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[thatmadbastard]

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[thatmadbastard]

"It seems you are in luck as I am neither at the moment." He takes a good sized drink. "Though only time will tell just how interesting this shift of yours will be."

He watches her pour herself something with a trained eye to notice such details. "Not a drinker yourself, or one more for rules than I thought?"

Part of him is surprised he's never noticed before, or hasn't asked. He's been a bit lax recently with noting such details.

[herotypical]

"Can't stand the taste. And I never met a rule I liked -- except for the ones made by me."

A healthy sip.

[thatmadbastard]

He thought as much, and he wears a pleased look that says so.

"How does your rogue do with that? Very well, I take, from as long as I gather you've been together."

[herotypical]

"A year," she supplied. "This February...uhm," What had they agreed upon? "Thirteenth."

Buffy tapped her cocktail sword against the rim of her glass. "We make it work. More booze for him, I guess."

She only drank when things got dire.

[thatmadbastard]

A chuckle.

"I hardly meant your aversion to drink. More along the lines of how you favour the rule setting."

He clicks open the tin left on the counter to pull out a cigarette for himself. The ashtray beside him holds several butts already.

"Though even pirates have a semblance of order, even if it does leave a bit to be desired by comparison to the world."

[herotypical]

A knowing, telling snort.

"Ah. Right. Hero-type meets villain-type meets picket-fence romance and there's not much room left for reality, right?" Buffy watched the cigarette. "Nah. Believe me. Jack's a saint in comparison to the kind of folks I usually tangle with."

And her tone suggested that she wasn't talking about the fun kind of tangling.

[thatmadbastard]

"Just what sorts of people are those? I must say I'm curious."

He leaves the cigarette perched between his fingers for now. There isn't any rush to light it.

[herotypical]

"Mean. Nocturnal. Funny faces. Like to prey on the innocent. Real bloodsuckers."

She toyed with the truth a moment longer. Sizing Guy up.

[thatmadbastard]

"Really?" He cocks his head to the side. "Sounds like a gaggle of German soldiers in Paris." He couldn't figure what she actually meant.

[herotypical]

"Okay, I'll admit. I've met a few German members of the fang gang in my time."

Buffy glanced back around the bar. So empty. "I'm talking about vampires."

1/2

[thatmadbastard]

He laughed, very nearly saying something about the rather repulsive lot of people who enjoy dressing strangely outside the eyes of the public.

2/2

[thatmadbastard]

Except it dawns on him that she very possibly could be, in fact, quite serious.

"Vampires?"

Well, fuck.

[herotypical]

"Vampires, Burgess. As in the walking undead. As in pointy teeth. As in -- yes, I've met Dracula."

Her head tilted. Just slightly. Revealing a cluster of scar tissue. More than one bite but the actual number was hard to place. Perhaps three. "And he left me with a souvenir." She tapped the marks with a confident, steady finger.

[thatmadbastard]

"Wizards, women in bloody space suits who work for the United Nations--which hasn't even been bloody created yet in my time, mind you. The intelligence is spotty and I've always had it from three sources in three different bloody--and can break enigma. ENIGMA! Along with turtles who practice ancient martial arts and now... creatures of the night. Bloody fucking vampires."

He drained his glass and looked at the marks intently, a small wrench of horror and fascination in his face.

"Painful?"

[herotypical]

"At first," she concedes. Though Dracula's bite hadn't been so agonizing as, say, Angel's. Probably the hypnotism. "But blood-loss is a tricky thing."

Gently, she righted her collar and cleared her throat. "They're not exactly public knowledge, back home. The vamps. Most people go about their lives never ever knowing the real danger lurking in their dark alleys."

[thatmadbastard]

The horror remained on his face, though it warped to a more disgusted frown. It isn't that he found what she said repulsive... it's what was done to her.

"...and nobody knows."

That secret, that weighty, weighty secret shocks him. He's a man who has been sticking his nose in all the wrong places since he was a child. He's been learning and treasuring information that no man should have. This... is a wild secret he can't possibly imagine.

[herotypical]

"The general population doesn't know," she corrected. Trying to remain flip about it all. "But those of us in the gig get it. Deal with it."

[thatmadbastard]

"A powerful and weighty secret for you and whoever else to carry."

He knows what that is like, and his look is understanding even as he sorts through the information.

"Which makes you what, exactly?"

[herotypical]

"Slayer -- comma -- the." Or formerly the. Now just a Slayer. But that was such a recent development and it gave the wrong impression of what the profession truly entailed. "Since I was fifteen."

[thatmadbastard]

"You kill them. These creatures that the vast population has no idea exists. How the hell did you come across that? At such a young age..."

[herotypical]

"Slay them," she corrected him with a long-suffering tone. As though it was a particular point of contention even within her own mind. "You can't kill what's already dead, Guy. But -- it's sort of a fate thing. One girl in every generation draws the winning -- hah -- number and she alone has the powers to fight vampires and demons and the forces of evil. My number came up. I didn't even know those things existed before I was called."

Such a young age indeed. Heavy responsibilities for a girl still trying to navigate high school crushes.

[thatmadbastard]

"Called, you say?"

This was fascinating and horrifying. It's one thing to feel as though you've a calling somewhere, and another to actually have one. He can't help asking question after question. He's gone into a mode of gathering, of comprehending, of filing away the information because it might be important. Because she might be important, in the end.

"The whole thing sounds utterly demonic. Cult like. With all the religious implications and... fuck. Does the government know?"

[herotypical]

"Prophesized, more like. Uhm -- it's been that way for centuries. Millenia. One Slayer dies, the next one's called. We don't tend to have the most impressive shelf lives..."

She shifted. Growing just a little wary. A little uncomfortable. She knew, after all, how the original Slayer had been created. The knitting of a human soul and a demon's essence. What did that make her, years and years and years down the line...?

"Hmm? Oh. Not your standard politicians or that kinda thing. Not unless the politicians themselves are already part of the demon world in which case -- yeah. But a few years back I tangled with a secret government agency. They didn't so much know as...were kinda just bungling around with things they had no way of understanding. Weren't even trying to understand."

[thatmadbastard]

Guy breathed and immediately set to lighting his cigarette. "That shouldn't be a relief, but it is."

He gestured toward her with the cigarette retaken between his stained fingers, making loops of smoke once he'd had his puffs.

"You seem to be doing quite well for yourself, regardless. I can only imagine what your skills must be."

[herotypical]

"At twenty-six," she confessed, "I'm pretty much the second longest living Slayer. I think. I mean -- we don't know about all of them and..."

Skills. She clammed up a bit. But, at least: "I guess you can take that as a comment on my survivalism or maybe a comment on the very sucky lot given to the Chosen One."