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.
Typically Jack might have tried something with so much more of Buffy's torso freed up like this. A kiss, or a touch. Instead he tried to extract the bloody shirt from those hands. He was trying to re-shirt her, after all. And she needed looking after.
Sometimes she allowed it, sometimes she didn't. This was certainly a 'didn't' time. But after a look with an arched brow and a hard-line of a mouth, she unknotted her fingers from the silk and gave it to him.
She hoped to make it difficult for him in some small ways and some bigs ways. Small ways included that still-present glare. Big ways included a complete dead-weight level of non-cooperation.
There were bruises -- they stung a little throughout the process. But she had again fought through much worse in the draft. The real hurts were deeper. In the mind.
Jack paused, letting the shirt hang loosely around her neck as he fumbled for one of her arms, trying to push it through the sleeve. Oh but she was making this hard.
She was being incredibly insistent on this point. Tonight, age was a touchy subject. Angel had started off quipping on how she'd soon be older than him, physically. And then he had -- 'is that what you want; to be young and live forever?'
Buffy shuddered but ultimately gave in, twisting the shirt into place and pushing her arms through the sleeves.
"It's a term of endearment, you know...sometimes. You're a woman, Buffy Summers. Your own woman. And my woman, he boldly proclaims." With a light touch he smoothed the fabric over her shoulders and down her arms and sides. "And now to feed her up, eh? I've.....peanut butter and cat food, unfortunately."
So much of her prickled against this treatment. Buffy wasn't sure how to relax and enjoy his care. Angel's therapy had been easy to follow -- be something so terrible that she couldn't help but deal with it. This? Ah, this was a different kettle of different fish.
But even so, some answers were easy: "Peanut butter. All the way."
The cupboards that were so heinously overstocked with cat food soon enough revealed a large jar of crunchy peanut butter. Jack fished out a spoon and brought both back to her.
Perhaps he had been over-enthusiastic; he'd been very glad to bring the small tufty creature home, after all. Again his mind flitted to where the little kitten could have gone off to. Normally, he would be home, waiting for Jack to scratch him behind the ears and feed him sardines straight out of the can and sing to him.
Her callous tone, in light of that worry, stung a bit. He gave her a worried glance. Things were not even close to alright.
Her gaze dropped and she focused almost entirely upon the peanut butter jar. Buffy peeled at the label. "Crunchy," she remarked as she separated the cr from the unchy. "My favourite."
Ah, well. She screwed off the lid. "Planning for winter means planning for your own meals too, Jack. Not just Hector's."
"You might say I've had a fair few interruptions over the past few weeks, Buffy."
There were so many things to set in store: firewood was perhaps even more important than food at this point if the pirate expected to stay out here for the duration of the cold months. Jack knew Murphy would give him a hoof with that, but it still weighed on his mind.
"Dunno," he answered honestly. "The wind might blow the snow right off the beach, clearing a passage. Ooooor the opposite could happen. Best be prepared, eh?"
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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"Annie? You got to leggo, child."
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Sometimes she allowed it, sometimes she didn't. This was certainly a 'didn't' time. But after a look with an arched brow and a hard-line of a mouth, she unknotted her fingers from the silk and gave it to him.
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There were bruises -- they stung a little throughout the process. But she had again fought through much worse in the draft. The real hurts were deeper. In the mind.
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"Come on, Annie; rabbit goes into the burrow."
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She was being incredibly insistent on this point. Tonight, age was a touchy subject. Angel had started off quipping on how she'd soon be older than him, physically. And then he had -- 'is that what you want; to be young and live forever?'
Buffy shuddered but ultimately gave in, twisting the shirt into place and pushing her arms through the sleeves.
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So much of her prickled against this treatment. Buffy wasn't sure how to relax and enjoy his care. Angel's therapy had been easy to follow -- be something so terrible that she couldn't help but deal with it. This? Ah, this was a different kettle of different fish.
But even so, some answers were easy: "Peanut butter. All the way."
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"Then I won't call you that anymore, Buffy."
Problem? Solution. Simple.
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She pulled her legs up onto the counter, folding them up and crossing them. Much better than a chair. Buffy reached out for the jar first.
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Perhaps he had been over-enthusiastic; he'd been very glad to bring the small tufty creature home, after all. Again his mind flitted to where the little kitten could have gone off to. Normally, he would be home, waiting for Jack to scratch him behind the ears and feed him sardines straight out of the can and sing to him.
Her callous tone, in light of that worry, stung a bit. He gave her a worried glance. Things were not even close to alright.
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Ah, well. She screwed off the lid. "Planning for winter means planning for your own meals too, Jack. Not just Hector's."
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There were so many things to set in store: firewood was perhaps even more important than food at this point if the pirate expected to stay out here for the duration of the cold months. Jack knew Murphy would give him a hoof with that, but it still weighed on his mind.
"No worries, Buffy. I'll get it all in."
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"Do you think it'll be tough? Once it snows?" She sighed. "To get here -- from the fort."
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