goodolfashionedvillain | † RYSLIG- IC INBOX †

[Another squint and tilt of his head, as though Spike is some sort of confused dog.]

That sure is one take on it, sure. "New".

[Blinking those big white eyes, managing to look oh so innocent for a shadow creature.]

...Well, isn't it? You've never-- said anything. Or done anything like this, before.

[...Has he? Now he needs to review their entire friendship in like fifteen seconds--]

[A look to the side, as Spike examines his memory.]

I guess I've never given you flowers, no.

Not that I could've. Doesn't mean that much, does it?

[But those dark eyes, dark as they have ever been, stare right back into Vicious's white ones the same way they did when he told Vicious that he'd joined the Red Dragon for him, because of him— when he said it was to chase the feeling of a family, one he'd never known.

The same dark eyes that looked into his own when Vicious had called him up the stairs of the Van's headquarters out on that meteor to speak with Caliban, when they had truly signed their lives away to the Red Dragon forever. Melancholy, tired— but still there, still looking his way.]

[Well, he's right. There would have never truly been a chance for them to share that kind of thing back home. But here... they have all time in the world. Of course the fog had made a cruel choice in what she'd chosen for Vicious-- someone untouchable, borderline invisible, someone who could only exist in darkness --and made it nearly impossible for them to really explore the possibility of anything deeper. Not without extensive planning, concentration, or some other human's body involved... not a lot of room for spontaneity and intimacy, there.

But now with the help he's been given from his new friend he can stand there, solid, and hold his closest companion's hand-- er, wrist --and actually feel him and be felt in return.

Ugh, there's that twisting feeling again. Is that... guilt?

That look is piercing right through him, needling that guilty feeling. It's always been a task to really understand what Spike's expressions mean, there's always some underlying current of... something, even to his smiles. Vicious has just never truly been able to tell what. But now, in this context... It's making him much more nervous than usual.]

I mean. All in all, a flower is a flower... but. Y'know. The sentiment. I-- I don't know. I've never been on the receiving end of your-- your-- [Sorry, he's looking for the words, twisting his unoccupied hand around at the wrist.]

Romantic... intentions?? I suppose? I-- I just don't know what that looks like. So-- So, how was I supposed to know?

[Spike lets his hand drop, only to keep hold of Vicious's fingers. It's not a familiar feeling, or one he'd missed; when had they ever held each other's hands? Not since they were children. He can't claim to have missed it while Vicious was intangible. But here he is.

He shakes his head, with that soft look like he's absolving Vicious, like some sort of saint with a gun. The kind of smile-less sweetness usually reserved for women, that he'd given to Vicious so very rarely— never too much, that Vicious would be coddled in a such a cold world, but never so little that he would starve of their friendship.]

You weren't.

[Plain and simple. It isn't Vicious's fault.]

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