paradisalogs | just take a look at us

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just take a look at us

Who: Spike Spiegel and Anne Boleyn
What: Loss and drunks and drunken losses
When: May Day, after the celebration
Where: By room 206
Rating: PG at least

Sometimes things hit Spike harder and more suddenly than he can account for. The party he'd mistakenly been a part of was nearly out of his mind as he walked away from it, distracted by a disturbing thought that's just beginning to take hold.

He's drunk. This past month, he'd come close a couple of times while sorting out what the hell was going on with him, but this time there's no denying. The fact that he nearly stumbles as he walks down the halls of the castle reassures him of this point. Thankfully, as a self-aware drunk, he should know how to keep himself from making any more mistakes along the way. Also thankfully, he only has to make it to the second floor.

Just down the hall. All he needs to do is to to his room to sleep, and yet the door he's standing in front of currently is a little far off from his destination.

That quickly, he decides he no longer has the will to keep going, and he peels the mask from his face to hang loosely around his neck. It of course occurred to him that she might not even be back yet (or it occurs to him now), but if she doesn't answer to the pounding on her door (louder than he means), he'll wait. With any luck, she'll slap some sense to him and he can get some proper sleep.

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No matter what occurred at the party, Anne had not stayed out past midnight, too afraid to let other people see her when the second rolled around. She had kept herself from becoming too drunk in public, but she had trouble sleeping after taking the time to change into her night shift and robe. All she could think of was her fate, and her brother, and how much of a cursed day May second always would be for her now. So would be her attitude when the date of her trial came, and she will struggle painfully with the nineteenth...but first she just had to get through the night and the following day.

Which is something she would have preferred to make a solitary practice, even if her thoughts are no good. She had already put on such a good face for people, and is weary. When she hears the loud knock on her door, she's too distracted and frustrated to even wonder who it could be, when really putting any thought into it at all would have made it obvious. Who else has bothered her at odd hours, and very rudely?

She would ignore it, but there is always the risk that an emergency could be taking place, so after tying her silk robe securely about her and pushing her long hair back, Anne forces herself out of her bed to answer the door. She brings a knife with her, ever suspicious, but she isn't so paranoid as to honestly think she'll use it.

Until she sees who it is when the door is open. She had already told him never to do this again, yet here he is. Using the blade hidden up her sleeve has never been more tempting.

Edited 2014-05-05 03:09 (UTC)

For someone who knows as much as he does, he could have been more respectful and woken anyone else on this floor before choosing to bother her. And it was a choice, even if he made it somewhat unconsciously based on how far he could make it down the hallway. There are probably reasons beyond that. Anne already formed her opinions about him, and there's not much he can do to lower it.

Spike feels the door opening before he sees it, for as heavy as he's leaning on it by the time it takes her to walk over. When he does open his eyes, only one sees her in perfect detail while the other blurs her face entirely, and the combination does nothing to keep him from getting dizzy just standing there.

Unfortunately, without his brace to lean against, he keeps slumping forward. He attempts to catch himself with gravity threatening to take over -- a second later and the castle goes black before he ever figures out how successful he managed to be.

It happens so suddenly that she nearly screams, taking only a moment to realize he's actually falling and not just jumping at her like a lecher. It's hardly her fault that she had thought that, considering their history and his spontaneous stupidity when drunk. Either way she's quick to dart just out of reach, dropping the knife before she can accidentally stab him.

It's a good thing Anne moves in time, or she would have been stuck underneath such dead weight. One hand to her chest, she stares down at his collapsed form with wide eyes while she tries to regain her composure and collect her thoughts. He is clearly blitzed out of his mind, or he has some kind of mortal injury and just died at her door. Her open door, of all things, which gets her attention. Leaning down and quickly assessing that she sees no blood stains, she prepares herself for the very uncomfortable task of dragging him to his room. It isn't that far, even with her leg aching from the day's events, but just as she's moving to step over him and look out the door, she hears footsteps in the stairwell. With a panicked gasp, she grabs onto his shirt and drags him the rest of the way inside before shutting her door. Having anyone witness such a late night visit would only stain her reputation more than history already has.

Which leaves her with this fool on her floor, and she looks down at him with a mixture of disgust and concern. Had he come here thinking to take advantage of her, knowing she would be upset? Did he come here to be consoled himself for something? Either answer would be selfish on his part, and it angers her, but she resists the urge to kick his ribs in and instead crouches to pick up the nearby knife, then roughly pushes him onto his back. Holding the blade a small just over his mouth, she's relieved to see it fog up and that he isn't actually dead. No matter her quarrels with him, she doesn't honestly wish for Spike to be dead.

But that doesn't mean she wants him on her floor, so she tries to awaken him by snapping in his face.

"Master Spiegel. Master Spiegel, wake up immediately. Can you hear me? Spike."

Edited 2014-05-06 02:59 (UTC)

He groans in response to the way she handles him, so it might seem like he's not too far gone, but the most movement he makes on his own is his head rolling to one side. Months without feeling the effects of alcohol caught up with him in a big way, and breaking the code has its consequences.

Fortunately, in his state he can't think of how selfish and improper he's being by selecting her floor to collapse on. For all his issues, his face isn't showing any physical signs that he's experiencing bad dreams while passed out. Getting sick, on the other hand, is something she should watch for if he finally comes to. There's only one thing worse than being faced with a dead body to clean up after.

Anne is honestly at a loss, spending the first several minutes just staring down at him and nearly chewing on a thumbnail. She had her share of wine, too, but not so much that she can't handle this situation. He's clearly not able to walk himself back to his room, and it would take too long for her to drag him down the hall, the risk of being seen rather high as more people return from the party.

Finally, she hooks her arms underneath his, and tugs him up a bit so that she can drag him further into her chambers without smacking his head. In no way will she give her bed to him, but she can at least attempt to get him somewhat off the floor. No, that doesn't mean he gets the throne, even if it's the closest chair, if only for her pride's sake. Instead she props him up in a chair beside the empty hearth, huffing at the effort of trying to prop him up. She looks no less disgruntled at removing his shoes and finding him a blanket, giving him another long glare before she finally stalks out of the solar to leave him alone.

Midnight rolls by shortly after, and she thinks she hears him stir. Though she's been in her bedchamber, sleep hasn't been any more successful since her surprise visitor, and she quickly starts from her own chair at the sound of him getting up, or so she thinks. When she steps back into the solar, she's horrified to find him wasting all of the nice food he'd eaten earlier at her party. On her floor. Alas, there's no maid to call upon, and she doesn't even like to track down the ghosts at this hour.

Anne rushes over to grab him by his collar, using all her strength to keep him from falling into his own mess and shrieking at him to sit up. She doubts he even registers her or what's going on, and he seems to pass out shortly after, slumping against the feet of the chair and leaving her to clean-up duty. There's no way she'll leave that there all night. So the Queen spends the next twenty minutes wiping up the mess and scrubbing the floor clean as best she can. Even when serving Queen Katherine, she didn't have to be reduced to this disgrace.

1 AM ticks by, and Anne is sitting in her throne drinking another glass of wine to temper her nerves while she stares at his prone form, left propped against the chair across the room. She imagines ways to be rid of him, like throwing him out the window. She imagines using the knife on him, and the thoughts get darker and more brutal the more she drinks.

At 2 AM, Anne is back at his side when he seems to stir, settling a damp cloth over his forehead and holding it there for a time. When he nearly heaves, she panics and slaps him hard across the face, yelling, "Do not dare!" as if that will stop anything. But luckily, it's a false alarm, and though his eyes open, they quickly close again and it's like he's asleep.

4 AM, and she has given up any chance at concentrating on her book, nor can she watch him and think gruesome thoughts any longer. It's shortly after this that she finally lays back across her bed in the next chamber, finding a sleep that is far from restful and full of tossing and turning.

When she awakens at 6 in the morning to an unfamiliar sound, it takes several moments for her to remember that she has company. Supposedly. Again there's a panic, possibly at him having woken up and seen her asleep, but when she shoves herself out of bed, she sees that he's manages to lay back down on the floor beside the chair. He sleeps like a babe, and that only makes her red-rimmed and tired gaze harden as she scowls down at him.

It gives her time to dress herself, or rather call upon the ghosts to assist her, leaving him to lay about like the drunkard he is until she feels ready to awaken him. Which she eventually does, with a basin of ice water dumped all over him.

Cold. Spike wakes instantly, coughing and sputtering on the floor long before he realizes that he's not, in fact, drowning. This realization slows his initial panic, even if he has no immediate answer as to why he's suddenly soaking wet. Or why he's on the ground, although the headache soon to follow will give him a hint. The soreness that he can already feel from that little movement adds another piece to what should be a fairly obvious puzzle.

Confused and drained despite his sound sleep, he stares hard at the ceiling, not placing any of it until he settles on the woman looming over him. He squints at her like she's standing directly in the sun before putting a name to the body.

"Good morning." The greeting falls out of his mouth without much thought, and he takes note of how hoarse his voice sounds. Memory of how he ended up here is lost on him, and at the moment he can't care enough to think it through. Part of him even wants to close his eyes again; as it is, he brings a hand up to put pressure on them and he only attempts to stay with her in case she has another bucket.

She may now have a puddle on her floor, but who's to say that spot didn't need some extra rinsing, anyway? It was certainly worth it to finally get him up, and what she hopes is a conscious state. When he moves his hand over his face, Anne lowers the basin to set beside him on the chair, resting one hand on her waist and waving the other at him like all she needs is a magic spell to fix this mess.

Her tone is sharp, but she is careful not to yell too loudly so she doesn't risk alerting any of her neighbors.

"What were you thinking, coming here in such a state? I gave you no misleading signal at the party, so do not lie. You were so deep in the cups I thought you might not even survive the night. You act as if I did not have enough to worry about!"

Edited 2014-05-08 02:58 (UTC)

Spike's hand stays over his eyes, long enough that he may appear to have fallen asleep again if it weren't for the way his jaw tightens when she speaks. Nauseous. Head splitting. As kind as she's been to resist taking him to the clinic, he doesn't think her hospitality will continue to carry him if he suddenly asks for the bucket. He can't remember the last time he's gotten more wasted, but he can't remember much of this time either.

It's more troubling when he accounts for what he does remember. Flashes of revelation that inspired... this. Brilliant idea.

Water drips from his nose, and he can barely suppress a shudder as the air settles over him. Holding in a breath, he rolls up to a near sitting position, finally dropping the hand. When it brushes past his cheek, he gets distracted from her valid question. "My face is sore."

Her scoff isn't the least bit subtle. "And I will slap you again if you think to mess my floors up further. I do not have maids running about to take care of such inconveniences. It is your inconsideration that caused me to act beneath mine own station, simply to keep you in a live state."

She walks past him and back into her bedroom, though she's heading for the only modern convenience in her chambers; the kitchenette. It's only a few long dragging moments later that Anne returns with a steaming cup of...something. It's really just one of the few hangover cures she knows mixed in with hot water to make it drinkable.

"Drink this. It may ease your other sores."

His eyes close and his face contorts while he tries to think back to the past few hours and what he might have done. What she might have done. There's not much doubt in his mind that he deserved to be slapped, especially if he already made a mess. Hopefully not on her.

The nausea comes back in waves when he starts to remember more details of the past month. When he opens his eyes again to see her offering him a cup, his expression turns and he stares at it, baffled by the gesture. He takes it from her though, sniffing it before he remembers his manners. (Which are likely voided out at this point.)

"Thanks." He makes the mistake of sniffing it before drinking it down and tries not to gag. Someone smarter may have checked to see if it's poison, but he swallows the liquid in a long gulp before he can talk himself out of it. This leads to him covering his mouth and holding it there until he's positive it won't come back up again.

She thinks it's a better chance of being kept down in a tonic like this, rather than spooned in like gruel. Raw eel and bitter almonds isn't the most appetizing of mixes, but there are certainly worse medical remedies out there, and it's a lucky thing she didn't use them.

Propping one elbow on an arm, her fingers fidget while she begins to pace past him, then back towards the door, constantly keeping an eye on him while the wheels turn in her head, like she expects he'll get up and run off at any moment. Not that she doesn't want him gone, but first she wants her answers, and to know that nobody will see him leave.

"Why were you in such a state? Why did you come here?"

Yet again, he manages not to throw up. A few more tests, and he may be able to advance to the next stage of spectacular hangovers.

That could be part of the reason why it hit him so hard. For months, he hadn't had so much as a buzz from drinking whiskey like water, and suddenly it all caught up to him.

Explaining this to Anne isn't as easy as it is to theorize to himself though, and he wishes he had a better excuse prepared. The lingering silence is one indicator that he's trying to come up with something close enough to the truth to avoid feeling guilty about it later. -- And if there were ever a woman who could make him feel guilty.

"What are you hoping to hear?" That may come off sounding rude, but his somber expression takes away any bite to the question. His stories are always pitiful, so she might already know.

No matter how his voice sounds like or how his expression sombers, Anne visibly stiffens and her nostrils flare in quite visible anger. But despite her wild eyes, she stops, even her fidgeting coming to a dead halt as she glares down at him.

"I am demanding to hear the truth! For once in your miserable life."

Edited 2014-05-13 22:10 (UTC)

It isn't a surprise to see her anger, since he's impressed she kept that in long enough to hand him a drink without throwing it at him. The way the side of his face aches is enough for him to gauge how much she didn't appreciate his reappearance. Honestly, if he'd been thinking straight at all, he would have known when to spare her from even going to her party. Obviously he hadn't been.

Still, it seems to have some effect on him. Now he's realizing that she isn't kicking him out, and more that it's awkward to have this conversation while she's towering over him. Delaying his answer further, he takes some time to rock forward, using his arm as a brace and works himself up to stand. Only far enough to collapse back down in the nearby chair to hold his head again, but at least he's off of her floor.

"It's a long story." How many times has he said that, for it to keep getting longer? She could probably tell him. "...But if you really want to hear it, you might want to get some coffee."

Anne makes a point of turning sharply, walking over to where here throne sits halfway across the small room, then gracefully sits in it, poised with both arms draped over the rests and her gaze pinned on him. What else is she going to do this morning? She certainly has no appetite for breakfast, at least not right now, and she doesn't feel like frolicking among the people on the day she knows she was arrested for high treason.

"Coffee is already being made." She much prefers it over tea, since it has a stronger flavor and offers more of a useful effect. That and chocolate are one of the few discoveries she's actually enjoyed since arriving here. "You may have some after you have explained."

Spike watches her sit in her throne with one eye open, and for a moment he entertains himself by imagining this as a trial, arranged at the worst possible time. Putting him on the spot is one thing, but she could at least stand next to him so he doesn't have to raise his voice above a mumble for her to hear.

Maybe that's how she's thinking of it. Some poor excuse for retribution.

"My loss changed." Generally, 'losses' are his least favorite subject, which is why it comes out so bluntly. He has to force himself not to talk around it. "But first I thought an enemy was my best friend. One fed into the other."

Fortunately for him, the room isn't big enough that he has to overly raise his voice. In the silence of her chambers, with not even a fire to crackle, his voice carries easily with such large acoustics.

She just lets out a light scoff at his admission, understanding nothing of how that relates to why he's punishing her. She even waves her hand as if to dismiss the idea entirely, because so what? She doesn't even know what he had lost before, to be honest.

"The enemy that left you for dead?"

He could lie and nod, but so far that's come back to bite him enough times. Everything is so complicated that he even has a hard time sorting out the truth for himself.

"A different one. Someone from home." And if that makes her roll her eyes, he's stopped looking to see. The dismissive wave was enough for him to guess her opinion. Besides, the more his brain is working (as painful as it is), the more things start to surface. "And something else."

Her nails click together as she flicks absently at nothing, maybe a nervous tick or a sign of irritation, otherwise it's as audible as a pin dropping when words aren't exchanged. And she does let the silence hang for another moment. How many enemies does this man have? How many enemies should a criminal have?

Probably still not as many as a queen.

"Another excuse? Hiding behind enemy turned friend is not good enough? Pray tell."

"I can't be sure, but...," he trails off though, since even he doesn't know what he's talking about. Whatever he's missing, whatever pushed him to take things as far as he did, he can't mention to her. If there's one thing he can't stand being thrown in his face, it's this.

Not much of a story, is it? Spike resolves to finish it, regardless, even if he puts an abrupt spin on the ending.

"When I drank last night, it was the first time I've had anything affect me in months." Which should be enough to explain the extent of his loss, if not why his tone changed. "The only reason I came here is because I was too drunk to remember my room number."

"But you remember mine," she sneers out, the glint in her gaze a sharp cut between disdain and pride. Nails click and clack again, and she watches him like a hawk.

"A shame then that such a loss changed. You are less of a fool when sober. Did your newfound friend drink with you, only to set you loose like a dog?"

He can feel his temper flaring, which does nothing for the pounding in his head that her remedy hasn't worked out yet. She's smart enough to know just what comment will set him off, and he's a bigger fool for handing over the ammunition.

Remaining in control is an exercise in itself, and he only manages a short reply through clenched teeth.

"We broke up."

"This is a faulty explanation. I will give you a chance to explain yourself again."

And as if needing to give him extra time just to consider how he must change or expand upon his words, Anne stands and walks out of the room with soft steps, to the little kitchenette connected to her bedroom. With the coffee having had enough time to brew, it doesn't take her long to retrieve it. She had already arranged the presentation while he was still asleep; little bowls carrying chocolate, ginger shavings, and honey, alongside two cups and a steaming pitcher of dark coffee.

Even with her looming judgment, she's still kind enough to make him a cup, though it's undoubtedly not fixed the way he's used to, including all three condiments before it's handed over and she returns to her seat.

"Explain to me why such a thing would ruin you to a wretched state. Are you so easily undone by your home? It is but a shadow now."

How much more of an explanation does she need? Spike annoys himself by thinking of that question after he resolved to only offer what he could stand her knowing. It's his own fault for making it too obvious that he's holding back.

Her exit is timed well, giving him a moment to calm himself before he really has something to regret about his drunken choices. When she returns to hand him a cup instead of throwing hot coffee in his face, he's confused yet again.

"I live in the shadows, don't you know that?" Mumbled, of course. "I've had one too many things taken from me. I'm sure you've experienced the feeling."

His dark half jest, half truth, leaves her outwardly unaffected. She had found him in the shadows, after all, quite literally. And since they two have never fully danced outside of their dark reach, because the warmth beyond was not sunlight, but Hellfire.

"Do not think to compare your ilk to mine. There is a stark difference you forget."

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