They sit together on the campaign bed, tendrils of smoke uncoiling up in the air and surrounding them like mist. Murmured voices and pale skin, rustle of unhurried gestures, making her think of carnivore plants, lush and deadly, waiting in the dark.
The feeling of easy intimacy makes her jealous, possessive. Of what
//still healing scars hidden behind dark long hair and non-hugs between Faith and Angel, Willow’s babble a torrent of words she had to stanch before she’d be swept away//
//shoulders stripped bare and close enough to touch when, these days, Spike wears clothes and detachment and harsh words like an armor to keep everyone at bay//
of whom she cannot decide. Him. Her. Both. There are canyons and continents she has to transpose to reach either, not merely a flight of stairs and a few yards of concrete.
And yet, they’re here, inches apart from each other like rules of personal space between strangers don’t apply, like they're lovers or old comrades, members of the special club of repentant murderers with its rules and secret handshakes and dress codes. Leather mandatory.
They’ve learned enough to have the decency to look slightly uncomfortable when she steps out into to light.
Just not enough to stay away, not come back. You’d think instinct and experience would serve them better. But they’ve fallen prey a long time ago to her bright colors and sunshine smiles and they forget or deliberately ignore they’re an ambush that will get them killed.
She breaks them apart but doesn’t think of sending them away. Like all beings in creation, she can’t help but follow her nature.