garnigal | Night After Drabbles

As always, cross-posted to open_on_sunday

Morning After

She stretches luxuriously, eyes still closed. The usual twinges put a moue of discomfort on her lips, but the unfamiliar ache softens it to a shy smile. Her eyes flutter open; she hopes it’s flattering, imagining him watching her breath.

Sunlight blinds her and confusion creases her forehead. Prickles of unease make her shiver and she draws the sheet up protectively.

She dresses quickly, uncomfortable with her nudity despite the empty room. She waits for hours, but finally gives up and returns home still wary and anxious.

By evening, shame colours her memory of the morning after the night before.

****

Running water washes the blood off her hands. Her stained and sticky clothing is in a corner. She wants to shower, but can’t bring herself to turn the taps until her hands are clean.

The red of the blood has been replaced with the pink of skin under too-hot water. She stands there despite the pain. Finally when the water runs cold she steps out, rubbing the rough towel against her skin.

In the mirror her eyes are dull and lifeless and her usual mobile mouth is utterly still.

Fear is all she feels the morning after the night before.

****

She’s naked and she’s talking. He should listen, but all he can process is that she’s naked. High, firm breasts, slim figure and skin that looks so soft. He wants to touch it, see if she’s as soft as she looks, but he’s frozen.

He finally responds. He doesn’t know how he managed it; he must have gained more than courage at Buffy’s side. There’s some serious fortitude involved with talking and listening and looking all together.

Oh god. She is as soft as she looks.

It’s not really a surprise that he’s confused the morning after the night before.

****

She doesn’t feel anything. Well, there is rage; is that a feeling? Is vengeance a feeling? She thinks rage is a feeling. Vengeance is an action, and she’s concentrating on actions now.

She can’t see herself, but she wouldn’t care. The eyes and veins wouldn’t bother her. She’s too busy excelling at revenge the way she excels at everything she attempts.

The flayed body doesn’t stop her. The damage she does to her friends and the shop doesn’t stop her. The pained voice that won’t stop talking... he stops her.

The grief swamps her the morning after the night before.