Who: Brian Moser, Spike; Private What: Spike and Brian and Quinn Malory on a Friday night. When: Your mom's birthday. Where: 6, 3 (Brian's room) Warnings: Woobieishness.
Frozen in mid-motion, Brian's gaze flicked over from the non-functioning fridge of his studio apartment. It occurred to him that he needed a weapon as of yesterday. Man, making a shiv was just really getting into the spirit of things, he thought with dark amusement.
"It was the 90's," shrugged Brian, shutting the door. Uncooled as it was, it was just more shelving. "What do you expect?"
He came over to where Spike was, snatched the remote from on top of the TV, and took a seat - not beside him, but on the adjacent chair. He was willing to deal with his warden if he wasn't going to press him any more about Dexter, but he still didn't trust the man. He didn't trust anyone, and he'd never forgotten that, not after his own brother had killed him.
Propping his socked feet on the table, he clicked the TV on to static. The DVD player whirred as it started.
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"It was the 90's," shrugged Brian, shutting the door. Uncooled as it was, it was just more shelving. "What do you expect?"
He came over to where Spike was, snatched the remote from on top of the TV, and took a seat - not beside him, but on the adjacent chair. He was willing to deal with his warden if he wasn't going to press him any more about Dexter, but he still didn't trust the man. He didn't trust anyone, and he'd never forgotten that, not after his own brother had killed him.
Propping his socked feet on the table, he clicked the TV on to static. The DVD player whirred as it started.
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About twenty silent minutes pass...
"..he's really supposed t'be British?"
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