pillow. ]
Who, Giles? 'Course he's playing fussy nanny. What'd he get you, tea and Weetabix?
[ Spike eyes the ashtray, then Ani. ]
That's not gonna be necessary. [ The way she was wielding it, he means. Brows arched, he pats his back pocket, procures a crumpled pack and a lighter. Spike places a cigarette between his lips before holding the pack out for Ani. Mouth full, ]
Unless you want one.
no subject
No shit. ( ani's gaze rakes over him like a tease of a zipper. slow descent, build to the anticipation of sizing him up. the conclusion, cool inflections of a shrug: ) I could take you easy.
( it's stripped of hostility. just a tone that suggests it's sure of itself. the same factual certainty of considering the odds of a cage match, right before laying money on a wager — because if there's any outcome ani can bet on, any one damn thing she can invest faith in, it's that she'll always come swinging. so she doesn't brandish it like a fucking hammer when she tips the ash tray his way. doesn't flinch when she slips one cigarette from its pack with something close to feline entitlement; like if her eyes can see it, if her mind can dream it, it's hers for the taking.
she clicks on her own lighter, recouped from buffy's bedside table. lets it eat up the paper of his cigarette, common courtesy when you're participating in the communal tradition of sharing a smoke. or maybe it's just an olive branch, that silent agreement to ignore ani had been spooked into nearly braining him two minutes ago. )
Try some fuckin' flowers next time if you're looking for a crowd-pleaser, Sid Vicious. Tip's on the house — you gotta pay a subscription fee to get the rest.