It was strange how one could feel tired of life all the time and still not fall asleep. As someone else who spent most of their time on a reverse sleep schedule, fitting in to the rural atmosphere of the island was a little rough. He was still wearing the outfit he had arrived in, though much wrinkled, and he probably screamed fresh off the boat. But though some people had been quick to help him out when he'd arrived, the latest panic understandably overruled that and he had been left to drift on his own.
Although the building was busy enough at most hours, like any other tenant house, Tooru wasn't expecting to see someone else in the main rec room at this hour of night. Though he paused in the doorway for a moment, he continued in to find a chair facing the pool table to slide into. Most nights he'd have a client by now, or be on his way to plastered in a bar, or have picked up an easy girl somewhere. Anything for a distraction. Right now this startlingly pale punkish gaijin would have to do.
Spike ignored his audience for a long moment, leaning over the table to break and then making a slow, lazy loop around to line up his next shot. Cue in hand, positioned expertly and pausing mid-stroke, Spike arched a brow at the boy and said, "Are you planning on joining me, or do you just like to watch?"
Not knowing how to play meant Tooru held up his hands facing outward and smiled in a rather deadened way. "Just watching." A week on the island was not long enough to even begin to hide his heavy Japanese accent.
"This isn't, customarily, a spectator's sport," he told him, a smirk deepening on his face, but he took the shot, sinking a ball in the corner pocket and straightening up to take a drag from his cigarette, smoke curling lazily from parted lips.
When Abby didn't have the girls, she tended to have all night lab sessions, just because there wasn't really anything stopping her and she got a lot done. That required a whole lot more coffee than usual, though, and so she tended to make a pot and carry the whole thing to the lab rather than leaving it in the kitchen so she had to go back and forth and back and forth.
She was putting an empty pot in the kitchen and starting the rebrew process when she smelled smoke and cigarette smoke to be specific. That wasn't supposed to happen and she frowned before walking over to the rec room to see who was smoking. If they wanted to kill their own lungs, that was their issue, but the compound was common space.
New Spike was apparently the one responsible for smoking, which surprised her not even a little bit. It was Spike, after all, with the pool and the bleached hair and the duster and the smoking went with that.
"Hey. You know you're not supposed to smoke in the compound, right?" she said neutrally.
Oh yeah. Absolutely Spike, complete with the smirk and the flirting. Abby raised an eyebrow at him in amused flirtation (which was totally possible, you just kind of had to work at it).
"Nope. Sometimes you end up with Commander Vimes," she chirped, leaning against the compound doorway so she could still smell the coffee brewing.
"Which you don't want to do, so you should probably think about not smoking inside the compound."
"It's a crime, having a bloody pool table in a room where a man can't have a smoke," Spike pointed out, but he crushed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot all the same, flicking the butt into a nearby wastebasket.
"Ought to drag it out across the way," he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the Hub, "Now, that would actually make sense."
It takes no more than a step into the room for Brooke's nose to wrinkle impressively. "Listen," she says, "maybe you're into smoking yourself to a premature gray - really, how else are you going to maintain those platinum locks without dye - but do you have to torture the rest of us?"
"Oh yes, because it's so hard to press your lips together and suck," Brooke returns, only really thinking about that afterwards. She jabs a finger at him. "Don't say a word."
"Wouldn't dream of it, pet," he said, his eyes widening with mock sincerity, "It certainly isn't any of my business where that dirty little mind of yours chooses to wander."
Mitchell didn't work on any kind of set schedule, nocturnal or otherwise. One of the pluses or minuses of working in a hospital. Nowadays he just sort of slept when he was tired and puttered around when he wasn't. And the last few days had entailed a lot of puttering and very little sleeping. Worry about Sookie had kept him up, and now it was mostly good cheer on the safe return of everyone, but on the inside he boiled when he thought about it in detail. Brought low by an island that by rights shouldn't exist.
He shoved the thought out of his head again and focused on what he would eat when he got to the kitchen, intent on being distracted by carbs. And then he smelled that smell. Coming off blood was always the worst, the most terrible sort of cold turkey recovery from addiction that Mitchell could imagine. But being without cigarettes in times of worry was nearly as bad.
His hopes for a friendly smoke were dashed when Mitchell saw Spike, but he figured it was worth a shot anyway. "Don't suppose you're into sharing?" he
Straightening up, cue braced on the ground and his weight leaned against it, Spike paused, staring him down for a moment and then letting out a sigh as he patted down his pockets, producing a small envelop of hand-rolled cigarettes.
He'd run out of the factory sealed variety weeks ago.
Would wonders never cease? He'd expected a smart reply along with a grudging offer, but a sigh was downright kind. Mitchell took the package with a grateful grin that edged toward a smirk as he said, dryly, "You're a saint."
He picked himself a cigarette and handed the envelope back, then licked his lips and asked, "Bum a light, too? Can't figure if I'm enough of an addict to keep this shit on me."
Rolling his eyes with more obvious annoyance, Spike fished his lighter out of his pocket, sparking it with a practiced flip and holding it close enough for Mitchell to catch the flame.
"I've been told we're slowly smoking our way to an early death. I wouldn't want to stand in your way toward such a glorious end."
Making a clean break, the balls bouncing along the felt-topped table, two pocketed before they all rolled to a stop, Spike spared the stranger a glance, grunting a curt, "Hello," and sizing up what he had to work with on the table.
He'd never seen the man before, and so far, his interest wasn't peaked. Friendly wasn't exactly his default setting.
Arching a brow, Spike looked to his left and he looked to his right. Finding the area around him empty, only one cue taken from the rack, he leveled the man with a flat look and said, "Would you look at that. I suppose I am."
Comments 55
Although the building was busy enough at most hours, like any other tenant house, Tooru wasn't expecting to see someone else in the main rec room at this hour of night. Though he paused in the doorway for a moment, he continued in to find a chair facing the pool table to slide into. Most nights he'd have a client by now, or be on his way to plastered in a bar, or have picked up an easy girl somewhere. Anything for a distraction. Right now this startlingly pale punkish gaijin would have to do.
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She was putting an empty pot in the kitchen and starting the rebrew process when she smelled smoke and cigarette smoke to be specific. That wasn't supposed to happen and she frowned before walking over to the rec room to see who was smoking. If they wanted to kill their own lungs, that was their issue, but the compound was common space.
New Spike was apparently the one responsible for smoking, which surprised her not even a little bit. It was Spike, after all, with the pool and the bleached hair and the duster and the smoking went with that.
"Hey. You know you're not supposed to smoke in the compound, right?" she said neutrally.
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"Do they always send pretty girls to do the reprimanding, or are there other consequences I should know about?"
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"Nope. Sometimes you end up with Commander Vimes," she chirped, leaning against the compound doorway so she could still smell the coffee brewing.
"Which you don't want to do, so you should probably think about not smoking inside the compound."
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"Ought to drag it out across the way," he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the Hub, "Now, that would actually make sense."
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"Isn't my first choice for torture methods, but it does have a certain creative flair, doesn't it?"
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He shoved the thought out of his head again and focused on what he would eat when he got to the kitchen, intent on being distracted by carbs. And then he smelled that smell. Coming off blood was always the worst, the most terrible sort of cold turkey recovery from addiction that Mitchell could imagine. But being without cigarettes in times of worry was nearly as bad.
His hopes for a friendly smoke were dashed when Mitchell saw Spike, but he figured it was worth a shot anyway. "Don't suppose you're into sharing?" he
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He'd run out of the factory sealed variety weeks ago.
"I'm feeling generous."
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He picked himself a cigarette and handed the envelope back, then licked his lips and asked, "Bum a light, too? Can't figure if I'm enough of an addict to keep this shit on me."
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"I've been told we're slowly smoking our way to an early death. I wouldn't want to stand in your way toward such a glorious end."
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He'd never seen the man before, and so far, his interest wasn't peaked. Friendly wasn't exactly his default setting.
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