Vicious (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goodolfashionedvillain) wrote2030-02-01 04:42 pm
goodolfashionedvillain) wrote2030-02-01 04:42 pm† RYSLIG- IC INBOX †
INBOX
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code by transilience
transilience
goodolfashionedvillain) wrote2030-02-01 04:42 pm
transilience
[Action for Spike, same night]
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.]
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Because Spike is not psychic and is quite unaware that Vicious might not want him back at a certain time, it just so happens that Spike gets home right at the wrong moment.
No sooner has Vicious lit his cigarette than the door opens. That all too familiar voice calls out;]
Hey. You in here?
[and then, immediately;]
What's burning?
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Alas. He doesn't have time to consider any physical alternatives, so he just blurts out the first thing he thinks of.]
Toast. Went to shit.
[Taking a long and super casual drag on his cigarette.]
Where've you been?
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[He hangs up his keys, walking in quite casually, starting to take off his belt immediately.]
Found a cheap restaurant I haven't been to before. Tried their special.
It's called, "Vicious is a Bad Liar".
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Wow. Was it any good?
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Nah. Didn't taste as described on the menu.
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[Tilting his head back and to the side, leering over his shoulder.]
What did it taste like?
[Slooowly sliding the belt off his shoulder to loop it in his free hand.]
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Like bullshit, and whatever else you're burning in here.
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This isn't fair, Vicious thinks, lips pursing in a pout, doing his best to pretend that he's definitely not enjoying this view or the precarious positioning of the nymph's hands.]
Ah. Well. That sounds awful.
[He glances elsewhere, but with those featureless white eyes of his, it's likely hard to tell.]
...You're sure you didn't just order your toast, er. Well done?
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But that's okay. He's very purposely patting Vicious's cheek, too.]
Why's the window open?
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I'm... smoking? [The quirk of a brow adding that unspoken "Obviously."]
Why would I leave the window closed? We always open it when we smoke.
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[He reaches over to take Vicious's wrist, lifting it so he can take a drag off the same cigarette. Health be damned.
He then starts to lean away, toward the window, to blow out the smoke.]
Guess I'll just check the kitchen, then.
Make sure nothing's still burning.
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On the other, he hates how Fearless always manages to corner him like this. He's pretty sure if anything is left over, it's just a pot and few ashes... they should have all gone down the drain though!
He hopes.]
Alright. By all means.
[Scoffs and crosses his legs, turning his attention to the window again. He has to look unbothered. He's totally unbothered!]
So, where were you really?
[Yeah let's put the spotlight on Fearless! He seems just as suspicious!]
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[Sauntering over to the kitchen, Spike adds;]
Y'know the horses around here have hands?
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Horses don't have hands. Centaurs have hands. Satyrs, perhaps, if they're horses, but not horses.
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Kelpies. They can be horses.
And they can have hands.
Worst thing I've ever seen.
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Right. And... did you see one of these before or after you nodded off on a public bench?
[Is this another giant crab situation?]
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[Spike takes the time to inspect that pot, and the sink. There's something suspicious here...]
Turned into a teenage girl.
Can't figure out why they're the only ones who ever wanna fight me.
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You're really getting too old for that, you know.
[Passing a super casual glance back to see if he's looking. And ugh, he is.]
"Can't figure it out"? Teenage girls have all sorts of pent up rage. Surely you remember that much.
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Why'd'they all gotta take it out on me?
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[Trying so hard not to react to what he's found... let's just turn back towards the window again. Nothing to see here. So not bothered.]
And I mean, this time you did technically ask for it.
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[Don't mind him sauntering over with that little cauldron to put it on the smoking table in front of Vicious.]
You usually make toast in a pot?