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Spike (bloodislove) wrote in dunwichgame,

Grumbling about the smell of bad fish, Spike wasn't in the best of moods as he dressed and suited up in his typical all-black attire, the best of which being the black leather trench coat and tall, buckled boots. They might have gone out of fashion in most circles, but it was an easy way for him to be identified, and that usually solved half of his problems before they ever got to the point of direct attention. Besides, black was slimming.

He sighed as he crossed the foyer of Pickman's, headed for the door and intent on getting his first drink in before he clocked the time-card. At least it was still close enough to winter that the sky was good and truly dark as he stuck a cigarette into his mouth, waiting until he was opening the door to light it. More to avoid additional aggravation from others than out of respect, but it worked out the same, so who really cared?

Stepping out he inhaled deeply so the ember would take, bracing himself for the tang of saltwater and rubbish that seemed to fill the walking lobster monsters. He tended not to breathe outside of smoking these days, but it was part of his security check. Caution born of experience, especially with the curve balls his recent home garnered.

Instead the sharp, metallic sting of blood filled his nostrils. He was instantly both hungry and alert and on guard, though he only paused and closed the door, feigning re-lighting his smoke as he scanned the area visually and sniffed deeper.

The scent struck memory, and he snapped around, eyes almost immediately finding her.

"Buffy," he inhaled sharply enough his cigarette was almost caught up in it, and the resulting slap of hot, toxic air immediately made him choke, though he managed to keep the resulting coughs minimal. Instantly he spat it out onto the concrete walk and stamped it out, going to her quickly as he recognized the blood, weapon, and general state. By the time he knelt near her (staying carefully out of scythe-range), he was looking her up and down with the critical urgency of somebody who'd seen her damaged plenty of times. Hell, he'd made her bleed worse, more than once.

Wincing internally at that thought he focused the energy into a scowl of frustration, hands open as he tried to remember where the first aid was in Pickman, or if it would be easier or quicker to get her to MIST or the hospital. "Bloody hell. What've you been fighting now?"