Jack was careful to kick the sand from his boots at the front door, and to place them neatly in the closet just inside. There was an oil lamp near to hand, somewhere--he'd always left it on the table.
The usual meowing of Hector was nowhere to be heard.
One sneaker got shoved atop another in an untidy little mess. But at least she was taking her sneakers off -- that, at least, suggested the intention to stay a little longer than simply dropping him off. Buffy only realized this all too late and found herself unable to just...put her shoes back on.
"Hector?" Jack cursed softly and finally got the lamp lit. "Oi! Where are you?" No answering meow. The pirate fell into a distracted silence as he began to search for the little cat.
The Slayer helped herself to a seat on the couch. She was concerned for the cat -- certainly. But she wasn't quite ready to show that concern. And she wasn't quite sure whether there should be cause for concern. Cats were fickle creatures, weren't they? Came and went as they wanted. Set their own terms for their own care. Demanding, self-centred, painfully adorable little fluffballs.
"Bugger. He's gone off, I expect." The pirate was uneasy, but there was a slayer to look after. Hector would make his way back soon, Jack was certain. It was probably just a factor of himself being away for so long.
"Be right back, Annie; fetching you a clean shirt."
And then Jack disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom he had christened Buffy's Room, even though she had only stayed in there once. He grabbed the first shirt he could find: the jolly roger tee that he had worn during his duel with Kennedy, and which Buffy had appropriated afterward. It would be too large on her, but he wasn't thinking of that right now. Angel and Buffy and Hector.
Returning, he approached her. "Shirt. But cleanup, first."
She rolled her sleeve back and slowly revealed what was under that gummy mess of fabric and blood. The slice wasn't such a horrible one -- she had suffered and ignored far worse throughout the battle. It looked a little like how such a cut would look a few days into the healing -- crusted over, the skin still pink around the edges. The blood around it all was still fresh.
"Fine. Cleanup." Buffy conceded. Giving in might mean avoiding the subject of the fight. That was her hope, at least. Her strategy.
He knelt and stared at it for several moments in the light of the lamp, careful not to touch--quietly impressed, once more, by her extraordinary healing powers. Buffy's strength and skill at fighting might have been a source of her pride, but it was her healing that Jack loved and prized over those other talents. "Kitchen, lass."
A scoffing sound. Not for the words themselves but to hear them so weaponized -- of course, they made the perfect little barb. She found that he was being altogether too good to her when what she both expected and craved was one big, messy explosion. Buffy hadn't found closure in the fight with Angel so she sought it out now. She wanted to rather consciously make herself into an obstacle and incite his anger. Instead, she got I love you and kissed hands and an annoyingly determined goal of getting her cleaned up. Seen to.
There was a fleeting wish that the tepid water in the tank above the sink was a touch warmer, but the pirate made do with a clean rag soaked in the stuff. He reached for her arm, peering down at that healing wound with a rather detached expression on his face.
That was there to cover up the anger at Angel for perpetrating this. Made a mistake. Such a mistake.
"...More than." While he stared down at the injury, she stared down at his bowed head. But not until after hoisting herself easily up onto the counter, sitting with her knees tucked together. Her heels against the lower cupboards. "More rusty than I thought."
/bed for me, night!lists_to_portSeptember 4 2011, 05:38:24 UTC
"Mmm." Gently he washed off the worst of the gore. It wouldn't need a dressing; that much was clear. The skin was so neatly knit together already, though it still looked nasty.
But that was the way with Buffy. She'd been through a kidnapping, then the almost immediate loss of her Dawn; a war. This...fight, as she'd called it. And now she was feeling rusted, apparently. Everything seemed to knit together so quickly for her. There was rarely a chance to love her like this.
"Anyplace else that needs my attentions, love, or shall we shirt you?"
She thought there might be a couple of bruised ribs but that was even more the sort of injury that healed best with time and little attention. So Buffy nodded and began to remove the stained top. Silk, she'd complained. Ruined. Probably beyond repair.
"Shirt away. This one's gone to an early retirement." She balled it up in her hands, knuckled whitening.
Jack was careful to kick the sand from his boots at the front door, and to place them neatly in the closet just inside. There was an oil lamp near to hand, somewhere--he'd always left it on the table.
The usual meowing of Hector was nowhere to be heard.
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"Be right back, Annie; fetching you a clean shirt."
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This was said as if testing the conversational waters.
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And then Jack disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom he had christened Buffy's Room, even though she had only stayed in there once. He grabbed the first shirt he could find: the jolly roger tee that he had worn during his duel with Kennedy, and which Buffy had appropriated afterward. It would be too large on her, but he wasn't thinking of that right now. Angel and Buffy and Hector.
Returning, he approached her. "Shirt. But cleanup, first."
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"Fine. Cleanup." Buffy conceded. Giving in might mean avoiding the subject of the fight. That was her hope, at least. Her strategy.
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Some more pointed sleeve-rolling and then she was on her feet, regardless of whether he indulged her with a 'please' or not.
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Not what she wanted to hear, but Jack was not in the mood for indulging her. He just wanted to take care of her. Difference.
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So stalked into the kitchen ahead of him.
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That was there to cover up the anger at Angel for perpetrating this. Made a mistake. Such a mistake.
"Were you as rusty as you thought, Slayer?"
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But that was the way with Buffy. She'd been through a kidnapping, then the almost immediate loss of her Dawn; a war. This...fight, as she'd called it. And now she was feeling rusted, apparently. Everything seemed to knit together so quickly for her. There was rarely a chance to love her like this.
"Anyplace else that needs my attentions, love, or shall we shirt you?"
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"Shirt away. This one's gone to an early retirement." She balled it up in her hands, knuckled whitening.
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