"Me too. Bit overrated in there." Automatic, thoughtless, and out of his mouth before any of his senses connect. What else would a stranger be apologizing about? "You've got the way of it. I'd stay out here if I were you."
It doesn't cross his mind immediately that her scent is familiar to him because it's one he never thought he'd be in the presence of again. He also hasn't paid her much mind, so there's that. He's talking to her, but Spike has a way of continuing without the participation of anyone around him when he so wishes, probably from years of hanging around people sharing absolutely nothing but mutual dislike.
But, then, he looks and . . .
He's at a surprising loss for words. Not much left in the world capable of shocking him and stranger things have happened, haven't they? Why not her? Why not here? Spike swallows, the beginning of recognition creeping up on him. Bridging the gaps between life and death is never without its struggles, no matter the circumstances. Hard to say exactly, if that's the case here. Tara was never the most spirited of the group, but he likes to think he knows the difference between socially anxious and shellshocked.
"You look cold," he finally deduces.
Spike doesn't think she'll snub the offer, though she has every right to. He steps away from the door, away from the light, and pulls off his coat.
"Here. Take it." He holds it out to drape on her shoulders, if she'll allow it. Otherwise, it might hang haphazardly for a few seconds until he takes the hint. They might not have been close, but they always had some sort of understanding of each other.
the odeon
It doesn't cross his mind immediately that her scent is familiar to him because it's one he never thought he'd be in the presence of again. He also hasn't paid her much mind, so there's that. He's talking to her, but Spike has a way of continuing without the participation of anyone around him when he so wishes, probably from years of hanging around people sharing absolutely nothing but mutual dislike.
But, then, he looks and . . .
He's at a surprising loss for words. Not much left in the world capable of shocking him and stranger things have happened, haven't they? Why not her? Why not here? Spike swallows, the beginning of recognition creeping up on him. Bridging the gaps between life and death is never without its struggles, no matter the circumstances. Hard to say exactly, if that's the case here. Tara was never the most spirited of the group, but he likes to think he knows the difference between socially anxious and shellshocked.
"You look cold," he finally deduces.
Spike doesn't think she'll snub the offer, though she has every right to. He steps away from the door, away from the light, and pulls off his coat.
"Here. Take it." He holds it out to drape on her shoulders, if she'll allow it. Otherwise, it might hang haphazardly for a few seconds until he takes the hint. They might not have been close, but they always had some sort of understanding of each other.