Catching the sight of her through the fog before she ever reached the crypt. Hard not to. Slayer moved through a cemetery like she owned the bloody place. From inside, he leaned against the stone doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips as he watched her โ
Inching through the fog, eyes skim through the rows of headstones, stake held readily in her right fist as she slows by the crypt, deciding to take post near the entrance.
Another night of patrolling meant time to regroup, though alert if anything goes bumping in the night.
settle near the entrance. "Y'know..." he drawled, pushing himself off the wall and stepping into view, "most people spend their evenings somewhere warm. Maybe with a telly. Friends. Healthy social habits." His hands slipped into the pockets of his coat as he โ
He glanced up at her hiss of pain, brows knitting before the usual smirk came back.โCโmon, Slayer. Bit of a scratch and youโre actinโ like Iโm amputating something.โ
He smoothed the bandage carefully against her shoulder. โโฆThere. Try not to ruin โ
โ
โthatโs like, the third one this month.โ she almost protests but clearly unable to do it herself, she allows him to help.
โow โฆ โ trying her best to sit still, she hopes her wincing goes unnoticed. โthanks โฆ โ
โ
Leaning over the couch, eyeing the gash with a faint grimace. โAnother sweater bites the dust. Tragic.โ
Before Buffy could argue, he took the bandage from her hands, fingers surprisingly careful against her shoulder.
โHold still. Youโre rubbish at patching yourself up.โ
He lounged back against the cryptโs worn couch, one boot propped on the cracked coffee table while the other tapped lazily against the floor. A cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling up toward the low stone ceiling as he eyed the room with open annoyance. โ