What shall we use to fill the empty spaces?

[backatthehotel]

WHO: Brits with ridiculous names (backatthehotel andallbloodyhail)
WHERE: Pink's flat
WHEN: Eh, Saturday night?
WARNINGS: Alcohol, probably talking about New Vesuvius
SUMMARY: Alcohol.
FORMAT: Quick?

[There's not a lot to say, really. Spike had texted him, some awkward sympathy about the mess that he'd just been through, and Pink had turned that into talking the bloke into bringing him some sorely needed liquor. Which, really, wouldn't hurt his dealing with all of that.

So here he is, laying on the couch, Bowie playing in the background, waiting on his guest.]

Comments

[allbloodyhail]

[Spike's rapping on the door, wild turkey clutched in hand. Technically, he had bought it for Jane. With her money, but, well...

Alcohol was replaceable. If nothing else Spike had learned that this week.] Oy, Pink, it's me. Open up.

[backatthehotel]

Coming.

[Oof. Careful. He opens the door and steps aside. It's a nice place, for being a complete bachelor pad. Huge music collection. Respectable instrument collection. A door off in the back with what looks like a recording light above it.]

C'mon. [sees the bottle] Aw, brilliant. Bar's over there. Glasses?

[While he mostly-one-handedly wrestles out his wallet. Ow, yeah, that's a nice little set of splints he's sporting.]

[allbloodyhail]

[Spike's eyes widen a little and he slowly moves past pink and to the bar, numbly depositing the bottle. And in a rare show of generosity even, waves a hand at the other man.] Your money's no good here, gimpy.

Besides, this was my flatmate's anyway. [Still, if Pink were anyone else he probably would've accepted the cash. JS]

[backatthehotel]

Chh. [Flashes Spike a halfhearted V with his good hand, then stuffs the wallet away again. He seems pleased, though.]

Won't fight you. Thank him for me.

[allbloodyhail]

Her, actually. [He's pouring them each a glass even if he would usually do this the "right way" i.e. from the bottle. Now that Zatanna's back though, everything seems just a little less urgent. And Jane is back, of course, and Jason too. It's like a bleeding reunion for people Spike doesn't hate.]

She got pretty banged up over there too, what I understand. [He hands over the drink to his new friend before taking his to the couch and settling in like he was invited. Oh wait-- And then he slips off his boots with his feet and takes a hearty sip.] Not that I understand any of it, honestly.

[backatthehotel]

Really.

[He takes that glass quite readily, sets down on the other end. Oh, alcohol. You are the best thing. Especially with the conversation turning how he knew (hoped? surely not) it would.]

Be glad. It was. Hh. [He finds himself at a loss for words just yet. More alcohol.]

[allbloodyhail]

[Spike would have rather been there, but he didn't think it diplomatic to say so. He stays silent instead, sipping slowly from the snifter.]

Still not too clear on what happened over there.

[backatthehotel]

[Pink takes another drink. He lets the alcohol sit in his mouth while he thinks. He's been thinking about this for a while, actually. What it was like. The familiarity. It's actually really uncomfortable.]

You know many natives?

[allbloodyhail]

A few. [Mostly bar owners who kicked him out, and bar patrons who started fights with him. But hey, he knows people. Fuq.] Why?

[backatthehotel]

[He nods, and raises up his hand.] Going somewhere.

And you know, back home -- [Well, not home-home, really, but. Good enough shorthand for England, right?] -- those poor young working class bastards. With the shit boots and the shaved heads. Skinheads.

[He says the word like it's foreign. Very nearly like it's the slur.]

[allbloodyhail]

Skinheads, yeah. [He doesn't say it with nearly conviction Pink does, but that's to be expected.] Haven't seen Old Blighty myself in a hundred years or thereabouts.

Can I smoke in here? [He's already fishing the pack out of his pocket, setting his drink down to find his lighter.]

[backatthehotel]

Yeah. 'course. If I can bum one. There's a tray somewhere. [There is a brief pause as he tries to parse that 'hundred years' bit. Almost asking. But he had a point he was trying to make, and he doesn't want to lose it. Later, maybe. If it seems like it matters.]

So, alright. You take all that anger. All that... 'everything's gone wrong and this is who's to blame for it, and if I were in charge, this is what I'd do...'

[He leans forward, becoming notably more animated as he takes on that 'character']

...and you put that, with the poor pricks whose lives we've fucked, by coming here. Combine 'em. And then you put those in charge. Of everything.

[allbloodyhail]

[He holds up the pack while he tries to follow this.

Then he's nodding... slowly.] Yeah, so it's a fucking mess. That's not new.

[backatthehotel]

[He takes a cigarette, and does some fancy shuffling to light it with one hand.]

Except the ones with all the hate are the ones running the show. Unquestioned. No one has a problem with it. All the bleeding hearts ran dry.

[allbloodyhail]

Isn't that how it's always been?

[backatthehotel]

Mn. [He shakes his head.] There's usually someone. Some fuss being put up. This was kids, howling for our blood. Everyone on the street, looking at us like we weren't even human. Just -- tools. Toys. Trash.

[allbloodyhail]

[It's starting to click, and he listens, carefully, expression dimming considerably. He takes a long pull of drink and a drag off his cigarette before considering responding.]

Wasn't how it was meant to be. Not here.

Not anywhere.

[backatthehotel]

No. [And it nags at him. A discomfort. An awareness building since he arrived in that other City.]

...and I've heard it from people, before. That I know here. That us. Or others. Deserve that. [The guilt in his voice says it's more than that. More than knowing people. But he still knows how to hold his tongue.] But seeing it. Being on that end...

[allbloodyhail]

I know, mate. [He can't make eye contact, but he does know. He's been there, more than once. Maybe not to this specific place, but he's been tortured, prosecuted. For things he didn't do and things he had. Neither was pleasant.]

I know.

[backatthehotel]

[And Pink wants to say no, you don't understand, and he wants to explain the men he's known, the beliefs he's held, and why this new perspective hurts so, so much. But he doesn't know this man well enough. There's no one, no one still in the City he could bare so much of himself to. And that makes him feel suddenly very lonely.

It's not a feeling he cares for. It's not a feeling he wants to dwell on. He grunts his frustration, and knocks back the rest of his glass.]

-- do you play?

[allbloodyhail]

Huh? [Spike looks up.] Yeah, I mean... play what?

[backatthehotel]

An instrument. Anything?

[allbloodyhail]

[He hadn't been expecting that, so he blinks a few times, heavily.]

Not in a long time. Why do you ask?

[backatthehotel]

I don't wanna do this gloomy, introspective bullshit. I'd rather do something useful. Or interesting. I've got a little studio back there. And eight fingers, anyway. [Because he should totally be straining what of his hand he does have use of.]

[allbloodyhail]

Can hold a note, I guess. Keep a beat, maybe. [A little thrill goes through him at being asked to jam with Pink. But it's pretty well dulled by the circumstance.]

[backatthehotel]

[It's not his usual skill level. But then, he's not at his usual skill level, either. He shrugs.] Good enough.

[He pushes himself up, plants the cigarette between his teeth and runs a hand through his hair. A nod toward his instrument collection. There's strings, some brass. A couple small drums... a couple of basses... a gong... listen, he plays a lot of shit, okay?]

You see anything you can work with?

[allbloodyhail]

[He goes a little wide-eyed, and almost surprises himself by nodding; gravitating towards the drums. He can handle drums. Totally.]

These'll do.

[backatthehotel]

Grand. [And he sees that shock, but he doesn't care. He wants to play, he wants to stop thinking about awful things. He grabs a guitar (a nice Fender covered with little bits of shattered mirror glued to the front) and the rest of that bottle of Wild Turkey, and heads through the hall at the back of the living room. Through that door with the light over it...]

C'mon.

[...and that sure is a spare bedroom that's been converted into a small recording studio. Yep.]

[allbloodyhail]

[He trails after, slowly, clutching the small drums to his chest. This is way too surreal for his tiny dinosaur brain to process.]

Yeah, alright... [But he has no idea what he's getting himself into, to be sure.]

[backatthehotel]

C'mon. Close the door behind you.

[Two stools. Some soft pillows on the floor. A terrifying amount of sound equipment -- almost all of it secondhand, and a lot of it showing signs of heavy modification. Sheets of paper tacked to one wall like butterflies. Lyrics. Music. Songs from The Wall, songs from Ziggy Stardust. Pink sets down the bottle on the floor, plugs in his guitar, and sits on one of those pillows.]

Drinking's fine on the floor. Not standing. [He starts tuning, then pauses.] Just don't 'spect me to sound like David Gilmour, alright?

[His tone is only halfway joking. It wouldn't be the first time.]

[allbloodyhail]

[Spike goes to the wall, fingertips brushing the edges of the papers. It was kind of profound. He finds himself nodding, if snickering just a bit, going to join Pink on the floor.]

Wouldn't dream of it.

[backatthehotel]

[If Spike asks, Pink will tell him about it. His fascination with the 'fiction' of his life, and his attempts to recreate it, and work through those events. It's one of those ways he stands apart from most imPorts, he knows.]

Thank you.

[He goes through clumsy scales -- left-handed -- and starts plucking out something bright and jaunty, more psychedelic-pop than anything. No complicated chords or fancy transitions.]