[Not for the first time, not for the last, he wishes he had his gun. This would be simple if it was the ivory handle of his Colt warm in his hand now and not such a thin, delicate blade, sharper than anything else he's ever owned but so precise. He steps closer, glancing at Anya, but only enough to confirm she's alive and together enough to move if he can get to her before Beatrix kills her.
The damage itself doesn't much matter. The song remains the same, the details fading from one to the other, and the only part of him that's still queasy after all his time here is deeply hidden. His teeth flash, his lip curls - he talks loud enough to drown out the whimpering, both to be heard and for his own benefit.]
I'm not here to talk about heroes. I'm not here to talk about who's insane.
Get your hands off her, and go find some other bones to break. This one's mine.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2013-10-28 12:05 am (UTC)The damage itself doesn't much matter. The song remains the same, the details fading from one to the other, and the only part of him that's still queasy after all his time here is deeply hidden. His teeth flash, his lip curls - he talks loud enough to drown out the whimpering, both to be heard and for his own benefit.]
I'm not here to talk about heroes. I'm not here to talk about who's insane.
Get your hands off her, and go find some other bones to break. This one's mine.