[b]Author Notes[/b]: Thanks to Miss Dark Kiss, who is probably biased. The fault can be shared by way too much Suzanne Vega music when I was young and impressionable, especially the song "Marlene On the Wall."
[b]Story Notes[/b]: Spoilers: Set in the sixth season, prior to "Dead Things." This is my first Buffy fic, so you've been warned. There is brief mention of past casual drug usage. Non-graphic descriptions of sex and violence, so if that sort of thing bothers you, don't read this.
[b]Disclaimer[/b]: These characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Joss has been quoted as approving of fanfic. It would be profitless to sue me.
He keeps his coloring inside the lines. Even Buffy, with her concepts of handkerchiefs as clothing, can keep them hidden. He likes to mark his territory, especially when she wears another's signet openly, but he knows any bruise or scar he left, that showed clearly, would be under attack from her make-up drawer. As if any scar he left would last until sunset anyway. By the next night, his canvas is clean again. But, then, so is hers.
He is meticulous in his art, as diligent in his painting as William ever was in his search for the perfect word. He strives to make her feel every bone, every muscle. He hopes to make the feeling last more than a fleeting moment. And he always signs his work. His thumbprint. Always in the hollow of her left hipbone. Repeated often enough, it is the last mark to fade into oblivion.
She knows. He feels her tense when he obsessively places his hand just so, as she waits for the pressure required to bruise her at all. Her hand sometimes snatches his briefly as if to stop him, but he can distract her. And she punishes him for it, for his presumption.
Last night she broke his thumb as he came.
It snapped as she shuddered around him. Small bone that it is, it's already healed. A brush waiting the inspiration.
***
Patrol is always uneventful, these days. One vamp here or there. The hordes seem to have disappeared and Buffy sometimes wonders if the massive burst of mystical energy that tore her out of the world drained the Hellmouth of its pull.
The alley of the Bronze is her last hope for action. Maybe if she exhausts herself enough, there will be no reason to wander back to the crypt.
Her eyes land repeatedly on the group hanging about the entrance. They don't display the obvious details of past decades, just spare tattoos on openly displayed flesh. She makes a pass by them, one hand brushing the shoulder of one of the girls. Warm flesh greets her fingers and she blends back into the crowd.
Once, when she and Faith were still on the fringes of kindred, they had shared an in-between dusting of True Confessions. She told of lipstick shoplifts and joy-riding topless when her friend, Heather, had been the first to get her license. Faith had shared a heroin trip and the idea of cutting to relieve the stress of uneventful patrols. Well, Faith had said, "letting the blood flow when you're slayless, horny and solo." Buffy had taken it in stride. She had known girls who cut, just like she had known bulimics in shallower, less self-righteous days. She had even tried it once, after Graduation had left Sunnydale vampless for weeks. Faith had been right that it was not particularly satisfying. A Slayer has to practically hit the bone for the blood to flow longer than a second and the scar is gone by the next night.
Scars fade, Faith had added, for some reason tats stay longer. Not all scars. Her hand brushes her hip. She recalls the sound of bone popping.
One of the tattooed guys has broken from the pack. She hasn't blended as well as she thought. "You like my work?" His eyes are scanning her, looking for other artwork on her clean skin.
"It's very...lines are nice."
"My studio's off 6th street."
She thinks of the paycheck cashed that morning. Groceries paid for.
In the cool light of the shop, Zack eyes the fading bruises and scrapes from earlier tonight. "Recent life-altering experience you're commemorating?"
"You could call it that." She shows him the oval bruise on her hip. "I want that saved for my scrap book."
He glances at her face and she imagines that he thinks she wants a reminder to keep her from going back. She waits.
As he takes his time choosing inks, she waits. Outside of the bright light focused on her hip, the room is dim and she can imagine that the only piece of her that is real is that revealed by the light. The needle draws her back and if Zack is surprised that the slender girl under his hands doesn't flinch or squeal or if he is disturbed by the curve of her lip he keeps it to himself.
***
As dust clears on a second night, he is perched on a pale granite stone. She is pressed up against the Adams crypt an instant later, her quips silenced by a gin-laced kiss. A month ago, two, it could have been any liquor, but she knows the difference now.
His thumb itches, missing it's resting place. She has dragged him into the privacy of the crypt, away from random eyes. He is already on his knees when he notices. He is so still she can feel the fuzz on her belly shift against his cheek, as his eyes trace the new mark. The abstract face of a rose, thin purple-red lines, under his gaze.
"It'll fade."
There is silence before the answer comes.
"Not tomorrow."
[b]Story Notes[/b]: Spoilers: Set in the sixth season, prior to "Dead Things." This is my first Buffy fic, so you've been warned. There is brief mention of past casual drug usage. Non-graphic descriptions of sex and violence, so if that sort of thing bothers you, don't read this.
[b]Disclaimer[/b]: These characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Joss has been quoted as approving of fanfic. It would be profitless to sue me.
He keeps his coloring inside the lines. Even Buffy, with her concepts of handkerchiefs as clothing, can keep them hidden. He likes to mark his territory, especially when she wears another's signet openly, but he knows any bruise or scar he left, that showed clearly, would be under attack from her make-up drawer. As if any scar he left would last until sunset anyway. By the next night, his canvas is clean again. But, then, so is hers.
He is meticulous in his art, as diligent in his painting as William ever was in his search for the perfect word. He strives to make her feel every bone, every muscle. He hopes to make the feeling last more than a fleeting moment. And he always signs his work. His thumbprint. Always in the hollow of her left hipbone. Repeated often enough, it is the last mark to fade into oblivion.
She knows. He feels her tense when he obsessively places his hand just so, as she waits for the pressure required to bruise her at all. Her hand sometimes snatches his briefly as if to stop him, but he can distract her. And she punishes him for it, for his presumption.
Last night she broke his thumb as he came.
It snapped as she shuddered around him. Small bone that it is, it's already healed. A brush waiting the inspiration.
***
Patrol is always uneventful, these days. One vamp here or there. The hordes seem to have disappeared and Buffy sometimes wonders if the massive burst of mystical energy that tore her out of the world drained the Hellmouth of its pull.
The alley of the Bronze is her last hope for action. Maybe if she exhausts herself enough, there will be no reason to wander back to the crypt.
Her eyes land repeatedly on the group hanging about the entrance. They don't display the obvious details of past decades, just spare tattoos on openly displayed flesh. She makes a pass by them, one hand brushing the shoulder of one of the girls. Warm flesh greets her fingers and she blends back into the crowd.
Once, when she and Faith were still on the fringes of kindred, they had shared an in-between dusting of True Confessions. She told of lipstick shoplifts and joy-riding topless when her friend, Heather, had been the first to get her license. Faith had shared a heroin trip and the idea of cutting to relieve the stress of uneventful patrols. Well, Faith had said, "letting the blood flow when you're slayless, horny and solo." Buffy had taken it in stride. She had known girls who cut, just like she had known bulimics in shallower, less self-righteous days. She had even tried it once, after Graduation had left Sunnydale vampless for weeks. Faith had been right that it was not particularly satisfying. A Slayer has to practically hit the bone for the blood to flow longer than a second and the scar is gone by the next night.
Scars fade, Faith had added, for some reason tats stay longer. Not all scars. Her hand brushes her hip. She recalls the sound of bone popping.
One of the tattooed guys has broken from the pack. She hasn't blended as well as she thought. "You like my work?" His eyes are scanning her, looking for other artwork on her clean skin.
"It's very...lines are nice."
"My studio's off 6th street."
She thinks of the paycheck cashed that morning. Groceries paid for.
In the cool light of the shop, Zack eyes the fading bruises and scrapes from earlier tonight. "Recent life-altering experience you're commemorating?"
"You could call it that." She shows him the oval bruise on her hip. "I want that saved for my scrap book."
He glances at her face and she imagines that he thinks she wants a reminder to keep her from going back. She waits.
As he takes his time choosing inks, she waits. Outside of the bright light focused on her hip, the room is dim and she can imagine that the only piece of her that is real is that revealed by the light. The needle draws her back and if Zack is surprised that the slender girl under his hands doesn't flinch or squeal or if he is disturbed by the curve of her lip he keeps it to himself.
***
As dust clears on a second night, he is perched on a pale granite stone. She is pressed up against the Adams crypt an instant later, her quips silenced by a gin-laced kiss. A month ago, two, it could have been any liquor, but she knows the difference now.
His thumb itches, missing it's resting place. She has dragged him into the privacy of the crypt, away from random eyes. He is already on his knees when he notices. He is so still she can feel the fuzz on her belly shift against his cheek, as his eyes trace the new mark. The abstract face of a rose, thin purple-red lines, under his gaze.
"It'll fade."
There is silence before the answer comes.
"Not tomorrow."