There's a bench of sorts- or some sort of low platform that might've initially been intended as ornamentation, but will serve nicely as a bench. The human makes a stiff beeline for it and Spike strides alongside. He keeps an eye on this bloke, on the off chance he's going to have to make a hasty lunge to catch him before he cracks his head on the floor in a swoon.
He's deliberately distracting himself from thinking about the wall, but all the same, the line of thought runs quietly in the back of his mind. What is it? It's obviously not a coincidence, the sweeping tide of dread and despair and the flat blank ugliness of the wall. He can see it in his mind's eye if allows himself to.
Instead, he focuses on observing the bloke. Brown hair that looks to be trimmed on a regular schedule, so the slightly odd sticky-up effect must be deliberate. Blue eyes, magnified behind specs that would probably induce quite a headache, were anyone other than their owner to try them on for a lark. Somewhere in that point of middle age where things start to spread and soften. The fingers of the hand that isn't clutching the dog's lead tremble slightly.
All in all, he gives off an impression of a man who spends long hours at a solitary and engrossing pursuit that isn't considered 'thrilling' by the general public. Maybe he's a dramaturge, focusing on culinary references in the plays of Kit Marlowe. Maybe he's an entomologist. Or a tax accountant.
Except as far as Spike knows, all those types tend toward short-sleeved polyester shirts and knobbly jumpers, often frayed at the cuffs, and this bloke is wearing a suit that even Angelus would approve of. 'Understated elegance,' Angelus would call it.
Spike sneaks a glance at the shoes and thinks they're probably bespoke. Also, someone polishes them within an inch of their life. He looks over at the dog again so as not to seem to be staring, then flashes a brief, cheeky grin and extends his own hand.
"Spike. Pleasure, Mr Finch. And that's Bear, then?" Spike takes the proffered hand and shakes, feeling the heat of it, the man's life pulsing lightly under the surface of the skin.
He can feel the slight tremor as their hands touch. Spike's own hand is calloused, and cool, and he has a hangnail that he hasn't bitten off yet on his thumb. The chipped black nail varnish coating said thumb stands out in bold contrast to the whiteness of his skin, a paleness that is perhaps a shade paler than Finch's own pallour.
"Blimey, I wasn't expecting that." Spike remarks, after they've disengaged from the handshake. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a tube of Smarties, shaking a few brightly coloured disks into his palm, and offering the tube.
no subject
He's deliberately distracting himself from thinking about the wall, but all the same, the line of thought runs quietly in the back of his mind. What is it? It's obviously not a coincidence, the sweeping tide of dread and despair and the flat blank ugliness of the wall. He can see it in his mind's eye if allows himself to.
Instead, he focuses on observing the bloke. Brown hair that looks to be trimmed on a regular schedule, so the slightly odd sticky-up effect must be deliberate. Blue eyes, magnified behind specs that would probably induce quite a headache, were anyone other than their owner to try them on for a lark. Somewhere in that point of middle age where things start to spread and soften. The fingers of the hand that isn't clutching the dog's lead tremble slightly.
All in all, he gives off an impression of a man who spends long hours at a solitary and engrossing pursuit that isn't considered 'thrilling' by the general public. Maybe he's a dramaturge, focusing on culinary references in the plays of Kit Marlowe. Maybe he's an entomologist. Or a tax accountant.
Except as far as Spike knows, all those types tend toward short-sleeved polyester shirts and knobbly jumpers, often frayed at the cuffs, and this bloke is wearing a suit that even Angelus would approve of. 'Understated elegance,' Angelus would call it.
Spike sneaks a glance at the shoes and thinks they're probably bespoke. Also, someone polishes them within an inch of their life. He looks over at the dog again so as not to seem to be staring, then flashes a brief, cheeky grin and extends his own hand.
"Spike. Pleasure, Mr Finch. And that's Bear, then?" Spike takes the proffered hand and shakes, feeling the heat of it, the man's life pulsing lightly under the surface of the skin.
He can feel the slight tremor as their hands touch. Spike's own hand is calloused, and cool, and he has a hangnail that he hasn't bitten off yet on his thumb. The chipped black nail varnish coating said thumb stands out in bold contrast to the whiteness of his skin, a paleness that is perhaps a shade paler than Finch's own pallour.
"Blimey, I wasn't expecting that." Spike remarks, after they've disengaged from the handshake. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a tube of Smarties, shaking a few brightly coloured disks into his palm, and offering the tube.