[Ah, just like he'd said. A prompt correspondence.
After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Action for Spike, same night]
Date: 2023-08-29 11:59 pm (UTC)After rummaging about the apartment for a notepad and pen, he takes a few coded notes along the edge of the paper to memorize for later, rips the edge off and folds it into a thin square to slip in the fold of his tie.
The rest of the letter gets shredded by hand as a cooking pot floats from the cabinet to the stove, followed by a bottle of lighter fluid and a matchbook. Vicious dumps all the paper pieces into the pot, the bottle dumping out just enough fuel to start the fire once the match is lit. Thanks to Fog-God-given gift of telekinesis, he can take care of the more dangerous part from across the room, outside the range of the blaze's light. The contents of the pot burn for a few long seconds (surely long enough to turn the paper to ash...) before it floats up off the eye and over into the sink, the water cutting on with a hiss as smoke billows towards the ceiling. It's not that much, not even enough to set off any alarms, so he's going to consider this a job-- well, maybe not "well done", but at least done.
The shade moves to the window and slides it open to clear the air, deciding to take this opportunity to light himself a cigarette while the rest of the smoke clears out. He knows he's going to have to leave in a while to make it to this bar, but he's... got time. For now. A few hours. Plenty of time to put away anything suspicious before Spike comes home.]