The first thing Buffy Summers did was turn away from the board -- fondling the darts between two palms. Rolling their metal barrels between her fingers and listening to the soft whistle of the flights. She had done this trick dozens of times for Jack; easy peasy.
Deep breath. She reacquainted herself with the layout of the room, half-meditating as she relaxed her shoulders and picked one dart out of the three. Tapped it once against her chin and then -- all at once -- stillness became action. Imagining a more dangerous target than a bullseye, she snapped about to face the game proper and loosed the first dart.
It buried itself deep in the centre of the board. The second and third soon followed; the second was close but not quite in the bullseye. The third shared that goal with the first. Her serene and Slayer-earned expression cracked into a nervous smirk.
Guy watched with amusement at the start, but her skills were, without a doubt to the spy, inherently frightening. It's one thing to hold a weapon, it's another thing entirely to meet one. Part of him was wholly thankful that, in any universe, someone with such terrifying precision was on the side of their species, and somehow wasn't being manipulated for the purposes of corrupt governments. After all, if things were as exposed as that, there was no doubt in Guy's mind that this woman would be forced into a position of 'tactical trump card' for her country.
It was the way things operated, or at least how he knew them to.
He let out a long, yet silent breath he'd held.
"Impressive. I must admit I hadn't expected it at all."
He glanced over at the dart board. The guise of being unassuming, his own speciality, though he knew how they each employed it to be highly different.
"Do remind me never to fall into a place where your temper would see my end."
She smiled more -- tugging his tie away from her eyes and revealing the rest of her bright expression. "I don't bring the pain down on the soul-having. It's kind of a thing. Don't you worry one bit about my temper."
It was...sort of true. There have been souled individuals home and here who have raised her ire; however, she always felt tremendous guilt after hitting in anger. Buffy used her abilities for a greater good. Not petty squabbles.
"I won't pretend to be a man who can defend himself properly."
Sure, his short spell in the navy had given him enough training with guns, but he hasn't touched one since. The only way he would arm himself, even now, would be if he were shoved out on the battlefield to fight the third party. Not his favoured cup of tea, fighting.
"I'd best make friends with you, if I've any self preservation at all." He teased, however, no matter how grave his thoughts.
"...Please. Don't feel obligated to be nice to me just so you can live. I promise I also have a long-standing history of helping insufferable people. Call it a character flaw. Or equal opportunity heroism."
Her fingers knotted up in the borrowed tie. She was always a little...unsettled by tooting her own horn. It never had to be done, back home. The Slayer was the Slayer. Simple fact. People understood what that meant.
"I rather doubt anyone would have reason to go about killing a finely clothed homosexualist. Particularly without his ties to the information he'd be worth killing for."
Then, a bit of gallows humour. "Though I can't say the same of the Third Party. You must be extraordinarily valuable."
She dropped the article back into his hand -- letting it pool in his palm.
Did she, though? Did she know? Maybe she was learning; Jack helped with that. But she had grown so invested in her Slayerosity in the last few years back home.
"I also like long walks of the beach, sugar and milk in my tea, and ice-skating."
He'd always been particular about his. As he slung the tie over his neck and tugged on the ends of it, shifting it back and forth to slip beneath his collar, he remained impressed.
"Honestly? My favourite kind of tea is the kind I don't have to make myself."
With so much milk and sugar, who could be picky? And she didn't feel like blabbing about her medicinal, contraceptive tea that she took alongside her morning routine.
"Ease and comfort. I could see the draw if not for the sacrifice in taste." In, around, a thumb held here, and a loop around again, up and over, a thread through. Tug, tug. "Although I admit I'm a bit picky about tea."
"Are they? I was under the impression that a few of my countrymen were born inept at tasting those subtleties and brewing it properly." He had met men back at Cambridge who argued tea before. They had argued everything, back then.
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Deep breath. She reacquainted herself with the layout of the room, half-meditating as she relaxed her shoulders and picked one dart out of the three. Tapped it once against her chin and then -- all at once -- stillness became action. Imagining a more dangerous target than a bullseye, she snapped about to face the game proper and loosed the first dart.
It buried itself deep in the centre of the board. The second and third soon followed; the second was close but not quite in the bullseye. The third shared that goal with the first. Her serene and Slayer-earned expression cracked into a nervous smirk.
Without removing the blindfold: "Well?"
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It was the way things operated, or at least how he knew them to.
He let out a long, yet silent breath he'd held.
"Impressive. I must admit I hadn't expected it at all."
He glanced over at the dart board. The guise of being unassuming, his own speciality, though he knew how they each employed it to be highly different.
"Do remind me never to fall into a place where your temper would see my end."
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She smiled more -- tugging his tie away from her eyes and revealing the rest of her bright expression. "I don't bring the pain down on the soul-having. It's kind of a thing. Don't you worry one bit about my temper."
It was...sort of true. There have been souled individuals home and here who have raised her ire; however, she always felt tremendous guilt after hitting in anger. Buffy used her abilities for a greater good. Not petty squabbles.
She tried to, at least.
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Sure, his short spell in the navy had given him enough training with guns, but he hasn't touched one since. The only way he would arm himself, even now, would be if he were shoved out on the battlefield to fight the third party. Not his favoured cup of tea, fighting.
"I'd best make friends with you, if I've any self preservation at all." He teased, however, no matter how grave his thoughts.
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Her fingers knotted up in the borrowed tie. She was always a little...unsettled by tooting her own horn. It never had to be done, back home. The Slayer was the Slayer. Simple fact. People understood what that meant.
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Then, a bit of gallows humour. "Though I can't say the same of the Third Party. You must be extraordinarily valuable."
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Oh. There was a little venom behind those words; she didn't enjoy seeing herself as such.
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He held his hand out for the tie back.
"You know you're better than that, and frankly, even now, so do I."
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Did she, though? Did she know? Maybe she was learning; Jack helped with that. But she had grown so invested in her Slayerosity in the last few years back home.
"I also like long walks of the beach, sugar and milk in my tea, and ice-skating."
More than a Slayer; also Buffy Summers.
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He'd always been particular about his. As he slung the tie over his neck and tugged on the ends of it, shifting it back and forth to slip beneath his collar, he remained impressed.
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With so much milk and sugar, who could be picky? And she didn't feel like blabbing about her medicinal, contraceptive tea that she took alongside her morning routine.
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