brought something back to me, it's in my blood

[redeye]

Who: Spike and Vicious.
What: A friendly chat.
Where: The Valhalla Inn.
When: After Spike gets back from getting patched up after the riots.
Warnings: TBA.

There is some kind of emotion, surely, that exists in the vast expanse of unsurprise at Spike still being at the Valhalla, extending his stay despite lack of funds through a mixture of inexplicable charm and pity. It's not contempt, it's not even irritation - old, familiar resignation, maybe; Vicious is not surprised the door is unlocked, but he did expect to have to step over discarded clothes and old cup noodle containers on the floor. The lack of it shows either the depths of repressed anxiety, or simply the evidence of the extent of his injuries.

(Or nothing.)

A bottle of shit vodka and the tell-tale wrappers and plastic tubes of painkillers and antibiotics all on the bedside table, decorating the half-eaten, complementary breakfast - potatoes and eggs almost cover up the smell of stale blood, but not quite. Vicious moves with neither deliberate stealth nor threat, existing in a space near-impossible for even the most hair-trigger of unconscious minds to detect. He checks where Spike's got his gun, where his hands are, considers how many rounds he could have.

Then he sits down in the chair facing the worn hotel bed and its occupant, and waits.