Work Text:
She could think now only slow, underwater thoughts that kept her at a distance from the pain to come.
She thought about how strange it was to be such a novice in this ritual of death. Spike had told her death was her art, and as unpleasant as it was to admit, she had come to acknowledge the truth of that.
But this was different. This felt impossible.
"Just a few more signatures, Miss Summers."
She couldn't think of the sound of her mother's laughter, the smell of her perfume.
Was this how someone became a real expert at death?