She sits on the sofa and watches television, flipping channels and sighing at the news. "I saved the world for this? How depressing."
Angelus rolls his eyes from where he's sprawled in indolent languor on a chair across the room. She's such a child sometimes. Is that what having a soul does? He's glad his is gone, then, because a lifetime rife with constant disappointment is no fun at all.
"Haven't you learned anything? Nothing ever changes, Buff. Trust me, I've seen it all." He can feel the life in her, pulsing like beacon. It makes him hungry; for blood, for sex, for things he can't have and shouldn't want.
Ah, but this is insanity. Yet here she is, and he hasn't killed her, and the most menacing thing she's done this morning is to try and use his stove to cook herself breakfast. Slayer she may be, chef she is most certainly not.
"I'm here with you because I'm tired. And crazy, probably." She looks over at him. "Not because I don't think there's anything left in the world worth saving."
"This conversation is only going to bore me. At least put on something entertaining. That show where people sing, or something."
She smiles, and it's brittle, like she's going to break if she does it for too long. "Angelus, don't tell me you watch American Idol?"
"Mmm. You know how sometimes they make vegetables sing on commercials? Same sort of thing."
She laughs, and it's a real laugh, too, and then she immediately clasps her hand over her mouth. "Oh, God. I shouldn't laugh at that."
"Well, probably not," he drawls. "You shouldn't be doing a lot of things. Like me. Do we have to constantly rehash this every evening?" He holds a hand out to her. "You know what happens if I'm bored, Buff."
She smirks up at him. "You watch American Idol?"
His lips twitch despite himself. "No, babe, I go out and eat someone."
She places her hand in his. He can feel the warmth of her skin beneath his cold fingers, and his thumb gently rubs over the pulse point on her wrist. "Or if you want, I could always order in." He lowers his mouth and licks her neck. All that blood is making him dizzy. "Would you sing for me?"
"Don't bet on it, psycho," she murmurs, and he can hear the smile in her voice.