[for greg]

[more_flexible]

That morning, at the clothes box, Jack had met Buffy. He'd been here more than a year and so had she, but what was amazing was that in the past seven months (almost to the day) he hadn't ever even seen her. Sure, he'd wondered, he'd thought about that name...dreamed about that name on the lips of a raving madman. That name along with ropes and blades and smothering darkness.

He'd just thought he was handling it better.

He'd collected enough shellfish for he and Greg and threw together a quick lunch after he'd left the basement. If he could keep busy, he could keep from thinking about it. From thinking about her. She barely came up to his chest and she was so pretty and young and if she'd been bound and there had been...no. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. He'd done what he had to do to stay alive, and he'd done all he could to keep people like Buffy safe. He tried not to think about Maladicta being hit, tried not to think about how he'd failed to just keep the man there with him. He just needed to stop thinking about it.

Except he couldn't. It was on his mind the whole way to the treehouse.

Comments

[misanthrope_md]

House was outside the treehouse when Jack arrived. He kept his bike not far from the TARDIS, against a tree and underneath a tarp. He hadn't driven it in weeks, and he was busily cleaning it off with a damp cloth, wishing he could give it a proper wax, really take care of it like it deserved to be.