The human keeps his back to the wall, and Spike is glad to have the opportunity to turn his own back on it, although he's not thrilled to know it's back there at all. He strides after the man, who moves with a slightly stiff awkwardness, the dog sticking close to his side.

Spike thrust his hands in his pockets, taking a few measured breaths. He's feeling almost light-headed with relief now, which is in and of itself annoying.

"You mean that sense like you're at the bottom of the sea, with about twelve thousand pounds of doom bearing down on you? I picked up something on those lines, yeh."

Spike usually isn't much for silence for any length of time at all, but they make their way briskly back down the corridor. He takes more note of the surroundings, this time, looking up at the high ceiling with its recessed cubes and the rough hewn stone plinths.

He raises his chin slightly, inhaling. His nose twitches and he inhales again, frowning. There's the scent of the human (understated cologne-over-light-flop-sweat) and dog, but otherwise, nothing. He inhales again, without slowing down.

I could eat a thousand chips right now, he thinks, hot chips with vinegar and tomato sauce. He refrains from saying this.

"You look like you could use a sit-down," he says, instead.