I'll be ready for the funeral;

[gottaknockhard]

Who: Spike Spiegel (gottaknockhard), Vicious (neverdream)
What: A quiet evening at home...
When: Around now.
Where: Room 705.
Rating: R is likely.

Comments

[neverdream]

Frustrated, sleepless, head constantly in pain - the castle might as well have taken patience from Vicious and not his body's ability to be impacted by Red Eye. He feels as strung out as he's been since arriving, but at least he's lucid.

More or less.

His train of thought as he makes his way to Spike's room isn't firm enough to have a clear procession of decision. He just does it. He busts the lock without even trying to handle and hopes for one furious moment that Spike is there and they can just do this - and of course he isn't, because that would be too easy, and even in his off-kilter haze of anger he knows it would never be fitting. He knows, like his own heartbeat, that Spike is aware of his presence, on some level.

Wake up, you arrogant bastard.For a long stretch he just stands in the room, drifting somewhere in his own head, aimless. His gaze focuses on the over-flowing ash tray, and experiences a sudden surge of fresh, petty, and entirely mundane irritation. He grabs the damn thing and empties it in in a waste basket in

[gottaknockhard]

Of course, Spike took his time coming back, and when he did it wasn't for anything in particular. Only the same vague excuse that he had when he left; he'd grown accustomed to wandering. The room was only a place where he could sleep without getting disturbed. -- Then they had to mess that up too. He could put together an entire list of complaints about paradise if he gave it enough thought, but he wasn't sure where you could turn one in. Surefire way to jinx yourself. Happened every other day on the journals, maybe more if he paid attention. Paranoia spread like a virus in the castle for a reason

[neverdream]

The perfect horror movie set-up; a broken door leading into a darkened room, back-lit by the unsettling rusted orange glow of sundown, the heat hitting blood on the floor and turning the whole place into a cloying, sick-smelling hothouse. Just a trail of it, obscured in long shadows, leading to the hunched figure waiting on the edge of the sofa, shoulders bent like a grim reaper's blade

[neverdream]

There's nobody there.

The lock is busted, the window's open, and Spike's ash tray has been emptied and placed right back where it belongs, give or take an inch.

Vicious left fifteen minutes ago, and there's not a damn trace of him.

Or anyone else.