goodolfashionedvillain | † RYSLIG- IC INBOX †

God. What kind of word is that?

[Annoyed, Spike heaves a sigh and blows out smoke through his nose. He notices; the little details, how much of a form Vicious seems to have.

The way the corner of his collar flips up in a way Vicious wouldn't usually let it.

Annoying.

Spike turns to shuffle away back toward the couch.]

Yeah, I remember.

Probably not that.

I think it's... Swedish? Maybe? Something Scandinavian.

[He knows that was rhetorical but he couldn't stop himself from answering.]

...so, why don't you ask it where it came from? Can't you talk to plants or something, now?

[He needs a drink. This might take a minute.

He turns to head into the kitchen, rummaging around for two beers in the fridge before taking one to Spike and plopping down next to him on the couch.

Wow, there's even weight to him now. How weird, right?]

[The weight is answered with a bounce of Spike's brows. He looks over at Vicious, looks him up and down, and takes the beer.]

Yeah... Maybe I'll ask them when you opted back in to your subscription to gravity.

[Blinks.]

What...? Why would they know?

[He stares at Vicious for a moment, and then sighs. Shakes his head.]

Guess they wouldn't. Maybe you should answer for them.

[Still blinking. He's... Confused.]

How... is that relevant to this conversation, exactly?

What conversation? You were just accusing me of putting a tree in the living room.

Not nearly as interesting as—

[He knocks on Vicious's shoulder like it's wood.]

[He frowns, shrugging his shoulder away, but settling right back into the same spot after a second.]

I wasn't accusing you, I was making an observation. I thought I'd give you a chance to fess up on your own.

[Reaching over to pinch his side--]

[Spike attempts to fend off the pinch with his elbow, then swats at Vicious as he leans to douse his half finished cigarette in the nearest ash tray.]

Alright already. You're not stupid. I get it.

[With a defeated sigh, he leans his elbows against his knees. He looks tired.]

Turns out I can't grow roses.

[He tilts his head, settling back into the couch and crossing his legs. Teasing him is all well and good, but poor Spike looks frustrated. For real.]

Really? Was that what you were trying to do?

[He chuckles, lifting a hand to inspect the blooms across Spike's arms. They're so soft, frail looking, enough to make him worried he could bruise them.]

They may not be roses, but they're lovely all the same.

What were you trying to grow them for? Trying to woo someone?

[An ugly snort.]

You could say that.

["You aren't stupid," he'd said. Now, he regrets it. Still;]

I don't even know what these things are.

Doesn't matter. Didn't turn out.

Why does it matter?

[He frowns, taking a swig of his beer before setting it on the side table. Folding his hands over his knee, he sighs and allows his head to fall back against the couch cushion.

He knows Spike to be a bit of a schmooze, he has been as long as they've been friends. Always trying something cheesy to get a cute girl's attention. He's even tried to land a date or two on Valentine's Day if there was already someone he was interested in, but it's not terribly often either of them actually celebrated it without a girl being involved. It doesn't occur to him at all any of this is out of the ordinary.]

Don't you think she'd like them anyway? "It's the thought that counts"? Plus, you grew them yourself. That's pretty meaningful, if you ask me.

[Spike only seems to hunch over himself even more. The vines trailing from his back like tails start to squeeze around his own legs in his mild humiliation. Somehow, though he's nearly completely a plant, there's a cat-like sense of indignation at his own embarrassment.]

I think the person it's meant for would like it entirely too much,

[He protests, scowling.]

And never let me live it down. So it's— fine.

[...At least he still thinks they're lovely.

Spike pushes up off the couch anyway, lumbering toward the kitchen.]

[It's his turn to snort, but he doesn't move from his place on the couch. His head simply lolls to the side so he can watch Spike sulk across the room. ~~And enjoy the view.~~]

Oh yeah? [Smirking.] Who's harassing you over flowers? They sound fun.

[He snickers before he sits up a little more fully, reaching for his beer again.]

But isn't that the point, though? That the person you want to give them to would like them?

Guess so, huh.

[He opens the cupboard, proceeds to scrounge through as though he's anything like casual.]

Well, you like them, don't you?

Well, yeah. They're very--

[A curious frown. Wait a moment.]

...Why-- wait.

Are they for me?

[By now, Spike has found something to shove in his mouth. Cheese curl-y, 50's daisies in one of those cardboard cans. It's a little muffled when he manages—]

Happy Valentine's.

Or— whatever.

[Ah, so romantic.]

You--

[He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his hands over his mouth. He's... surprised, to say the least. But-- Christ, this man really needs help on the delivery doesn't he. Yes, Vicious knows he wasn't raised or whatever it is he says, but he knows he's better at it than this-- Then again, he's never tried to make his own flowers, before. These blooms were born of him... They really are as meaningful as he'd said. The thought... actually counts.

Not that it stops him from laughing. It starts as a stifled snort, then a barely audible giggle, holding his hand tighter over his mouth as if it's going to help. He has to look away-- it's the only thing that will save him.]

Y-you're so thoughtful, Fearless. [S-snicker.]

[Though, now... he's. Nervous. He never knows when to expect Spike to be home-- the stray cat that he is --much less for Valentine's Day. Their relationship has been in a rocky spot since... well. The second time (in V's recent memory, anyway) that he killed him, even if they'd had a chance to talk it out... He hasn't been entirely sure where they stood.

This little display just... definitely makes him feel worse about where he'd just come from. Crap. ...Shit, fuck.]

Really-- I-- I wish I'd known. I... would've gotten you something, too.

[Fuck, fuck fuck--]

Edited 2023-02-23 09:19 (UTC)

Fuck off.

[A cheesy, puffed-corn daisy comes flying Vicious's way. He can't take it as anything but teasing.

This was supposed to be sweet. Smooth, even. Now it just feels— lame.
Like a kid showing his babysitter a cut-up paper heart. Or at least, what he imagines that must feel like.]

Turned out shit, anyway. Just— forget about it, alright?

[But then, as he exits the kitchen and stares at the damn thing, another cheesy puff raised to his mouth, he mumbles—]

Or— forget about it when I get it out of here.

W-- wait, aren't you--

[Oh. There's a sudden sinking feeling, that panicked tightness in his chest when he knows he's in trouble.]

I-- I said I really liked them, and I do.

[Pushing himself to his feet, he casts an imploring look toward the nymph.]

I'm not laughing at you, you know!

[Spike stands there, arms spread in a question, cheese puff still pinched between his blue fingers.]

Oh, you're not?

[And with a roll of his eyes, he adds—]

I would. Shit. Haven't fucked up like this in a while.

[He finally crunches on that cheese puff, regarding the tree with a distasteful turn of his nose.]

For what it's worth, you've never had to do something like this before.

[He sighs, stepping a little closer to him, but unsure if he... really wants to be touched. One should always be cautious when approaching a stray cat, especially if you haven't seen them in a while.]

I think you did... a beautiful job for something you've never done. It's alright if you're not good at something the first time you do it.

[A step closer.]

Thank you, Fearless. I-- I mean it.

[It still feels strange. "Fearless" does. The name of a man who should be dead— barely a name at all, but still the only actual name Vicious had ever really known of him. The last time he remembers Vicious saying Spike it was with such vitriol, sharp as the name itself. Now how the same man says Fearless— it's gentle, sweet, timid.

That man, that child, sweet and timid, within that vicious exterior. Isn't that who he'd even tried this for? Because of the miracle it is that person hasn't truly bled away?

Because... they had the chance, this time, to be different?

Fearless—Spike—Six— he takes a slow, sauntering, cowboy step between him and Vicious. Another. He studies the tree again, and as if Vicious's gratitude has changed his mind, he adds—]

...Well, it is a fine looking— whatever it is.

[Before popping another cheesy puff daisy in his mouth. Another swinging, slow step, fidgety. One of the two vine tails unwraps itself from around his legs, swinging and curling like a cat's, like it's calling Vicious closer.]

[Vicious rolls his eyes, smiling a bit more as he steps up next to Spike and slips an arm around his waist. That man is as fickle as a cat, too. Huffy, standoffish and yet desperate for physical closeness. Not that Vicious didn't want to oblige earlier than this, it's just that it... took a lot more work to stay tangible. Thanks to his new hypnotist, his mind has been able to rework his body into something more of a solid state for longer-- though he does realize that he never really got to tell Spike about it. But he'll worry about that later. He'd rather make sure his partner recognizes how grateful he is for the gift.]

It really is.

[He gives the green man a squeeze before leaning down to pluck a bloom from the bush, studying it closely as he admires it.]

You know... come to think of it. No one's ever brought me flowers, before.

[And as of twelve hours ago, no one had really ever given him a gift just because before either, but that's neither here nor there-- They'd never made a habit of exchanging gifts because they rarely had anywhere to put them. If they were getting something "for each other," they always bought themselves something that matched. Like their gaudy cowboy belt buckles. ]

It's a lovely gift, Fearless. Whatever they are, I love them.

[He really is like a stray cat— bristling just slightly when he's squeezed, but not rejecting it outright. It's not as though he doesn't like it, after all— he simply isn't used to it. His body isn't sure how to move. He is, for a moment, struck with the fright that is uncertainty. It drives his stomach in a strange loop, an dthe words come spilling out before he's really sure of what to say.]

I thought, uh...

[He holds his hand out as if to gesture to the tree, then— shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Luckily, where he might not know how to move, his body seems to respond anyway; more little blooms start to blossom up his arms and around his shoulders, protruding from the scars beneath his shirt.]

..I wasn't thinking.

I just kind of did it.

[And he'd have people believe that was how he'd made his every decision— but it's not quite that true. He always thinks&Mdash; not too hard, not too little. Just enough, in his own opinion. This, for some reason, feels different. Impulsive in a way that he isn't usually— not because he isn't impulsive, but because his impulses are practiced, based in anticipation.

He had no anticipation of what Vicious's response to be. Just the desire to do something different than he has before.]

Edited 2023-02-25 06:49 (UTC)

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