"So's that," River says to the zhirel's back. Softly; too softly to hear, perhaps.
Perhaps not. Slayer senses.
(Pick a word. It doesn't always mean what you think.)
Her head turns slightly; it's a moment more before her eyes follow, and meet Spike's. She's poised, wary: not like she was, not trembling on the edge of violence, but uncertain and waiting and watchful.
Improvised stakes protrude from a pocket of her long brown duster, and her pale fingers curl loosely around the smooth wood of the quarrel.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2007-09-07 05:01 am (UTC)Perhaps not. Slayer senses.
(Pick a word. It doesn't always mean what you think.)
Her head turns slightly; it's a moment more before her eyes follow, and meet Spike's. She's poised, wary: not like she was, not trembling on the edge of violence, but uncertain and waiting and watchful.
Improvised stakes protrude from a pocket of her long brown duster, and her pale fingers curl loosely around the smooth wood of the quarrel.