Buffy Summers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whattingawhat) wrote2008-09-28 04:20 pm
whattingawhat) wrote2008-09-28 04:20 pm
Entry tags:
The sound now turns to silence [But I keep spinning around]
[Sound]
A stale breeze, reeking of sewage and garbage ruffles over her, setting errant stands of hair to dance against her skin. She has her eyes closed; the other senses are pushed outward, grasping at any information the night provides her with but it is her hearing that she uses more than the others. She is waiting for the tell tale of a foot scuffing against asphalt, the sharp intake of breath or a bump of a hip against a lazy stack of crates or a dumpster scooted just a bit too far out.
Her breath is measured, drawn in through her nose, exhaled through parted lips and her lashes flutter but don’t open. She is a homage to patience and eventually it pays off in the form of a clubbed foot grinding across a patch of gravel.
Expelled from the barrel of a gun, she launches off the balls of her feet; vengeance in physical form. Her fingers curl a bit tighter around the stake in her hand. She’s not chasing a vampire but as long she hits the heart, it doesn’t matter what she’s chasing.
Faith taught her that.
Hunter, hunter, girl’s gone away and so the demon cowering in the corner of a dead end alley with his hands over his head doesn’t phase her at all. She knows he’s been sucking marrow from little kid’s bones.
There’s a wet pop and then drag tempered with the whimpers of a dying demon. Nothing happens in an instant. It’s never really immediate and then the heel of her hand is flat against his chest while she presses the stake all the way in. She can feel the point pushing against the concrete wall behind the demon.
“It’s not me. Not me,” he says in a hoarse whisper. The light in his eyes fade to an ember and then stoke at his next words. “Just gives me the bones. She’s worse. Worse than you can imagine.” The ember is snuffed and he goes limp. Buffy’s brow furrows and she sighs as she pushes herself upright. There’s blood, yellow-green, smeared across her sweater. She adds a smudge of rust as she lifts the sewer cover with one hand, dragging the demon over to let him plop into the sewer below.
The city is remarkably silent as she makes the trek home, sweater coming off as soon as the door clicks behind her. She locks the door behind her, trashes the sweater and starts taking off her pants as she walks toward the bathroom. A hot shower is the first order of business on her docket but she’s derailed by Danny, still awake and obviously relieved she’s safe.
“You alright, Summers?”
She shakes her head; kids always get to her the worst. “I stink. Demon blood and garbage,” she tells him. She’s still focused on the shower and sleep when his arm curls around her and he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder. Showers and sleep don’t matter as much as she curls against him, her ear pressed to his chest. She feels her body unwind, muscles uncoil and loosen with each thump of his heart.
“I’m alright.”
A stale breeze, reeking of sewage and garbage ruffles over her, setting errant stands of hair to dance against her skin. She has her eyes closed; the other senses are pushed outward, grasping at any information the night provides her with but it is her hearing that she uses more than the others. She is waiting for the tell tale of a foot scuffing against asphalt, the sharp intake of breath or a bump of a hip against a lazy stack of crates or a dumpster scooted just a bit too far out.
Her breath is measured, drawn in through her nose, exhaled through parted lips and her lashes flutter but don’t open. She is a homage to patience and eventually it pays off in the form of a clubbed foot grinding across a patch of gravel.
Expelled from the barrel of a gun, she launches off the balls of her feet; vengeance in physical form. Her fingers curl a bit tighter around the stake in her hand. She’s not chasing a vampire but as long she hits the heart, it doesn’t matter what she’s chasing.
Faith taught her that.
Hunter, hunter, girl’s gone away and so the demon cowering in the corner of a dead end alley with his hands over his head doesn’t phase her at all. She knows he’s been sucking marrow from little kid’s bones.
There’s a wet pop and then drag tempered with the whimpers of a dying demon. Nothing happens in an instant. It’s never really immediate and then the heel of her hand is flat against his chest while she presses the stake all the way in. She can feel the point pushing against the concrete wall behind the demon.
“It’s not me. Not me,” he says in a hoarse whisper. The light in his eyes fade to an ember and then stoke at his next words. “Just gives me the bones. She’s worse. Worse than you can imagine.” The ember is snuffed and he goes limp. Buffy’s brow furrows and she sighs as she pushes herself upright. There’s blood, yellow-green, smeared across her sweater. She adds a smudge of rust as she lifts the sewer cover with one hand, dragging the demon over to let him plop into the sewer below.
The city is remarkably silent as she makes the trek home, sweater coming off as soon as the door clicks behind her. She locks the door behind her, trashes the sweater and starts taking off her pants as she walks toward the bathroom. A hot shower is the first order of business on her docket but she’s derailed by Danny, still awake and obviously relieved she’s safe.
“You alright, Summers?”
She shakes her head; kids always get to her the worst. “I stink. Demon blood and garbage,” she tells him. She’s still focused on the shower and sleep when his arm curls around her and he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder. Showers and sleep don’t matter as much as she curls against him, her ear pressed to his chest. She feels her body unwind, muscles uncoil and loosen with each thump of his heart.
“I’m alright.”