If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]
Vicious slips through the front door, quiet as the ghost he is. Once on the other side, he's solid again, actually walking rather than floating towards the bedroom until he's greeted by the mass of roots and flowers sprawling across his previously cleaned living room floor. At first, he's unaware of Spike's presence in the apartment-- it has been a minute since they've been home at the same time, after all.]
What the hell--
[He stops abruptly, wide white eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He remembers what happened last year and what a nightmare that was, the way the flowers overtook everyone's bodies... is it happening again?! Spiraling, he sorts begins to sort through the possibilities and what he can do about them-- that is until he sees Spike on the couch. He jumps once he realizes he's not alone, placing a hand on his chest.]
Good lord. [Wheeze.] Hi. Christ, Fearless, you need a bell or something!
[In the moments between Vicious entering and then actually noticing Spike, the nymph gets to his feet, looks between the mess he's made and Vicious, and draws in another drag of that smoke.
His eyes may be wide, but he forces a casual sense of body language, stuffing his hands in his pocket and looking Vicious's way with the herbal cigarette still in his mouth.
Lips pressed to one side to hold it there, Spike retorts;]
You don't even open the door and I'm the one who needs a bell?
Please, you say that like you aren't naked most of the time.
[He places his hands on his hips, frowning for a moment. He wants to pretend that he's more frustrated than he is, annoyed that he was spooked so easily, but... it really is kind of nice to see him.
Something strange tugs in his chest, but he shrugs it off.]
[Spike looks back to the tree, pulling the cigarette from his mouth which then hangs ajar, then looks back to Vicious. Looks back to the tree, shrugs his shoulders.]
Ahhh, you know.
Just now. Found it like this.
[The lie comes easy, without him really even thinking about it. But still, he looks away when he says it, almost immediately looking toward the floor and pulling on that cigarette again.]
[Raising his brows. No, of course he doesn't believe him.]
I just wanted to make sure, because I was home for a bit last night and... that wasn't here. I'm just saying it's a little large for it to be something that just appeared in the last, oh... twelve hours.
[Crossing his arms under his chest now. Leaning against the bar that separates the kitchen and the living room.
He sees the blooms on Spike's arms match the ones on the tree, and he's eying them pretty hard-- though that might be hard to tell since he doesn't actually have irises anymore.]
Right. Well, I wonder where it could have come from.
[If he gets close enough, he might find this shadow is more solid than usual. But he does look good, even if his outfit is a little out of sorts; tie undone, vest opened, shirt mis-buttoned. Whatever he was busy with before he got home was clearly eventful.
Covering his mouth with his hand, he stares long and hard. Is he serious? He doesn't remember?
Taking a deep breath, that hand moves to pinch the bridge of his nose.]
Krākaskron. What happened just a few weeks after we got here? When those awful flowers started popping out of our skin?
...I mean, before that became your whole deal. Remember?
[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?
[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
transilience
From:
February 14th... And 14th.. and 14th--
[This was a stupid idea.
If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.
Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.
But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.
As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.
He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.
A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.
Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.
Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.
He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.
But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.
And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.
This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]
From:
no subject
Vicious slips through the front door, quiet as the ghost he is. Once on the other side, he's solid again, actually walking rather than floating towards the bedroom until he's greeted by the mass of roots and flowers sprawling across his previously cleaned living room floor. At first, he's unaware of Spike's presence in the apartment-- it has been a minute since they've been home at the same time, after all.]
What the hell--
[He stops abruptly, wide white eyes blinking rapidly in confusion. He remembers what happened last year and what a nightmare that was, the way the flowers overtook everyone's bodies... is it happening again?! Spiraling, he sorts begins to sort through the possibilities and what he can do about them-- that is until he sees Spike on the couch. He jumps once he realizes he's not alone, placing a hand on his chest.]
Good lord. [Wheeze.] Hi. Christ, Fearless, you need a bell or something!
From:
no subject
His eyes may be wide, but he forces a casual sense of body language, stuffing his hands in his pocket and looking Vicious's way with the herbal cigarette still in his mouth.
Lips pressed to one side to hold it there, Spike retorts;]
You don't even open the door and I'm the one who needs a bell?
I coulda been naked.
From:
no subject
[He places his hands on his hips, frowning for a moment. He wants to pretend that he's more frustrated than he is, annoyed that he was spooked so easily, but... it really is kind of nice to see him.
Something strange tugs in his chest, but he shrugs it off.]
...So, what's going on? When did you get home?
From:
no subject
Ahhh, you know.
Just now. Found it like this.
[The lie comes easy, without him really even thinking about it. But still, he looks away when he says it, almost immediately looking toward the floor and pulling on that cigarette again.]
Fucked up, right?
From:
no subject
...You just got here, and it was just like this.
[He's almost apt to believe him, but that shifty look of his is already giving him away.]
Did you... happen to come by after I left for work last night? Was it here, then?
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no subject
I said 'just now', didn't I?
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no subject
I just wanted to make sure, because I was home for a bit last night and... that wasn't here. I'm just saying it's a little large for it to be something that just appeared in the last, oh... twelve hours.
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Fucked up.
[He knows. He knows Vicious knows him too well for this to work.
He also knows Vicious knows that he won't go down without a fight.
Granted, there are also little buds trailing up his arms, just one or two on each. Very much related to this tree.]
From:
no subject
He sees the blooms on Spike's arms match the ones on the tree, and he's eying them pretty hard-- though that might be hard to tell since he doesn't actually have irises anymore.]
Right. Well, I wonder where it could have come from.
[Lifting a hand to tap at his chin.]
Maybe it's Kräkaskron 2.
From:
no subject
Always. Unfair.
That said, Kräkaskron isn't a name Spike committed to memory. Mostly because it sounds like a bad sneeze.
He blinks, brows furrowed, obviously thrown off his game, and asks;]
Gesundheit?
From:
no subject
Covering his mouth with his hand, he stares long and hard. Is he serious? He doesn't remember?
Taking a deep breath, that hand moves to pinch the bridge of his nose.]
Krākaskron. What happened just a few weeks after we got here? When those awful flowers started popping out of our skin?
...I mean, before that became your whole deal. Remember?
From:
no subject
[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.
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[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?]
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Yeah... Maybe I'll ask them when you opted back in to your subscription to gravity.
From:
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What...? Why would they know?
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Guess they wouldn't. Maybe you should answer for them.
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How... is that relevant to this conversation, exactly?
From:
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Not nearly as interesting as—
[He knocks on Vicious's shoulder like it's wood.]
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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--]
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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.
From:
no subject
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?
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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.
From:
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[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.
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no subject
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.]
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