"Lay off the vodka," he advises, faintly disapproving and almost lazy. If Spike thinks that Vicious would stoop to something this artless, he's more than half out of his mind from his recovery cocktail.

He rises from the chair, slow enough to be apparent in his lack of drawn weapon or overt threat, and re-buttons the front of his jacket. No, apparently, he did not come to bullshit all day. A few minutes has been sufficient.

"I was just stopping in to give you something to live for."