capeandcowllogs | lucky me, lucky me, now let's go.

WHO: SPIKE and THE SHADE
WHERE: some fancyass bar
WHEN: Friday night, December 14
WARNINGS: hipsters bein bipsters.
SUMMARY: Spike stumbles into the wrong bar. Oops.
FORMAT: prose I guess W E L P

Spike hadn't done much since arriving in the City save drinking and fucking up, two things he was actually very good at. It made perfect sense that just when life was going his way, an alternate dimension would sweep him off his feet. Surprising or not, it didn't help the vampire cope. While eventually adaptable, he wasn't a fan of this place, and he didn't intend to accept being here until he had no other option.

And picking the locals brains always ended him in the same place: drunk. He would barhop until even he might experience alcohol poisoning and then somehow make his way home. He knew he couldn't even steer his stolen scooter, and had ditched it several clubs ago. Spike was useless here; not even a proper vampire. If he even counted for one of those in the first place. He didn't really care about the semantics.

Draining the last of the last dregs in his bottle of Johnny Walker, cleverly disguised in a brown paper bag, he threw it to the curb just in front of the place. Though it was muffled slightly by the bag, the bouncer standing outside in the cold gave him a look. He shrugged and lit a cigarette, making his way for the door. They had booze in there dammit and it would be his.

Against their better judgment, they let Spike into the club, mostly to save themselves a physical altercation. He almost mourned the fight that could've been. Smoking his way to the bar, he threw himself into a stool, let out a world-weary sigh and then promptly put out his cigarette in the peanut dish. Were those gourmet peanuts? In a tiny ceramic ramakin? Where the bloody hell was he?

"Whiskey, double, on the." He parsed out his words, leaning back a bit against the barstool. (No, not 'slumping.') If there hadn't been a back to it he would've gone rolling across the floor. This was a terrible place.

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"Mere curiosity, that is all," he murmured, lifting a shoulder. "I find that most people out out of their own time are much more..." he trailed off to punctuate his words with a flick of his wrist. "Behind. You don't give that impression."

He blinks a few times, trying to reorient himself. "Well, ta, huh. Try to stay up on what the kids are doing, don't I?" Or more like he's barraged with it wherever he goes. "It's only responsible."

"Is it?" his eyebrows quirked, perhaps in thought, or perhaps in confusion. "Most take time to adjust, you know. To the new century, and who could blame them. Why, in my time, we could only dream of flying, let alone actually doing it, and yet here we are now. I'm merely a unique case to my time."

"I guess you could call me unique too. Or maybe just adaptable." He lifts an eyebrow, studying the other man. "You can fly?"

"Fly? Oh, I suppose I could, easily enough," he lifted a shoulder as if it were no big deal. Flying really wasn't. He'd floated, of course, and could merely leave the shadows underneath his feet as footing, but he'd never honestly tried to fly. There was no point, actually.

"I've honestly never really attempted to all-out fly."

Spike frowned. If he thought he might be able to fly, he definitely would try it just for kicks. What was wrong with this guy?

"What good are you, then?" It was a very serious question.

"To anyone else?" he asked. "None whatsoever, honestly. If I were trying to be useful, I would be out there in spandex or leather, yes? As it is, I would much prefer to be in the warmth of this comfortable little establishment, enjoying my drink."

As if to prove the point, he sipped at the absinthe, eyes sliding closed in pure enjoyment of the liquor.

"Fair enough." Though Spike gave him a weird look. No one should enjoy things in such an overt fashion. ...What was he his grandmother? Spike let go of the errant thought and waved a hand. "Vigilantism is a bit small-scale anyway. I could give two sticks about some mugger in the alley I passed on the way down here." Spike knocks back the rest of his whiskey and frowns. Why was he lying? He had saved that girl, as drunk as he'd been. Almost got himself killed in the process but his life wasn't worth much anyway.

"Of course, but what's the fun in simply leaving it?" he smiled only slightly. The Shade, of course, would have likely helped the girl himself, but who could say. He hardly didn't like to see ladies be mugged, or really anyone, but that was why he'd mostly stuck with heists.

No need to bother the average joe when he could have pretties and treasures for himself. "Although it depends, after all. What if some dastardly villain were to, oh say, take an entire museum?"

"That's just dramatic enough, huh?" He hails for a beer. "I might bite."

A beat. "Why, planning a heist sometime soon?"

"If I were, you would hardly know. I may advertise my deeds when I want a fight, but I'm hardly going to tell you if I actually want something," he waved a hand, dismissive of the subject. He wasn't about to tell anyone anything.

It wasn't that he thought he could be stopped, but he hardly wanted to deal with the fight that would occur, and you never knew in a realm like this.

lucky me, lucky me, now let's go.

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