Coming Home
Who: Spike
When: October 13th 9:00PM
Where: Spike's crypt
Invited: Giles
Exhausted, Spike pushed open the door to his crypt, entering cautiously, glancing about with wary expectation of a trashed dwelling robbed of all its valuables. He was distantly surprised to discover the place as he'd left it: intact, only dustier. Someone, the slayer maybe, had been keeping an eye on it while he'd been gone for the last month.
Trudging, Spike dragged his weary body across the threshold, shoving the door closed behind him. The blonde vampire looked as beaten and worn as his leather duster. His platinum hair was too long, brown roots showing, and free of the usual styling products that tamed his unruly curls into a semblance of order. His shirt was a dark gray - the original color long since surrendered to accumulated dust and grime, and his blue jeans were worn and torn. Only his boots and his jacket had held up.
Depression and ennui consumed him to such a degree as never before, not even in the days following Drusilla's desertion had he felt so down. He barely had the willpower necessary to make it to the bed before he fell over, landing face down in a boneless heap.
When: October 13th 9:00PM
Where: Spike's crypt
Invited: Giles
Exhausted, Spike pushed open the door to his crypt, entering cautiously, glancing about with wary expectation of a trashed dwelling robbed of all its valuables. He was distantly surprised to discover the place as he'd left it: intact, only dustier. Someone, the slayer maybe, had been keeping an eye on it while he'd been gone for the last month.
Trudging, Spike dragged his weary body across the threshold, shoving the door closed behind him. The blonde vampire looked as beaten and worn as his leather duster. His platinum hair was too long, brown roots showing, and free of the usual styling products that tamed his unruly curls into a semblance of order. His shirt was a dark gray - the original color long since surrendered to accumulated dust and grime, and his blue jeans were worn and torn. Only his boots and his jacket had held up.
Depression and ennui consumed him to such a degree as never before, not even in the days following Drusilla's desertion had he felt so down. He barely had the willpower necessary to make it to the bed before he fell over, landing face down in a boneless heap.