bigapplesauce | Versus [Closed]

Spike moves aside for Sunshine as they walk into the flat, flipping on the light switch as he goes. She immediately heads for the bathroom, and he follows after a fashion, giving her a little space. While she starts washing up, he makes a detour to the kitchen to grab a couple dishcloths. It gives him a few moments to shake the fear off of himself. Tonight has had no shortage of shocks for both of them.

He settles in the doorway and leans in to set the towels on the edge of the sink. His inevitably end up with bloodstains on them anyway. Giving them to her is no great loss, especially if it can help.

He's curious about how she's feeling now. If their argument in the hallway is any indication, he can at least cross off shocked catatonia from the list of behaviors, but that doesn't mean she's still not horrified about what had happened. "I should say thanks. For the alley." Not for the healing, obviously.

Once she's in the bathroom she cranks on the hot water as hard as it will go and scrubs. Compared to her last encounter with the Giggler, this was relatively un-messy (SOF would probably call it a 'clean strike'), but she still can't get the blood off fast enough. These are her hands - she has to bake with them. The water starts to steam, but she doesn't stop until her skin is so pink from the heat and the scouring that she can no longer tell if she's making any progress. Only then does she gingerly pat them dry on one of the dishtowels, and it's a relief when the cloth comes away damp, but unstained.

The same can't be said of her clothes. She'll probably have to burn this shirt. Her jeans are dark, though, and she can't afford to replace her whole wardrobe. They can stay, she decides, though they'll have to go through a few wash cycles before she wears them again.

She finally looks up at her own reflection. It should be pleasantly normal - mirrors cancel out her dark vision, so pitch darkness and reflections are her only opportunities to see the world how it used to be - but she looks like hell. And there's a disconcertingly empty spot where she knows Spike ought to be. She turns a little, and there he is, leaning against the doorway. Absent reflection aside, he doesn't look a vampire. He looks like a regular guy who could have died in that alleyway, and she realizes that she's glad he didn't. Maybe that should surprise her, but she is too tired for surprise.

She drops her gaze to the sink, where there is no trace of red in the remaining water, and her hands, still too pink and loosely curled on the porcelain. "He shouldn't have been here." She feels like she should apologize for that, but what would she say? Sorry, Spike, I thought I'd killed him already but I guess it didn't take, what an inconvenience.

Edited 2014-03-06 04:13 (UTC)

"None of us should be here." By 'us' he means rifties in general. He doubts that there's any real reason for him being here. If anything, he may have been sent here to get him out of the way in his own universe.

He keeps his eyes on her reflection in the mirror for a moment before pushing himself away from the door frame. Her shirt still has blood on it, and if the way she'd scrubbed her hands are any indication, she'll probably be uncomfortable until she's changed out of it.

"Be right back." He heads to his room, retrieves a black t-shirt, and comes back. He might have grabbed some sort of bottoms too, but his wouldn't fit, and he doubts that she'd appreciate being given a pair of boxer shorts instead. "Here," he says when he comes back, handing over the shirt. "I'll be out here." She can change in peace. In the meantime, he goes back to the kitchen to see what else he has that might help.

Edited 2014-03-06 04:55 (UTC)

That isn't what she meant, but she can't correct him without explaining why that particular vampire should not have been in that alleyway. She doesn't want to talk about it, which isn't to say she won't - she sort of feels like she owes Spike some kind of explanation for what the hell he stumbled into - but before she can work up the courage to say anything, he's wandering off.

And then wandering back. With a clean shirt. It's black (what is it with vampires and black wardrobes?), which not her color, but it's such an unexpected,kind gesture that she almost bursts into tears. She had not been… braced… for kindness.

"Oh," she says, taking it with her stinging ~~corrupted~~ hands. "Thank you." And then he's off again, and she shuts the door, ostensibly so he won't see her changing but also so he won't see her face crumple. She sits on the side of the tub and buries her face in the clean shirt, which smells nothing like blood, or like vampire as she knows it - just like detergent, and beneath that, the ambient smell of Spike's apartment.

She is not going to cry. If she starts crying, she won't be able to stop.

After a few steadying breaths, she strips off her bloodstained shirt. It would probably be salvageable if she soaked it, but she doesn't want to salvage it, so she just drapes it over the edge of the tub before pulling on the clean one. Better. She gets to her feet by degrees, like an old woman, then opens the door and steps out.

Edited 2014-03-06 05:35 (UTC)

When he gets back into the kitchen, Spike slips out of his coat and briefly examines the back before he sets it aside. He can clean it off later. For now, he opens up his cabinets, examining what he has to offer. After the last time Sunshine was here, he'd collected a few more things that might qualify as non-vampire food and drink. Soda, potato chips, some tea and biscuits.

Making a quick decision, he grabs the box of teabags and a mug.

By the time the bathroom door opens, he has a mug of chamomile tea in one hand and the box of chocolate biscuits in the other. He nods her in the direction of the couch and heads there himself to set down the things on the coffee table.

Did he make tea? She stares at the steam rising from the mug, and then at the little box of cookies, and she has to press her lips together to keep from… laughing? Crying? She's not sure which, but neither reaction seems appropriate. Gods and frigging angels. He made her tea.

It's not as heroic as feeding her a muffin, scrap by scrap. But she's not in as dire shape as she was back then, either. And, okay, she might have saved his life, but that was kind of coincidental - and far less impressive than what she did for Con.

So, tea and cookies. That's... nice. Unexpected (what happened to vodka and weetabix?), but nice.

She wanders over to the couch and sinks down onto the cushions. Now, she can smell the chamomile, and a bemused smile starts to tug at the corners of her mouth. "You have tea, now?" she asks, looking up at him. Since when do vampires drink that? And chamomile, no less.

As much as he could taste chamomile tea, he might as well just drink plain water. No, this is for her. "I have two kinds of tea, so if you don't like this..." He trails off as he hands her the mug and settles the box of biscuits on the table.

He sits down at the other end of the couch and tries not to be offended that she seems amused by him. He succeeds, mostly. After the mess she'd been, it's nice to see her cracking a smile. "If you want milk or sugar you're out of luck." The vodka he still has. If she wants something a little stronger, he can always bring it out.

She curls her hands around the mug, careful to keep her fingers away from the rim. This is different, she reminds herself: this wasn't Bo. But her hands remember, and she does not entirely trust them, and she does not want to put her lips where they've been.

Her smile has faded, but she doesn't want him to think she's ungrateful. "No," she says, "this is fine. Thanks." And then she takes a polite sip, and it's not the most spartan cup of tea she's ever had, but it's hot and it's comfortably familiar, and that is more than enough.

She's still feeling a bit thrown, though, and not just because of what transpired in that alleyway (though that was enough to throw her right into next week). Five minutes ago Spike was yelling at her in the hallway, and now he's giving her clean clothes and cups of tea, like SOF minus the carthaginian interrogation. Only she knew Pat, Jesse and Theo - they were regulars at the coffeehouse, which practically made them family. Even if they hadn't wanted answers (and boy, did they ever), they would have taken care of her.

Why is Spike taking care of her? Skegging the sucker that was threatening him doesn't feel like reason enough. Well, he probably wants answers, too.

It takes a few more bracing sips of tea before she can bring herself to say anything. "I, um." Oh, gods, her eyes are already starting to sting. She blinks, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her tea. "I'd already killed… him. Months ago."

If she were to voice her concerns, Spike might remind her that he is actually capable of doing things for people for reasons other than duty and payback. In this case, yeah, he's definitely glad that she saved him, and he'd like to make sure that she's not permanently traumatized by the whole thing. He's curious too, definitely, but finding out the truth isn't his main objective tonight.

He watches while she takes a few careful sips of the tea, glad that at least he'd managed to make it drinkable. She's still not together, but definitely trying to look like she is. He can tell that much. He should have made himself a cup of tea. He couldn't taste the thing, but it would give him something to do besides watch her for signs of breakdown.

He notices that she still had blood under the fingernails of one hand, but before he can do anything about it, she speaks and catches his attention. It's a slightly worrying thought. What if old enemies from his life come through? "The rift grabs from all over. Different times. Probably got him from before you'd done the job."

She'd been hoping for something more along the lines of: yeah, how strange, probably a one-time thing. Not confirmation that her fears of the rest of Bo's gang - or even Bo himself - coming through are downright sensible. And never mind that moonlight ought to be more than Bo can handle; the rift would probably go right ahead and give him immunity to sunlight, too, and she can't - she can't…

The mug clatters a little as she sets it down with shaking hands. "I can't deal with them all again," she says tersely, fisting her hands on her knees, her breathing fast and shallow. They'll kill her - he'll kill her, and she doesn't want to die in this goddamn universe.

He leans forward as she sets down the mug, and ends up awkwardly scooting forward just enough to make it look like he is repositioning himself instead of instinctively wanting to scoot next to her to offer some comfort. A cuddle from him is probably the last thing she wants right now. "They say people from the same universe don't come through very often." That's both a comfort and a concern for him, but he's hoping it'll be more of a comfort for her. "Probably won't happen again."

He shrugs, watching her hands. "And if they do, I know the tricks now, don't I? Definitely no lookin' em in the eye." By which he means that he's willing to help her if anybody else does come through that she can't handle on her own.

It might be a comfort if the thought of such a rare, one-way trip from her universe to this one being wasted on the goddamn Giggler instead of Con or Mel or Aimil wasn't so carthaginian tragic. Why couldn't the rift have picked someone who didn't want to kill her (or deliver her to someone else who would)? Not that she wants anyone she cares about getting stuck here, too, but still. If the rift never nabs anyone else from home, she'll have to live with the knowledge that all it ever brought her was a member of Bo's gang… and if it does bring through someone else, it'll probably be another previously defeated enemy, or - or the Goddess of Pain, or something.

So, no, she's not feeling all that comforted. But she's not so far gone that the implicit offer of help goes unnoticed, and now her eyes are stinging again. Damn it. She starts to lift her hands to her face, then she remembers what they did and drops them back onto her lap.

She wasn't braced for kindness. And she's just so tired.

Sunshine rocks forward, head bowed, and squeezes her eyes shut against the tears, but it doesn't stop them.

"Uh." Okay, now she's crying. Good job, Spike. Excellent comforting. He has no idea what to do here. She's made it pretty clear that she's not all that comfortable around him, but sitting here doing nothing while she's cries just feels wrong, if not downright creepy.

He gets up and sits back down next to her, then very carefully places a hand at her back. "Hey. I'm sorry. I'm a prat."

She leans her forehead against the back of her wrist, body shaking with quiet sobs, appalled with herself for breaking down like this - not even because it's embarrassing (well, not entirely), but because he thinks it's his fault, and now she's crying too hard to correct him.

Too hard to verbally correct him, anyway. So when he sits down next to her and rests a hand on her back, she leans into him a little, accepting the comfort he's offering. It's sort of hard to be afraid of a vampire who made you tea (and who's seen you rip out another vampire's heart with your bare hands).

He just sits with her for a little while, hoping that he's helping her. That she'd leaned into him a little is enough sign for him to stay, and that she doesn't move to pull away makes him feel a little better.

After a while, it becomes pretty clear that she needs a handkerchief or a tissue or something. He rubs at her back as he stands, explaining "Be right back, just grabbing you something." He comes back with a box of tissues and a thin metal nail file. When he sits down, he hands over the tissues, but he keeps the file for now. "Here."

When he stands up, she sways a little, feeling… unmoored… without anyone to lean against. Hell, she's probably cried enough to qualify as dehydrated, at this point. She can't help but be grateful when he returns with tissues, though - her whole head feels squashy - and she attempts a smile as she takes the box. It comes out as more of a wince.

"Thanks," she says as she mops at her face. Ugh, she's such a goddamn mess. At least her hands feel safer with a barrier of tissues between them and the rest of her, otherwise she'd have a hard time cleaning herself up at all. Sneaking a sheepish, sidelong glance at Spike, she adds, "You're not a prat."

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile when she finally talks again. "I am, but thanks for saying I'm not." He doesn't replace his hand at her back, but he does lean against her a little, keeping close now that she seems to want that.

When it seems she's done wiping off her face, he shifts so that he's facing her, and gestures torwards her hands. "Give me your hand."

She's actually not even sure what a 'prat' is - slang is a different beast in her universe - but she can guess from context that it's not a flattering term. And considering the greater context of this entire carthaginian evening, she doesn't think it should apply.

His request throws her, and she just blinks at him for a few seconds. What does he want with her hands? They're not safe. Maybe there's no trace (yet) of sickly green corruption threading toward her wrists, but that doesn't mean anything, because death doesn't mean anything. Somewhere out there, Bo's evil is still very much alive, which means it's still in her, too. Just… waiting.

"… Why?" she asks, keeping them curled in her lap.

He sighs and gestures to her hands again. "Come on. I'm not doing anything weird. I promise." Like sending uncomfortable magic through her entire body without asking. He's still not completely forgiven her for that one, but this isn't some kind of set up. He just wants to get every last bit of that vampire's blood off of her and he knows she's missed some.

Sunshine drops her gaze to her lap and thinks: There is nothing wrong with your hands. She just has to believe it. If you have the strength of will you can stop me or any vampire. That's what Con had said. Any vampire. Bo included.

She doesn't feel strong. Maybe that's why she finally, tentatively holds out her hands. Well. What's the worst that Spike could do to them?

Glad that she's agreed, he transfers the nail file into his right hand and takes one of her hands with the other. This is the one with the most blood still remaining- the one that had done most of the work back in the alley.

She's holding it palm up, so he turns it over gently. He wields the little nail file carefully, holding each of her fingers in turn as he uses the pointed end to scrape out the remains of her deserving victim. After he starts, he explains, "You missed some, when you washed your hands. This'll get the rest." The action feels strangely intimate to him. More so than he'd felt just with his arm around her. There's something about this. It's hardly because he's holding her hand - More because act of doing something so small for her somehow feels like something bigger. He can't put his finger on the feeling. It's not sexual. Just...comfortable.

He keeps his head down and clears his throat against the silence. "Don't ask me to paint your nails. I don't do manicures." Though he does have some black nail polish. Which he's wearing.

Edited 2014-03-10 08:47 (UTC)

She hadn't had any expectations when she held out her hands. Nothing he could have done would have surprised her, because she had no energy left for surprise. But this... this comes close, and her mouth shapes a silent 'oh' as he starts to take care of the spots she missed in her earlier, frantic scouring. Her vision blurs - gods, she didn't think she had any tears left - but she doesn't have the energy for sobbing, either, so she presses her lips together and blinks until her vision clears.

And then she watches him work with a weary sort of anxiety, as if waiting for things to take a turn for the awful - should he really be putting something sharp within her reach? - but for once, things don't. There is something profoundly reassuring about the way her hand just sits there, so well-behaved, while Spike gently manipulates her fingers. She could pull it away if she wanted to (she doesn't), but it doesn't seem inclined to take any action of its own deviant volition. It's just her hand.

There is nothing wrong with her hands.

She makes a face at the manicure comment - nail polish chips off and gets in the dough - and lets out a quiet huff of amusement. "Black's not really my color, anyway." Look at that, she can joke. Give the girl a prize.

Her joke isn't all that great, but it serves its purpose. He cracks a smile and looks up at her as he finishes his work on one of her hands. He gestures for the other, but instead of looking back down again, he holds his gaze on her for a moment, considering. She's wearing his very black t-shirt. It might not be the most fashionable thing she could be wearing, but he does like seeing her in it.

"I dunno." He sniffs in a breath, finally dropping his gaze back to his work. This hand is hardly worth doing, but he does it anyway. "I think it suits you."

She glances down self-consciously as he looks her over. Most of her shirts are on the bright side - granted, her post-rift wardrobe is still pretty tiny, but even back home, she'd have to do a hell of a lot of rummaging to come up with anything black. When she drops her gaze, Spike's shirt is an incongruous void where something cheerier ought to be.

Oh. Spike's shirt. Which he kindly gave her so she wouldn't have to wear something blood-spattered. And now she's criticizing the color. Well done, Sunshine.

"Not that I'm complaining." She plucks at the fabric, and finds herself strangely reassured by its store-bought mundanity. Last time a vampire had to give her a shirt, it had been a tagless, ageless sort of thing (though still black, of course). "It definitely beats the, um…" she casts an uneasy glance toward the bathroom, "… alternative."

Spike gives her back her other hand, and she examines them both. No blood. Maybe she'd been unconsciously aware of the spots she'd missed this whole time, but now that both her hands are free of any lingering traces of that alleyway, they feel… better. She feels better - and perhaps a bit foolish, as if she was trying to put together two ill-fitting puzzle pieces and Spike had gently pointed out that one of them was cardboard-side up. He was gentle about it, though. Surprisingly so.

She lets her hands rest in her lap again, but now, they're no longer curled up like dying things. "Thank you," she says again, meeting his eyes. Conventional vampire rules don't apply, not with him. "For… all of this."

Edited 2014-03-16 15:31 (UTC)

It's refreshing to see her looking comfortable after a night of her looking scared and furtive, but it surprises him when she finds his gaze and holds it. It's so contrary to how she's been treating him up till now that he's held for a moment, his inner monologue stuttering to a stop. Does she believe that he won't hurt her now? What she says seems to confirm that she's decided to extend him some measure of trust, at least for the moment. It's almost too much. He'd hadn't expected much from her, but he'd definitely not expected trust in any way.

"Yeah." His gaze flicks down to her lips, back up, and in his sudden realization that he likes her, he thinks Oh no. "Yeah, no problem." No no no, big problem. He swallows audibly and lurches forward to set down the nail file and pick up the remote control to the TV. Even if he hadn't just seen her rip a vampire's heart out of his chest, any sort of romance between them would be a bad idea. They hardly get along. He's got fangs, she has all sorts of vampire-related trauma. Did he mention the part where she can kill him? It's not a good idea.

He shifts and leans back into the couch, flips on the TV, and hands over the remote to her. He needs a distraction right about now, and he's not very particular about what it is.

He could move back to the other side of the couch, but he doesn't.

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