Buffy wakes with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed. Not sure what it is that woke her, whether it be a noise outside or the nightmares that seem to be coming more frequently
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"What? In there? Surrounded by teenage girls and their hormones and their..." Spike takes another long drag off of his cigarette. "I'd be somewhere else if I had anywhere else to go."
The vampire looks at the blonde who joins him on the porch. "I assume that you're not up because you want to be."
"Nightmares." She says nothing of whether she actually wants to be out on the porch with him, and sits down on the porch, pulling her legs so that she can rest her head on her knees.
"Though really, anywhere but in there. Too many people."
What warmth he has, he's more than willing to share it with her. He does what he can to keep warmer around all of these girls learning how to stake vampires. The less reminder there is that he is one, the better, he thinks.
".... poetry."
If she laughs, he doesn't know what he'll do. The memory of rejection is still a burning embarassement for him and it sits heavily in his chest. He can't manage to tell her it would largely be /his/ poetry.
Buffy looks up at him with that look on her face and Spike steps back and to the side. He leaves a hand on her shoulder, reluctant to leave her entirely but unable to be so close when she looks at him like that. "That sort wouldn't be my first choice."
She senses his withdrawl, but doesn't try to draw any closer. No need to add another level of oddness to... well, to whatever it is that they have between each other now.
"What sort would you read to the girls?" Slightly easier topic, hopefully.
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The vampire looks at the blonde who joins him on the porch. "I assume that you're not up because you want to be."
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"Though really, anywhere but in there. Too many people."
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The cigarette gets another drag.
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A strange thing, but a comfort nonetheless.
"They'll be around for awhile longer, I think."
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".... poetry."
If she laughs, he doesn't know what he'll do. The memory of rejection is still a burning embarassement for him and it sits heavily in his chest. He can't manage to tell her it would largely be /his/ poetry.
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"Poetry? really? Are we talking finger-snapping bohemian type here?"
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"It would depend on the audience."
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"What sort would you read to the girls?" Slightly easier topic, hopefully.
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