The thought crosses his mind, more times than could be considered healthy in the span of their short conversation, to push the envelope and insist that they don't drag things out. In the end, he doesn't move from the bed until he's left with his empty chair and all his very practical reasons for conserving his bullets. Namely that his head is so fogged that he's not even sure if he could aim. (Which is only enough to barely tip the scales in favor of common sense.) Spike knows it's intentional; Vicious loves having something to hold over him, so it makes sense that he'd only show up when Spike is nursing a serious injury that could have been avoided if he'd only tried. Always about timing.

The next few minutes are consumed in profoundly frustrated silence. Then he frowns and pushes himself up, one hand over his abdomen that's still mostly being held together by stitches, and stands. Even that's more of an ordeal than he remembers it being this morning, and he sways before he gets his balance right. ... Maybe he overdid it a little.

As he walks across the room, he reluctantly starts to break down what this turn of events means. First of all, he'll have to find a new place to stay. Find a way to make money and friends in places that will give him an idea of who Vicious is playing towards. Get back to the world of the living when he'd been content to drift along until nothing bothered him anymore. -- It was nice while it lasted.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he pulls the door handle tight and flips the lock.