bakerstreet | Skeet skeet

Matt can practically hear Stick chiding him for letting his guard down, as his back hits the wall. There's not enough force in it to suggest harmful intent, though, so for now he doesn't struggle to get away. Besides, the close proximity hands him another puzzling clue about the man -- he isn't giving off any body heat. If Matt could actually bring himself to believe in supernatural creatures, he'd have to admit that the case for the vampire explanation is gaining strength.

"Fair enough. You got off light, the last guy who tried something like that got a broken nose for his trouble." There's enough good humor in the accusation that he can't help the slight smile curling in the corner of his mouth. "I told you, I have exceptionally good hearing. Also, you smell like cigarettes."

Edited 2017-03-01 20:29 (UTC)

"Just a broken nose? That's practically foreplay." Still, he's smiling as he steps back from the man, knowing that no matter what he might have in store, he can't actually cause him any harm without setting off that bloody chip in his head. The mention of smelling like smoke has him lifting his arm to sniff along it, shrugging when he picks up the telltale scent of tobacco and chemicals. "Fair play. Suppose I'll have to work on the whole smelling like garbage if I plan on sneaking up on you in an alley."

Since the last smoke he'd had had been a few hours ago, that let him know just how sensitive Matt's senses were, mentally filing away that hearing and smell sensitivity, wondering how he could play with that. "So, where's a good place to get a drink. I suppose it's all good, since I can't see having to chew my arm off over you."

"I try to take it easy on the first date." He's not not smiling, eyebrows raised at the man's boldness. Fights don't normally swing from 'neutralize a threat' to flirting like this for Matt. Not since Elektra, and she was a partner, not a threat.

He does have to wonder if the guy's serious about planning a garbage-scented do-over, and finds that he isn't completely opposed to the idea. If nothing else, it would be good practice. Considering the lack of certain other details that would normally give away the presence of another person. "Seems like you've already got the heartbeat problem covered."

And don't think it doesn't freak him out a little bit. At this proximity, there should be something. The whole vampire explanation is starting to seem just the slightest bit less ridiculous.

"Josie's. It's not far from here." Matt adjusts his satchel over his shoulder, and starts unfolding his cane. "And I wouldn't be so cocky. It's going to take more than one drink and not smelling like garbage to even have to worry about a situation like that."

"I did warn you," he chided, reaching in to his pocket and pulling out-- yes, a pack of cigarettes. The jig, as they say, was up, so no need to put off his craving any longer. Especially when he was having to try to play nice with another craving tempting him enough as it was.

A flick of flint on steel, then sparks as the butane caught. Spike lit his smoke and tucked the pack and lighter back in his pocket, watching Matt get himself sorted with an odd steadiness he didn't see often in the blind. "More? Greedy, are we? So... what; two drinks and a bag of crisps?"

Can't argue with that, although Matt's still on the fence as far as believing that warning. One might think the whole bizarre mess with Nobu's people, not to mention the alien invasion that destroyed half of Manhattan, would make him a little more open-minded. And he is, it's just...vampires.

"You know what they say about lawyers." He shrugs, frowning at the telltale snick of a lighter. "But that sounds like a place to start."

Quick as a wink, he snatches the cigarette out of the guy's mouth, dropping it and grinding it under his heel. "And no smoking."

"What?" He stared down at the crushed remains of his cigarette, looking back up at Matt with a stare of utter puppy dismay that was wasted on him. "Oi! Those things don't grow on tre-- wait. No. That was mine, Legal Beagle. And if you're going to keep me from getting to have a drag all night, you'd better be worth the effort. Or the drinks better be potent enough to make me not care."

Rude, Matt. So rude.

Puppy eyes don't do a thing for Matt, but he's a soft touch in general despite that, and the protest does make him feel a little bad. He still isn't going to put up with someone smoking right next to him, but he does make a mental promise to make it up.

"I'll buy you another pack, but you can't smoke them when you're around me. They stink." He tilts his head in the direction of the bar. "Josie's is this way. I'll make sure they make your drinks good and strong. Maybe I'll let you beat me at a round of pool."

Maybe the soothing, dulcet tones of his would make up for-- nah.

"What, you that sensitive about smell? While you're walking through what's likely a decade's worth of piss, shit, and other questionable substances. Americans..." Spike shook his head, but didn't move to pull out another cigarette. He'd play nice.

For now.

He shrugs. "I grew up here, I guess I'm used to it."

As much as he's ever going to be. Admittedly, it was pretty bad for a while, before Stick taught him how to get a handle on his senses. There are still things that bother him, though. He'd complain if the guy was drenched in cologne, too.

The bar isn't much of a walk from where they are (part of the reason he and Foggy started going there was its proximity to their office). There's a moderate crowd, about what Matt would expect for this time of night, and he leads the way to the bar, easily weaving through the crowd. It's pretty clear from the bartender's reaction that Matt's no stranger.

"Order whatever makes you happy, I have a tab."

Spike keeps close as they go, both because of the whole 'blind' bit, but because, frankly, he's hungry -- and Matt smells bloody good. As they make their way through the other bodies, Spike uses that as an excuse to press a little closer. A touch to a thigh there, a rub of his leg against Matt's backside there, just to test the waters a little and stir things up if he could.

They wind up at the bar and Spike peers at the array of low-end liquor stocked behind the bar. "Scotch. Double. Neat. And a bottle of beer." Now, to see what the lawyer drank.

Well, he's definitely stirring things up. Matt's system had geared up for a fight that never materialized, and now he's antsy, hopped up on an adrenaline push. If he was on his own, he'd have headed over to Fogwell's to take it out against the bag. So yes, he does notice those unnecessary, but not entirely unwelcome, touches.

"Just beer for me, thanks." Unlike his new acquaintance, Matt wasn't planning on drinking tonight at all. This is more about settling a challenge than getting drunk. Besides, he doesn't feel like this is a guy he'd want to be around with his reactions blunted.

When the glass and two bottles are set on the bar, Matt grabs both of the beers, holding one of them blatantly off to the side. "I'm confiscating this until I get a name."

He reached for the glass as Matt took the bottle, grinning as the little game was set. He tipped the glass back, finishing the contents in one long swallow, then set it down to reach for the bottle. He didn't pull it out of Matt's hand, just held it as the other man did, trying to see through the red-tinted shades to try to see what those eyes that couldn't see him were doing. "Spike," he said, waiting for whatever quip was likely forthcoming because of it. Wouldn't be the first nor the last, and he was in a mood to keep playing this little game out. See just where it would lead -- if anywhere.

Matt's gaze, behind the glasses, is unfocused and directed somewhere close but not quite on the other man's face. If the red lenses didn't give him away, the lack of eye contact certainly would. He isn't about to take them off, although that's more for everyone else's comfort than his own. People apparently find it unsettling when he doesn't look properly at them.

The corner of his mouth quirks when he feels the other grip on the bottle, and as promised, he releases his own hold once he gets the requested name. Although his eyebrows go up above the rim of his glasses.

"Nickname, or masochistic parents?" His best friend goes by 'Foggy', he really doesn't have the right to say too much.

"Nickname. Sort of... came up over the years." Well, yes, over the years of him impaling people with railroad spikes, but that hadn't come up yet. Yet being the operative word.

Considering the lot that Spike usually hung out with, a little unfocused gaze wasn't apt to turn his stomach. At least Matt only had two eyes. "So, you always offer come hither challenges to wrong numbers?"

"They do that." He's thinking about his own unusual moniker, although there's no one here who he'd bring in on that secret. It does kind of make him wonder about the origins of a nickname like Spike, though.

Matt takes a long swallow from his beer before answering the question with a little laugh. "I don't know, I never got a wrong number message like that before. Seemed too interesting to just ignore. You always fly across the country to accept challenges from strangers?"

"Depends on my schedule. No mutterings from the Hellmouth or world ending apocalypses recently, so I've had some free time on my hands." He took a sip of his own beer, feeling the cooler contrast from the slight burn the scotch had left behind. Settling into the seat more comfortably, he signaled the bartender for another scotch. "Been a while since I've talked to someone who didn't work for Satan -- or some other evil conglomerate." He paused, scowling a little over at Matt. "You don't represent Martha Stewart or Nestle, do you?"

"You realize you're in a place called Hell's Kitchen, right?" Matt has to assume they're talking figuratively, mostly because he's not sure what he'd do with the knowledge that there were actual apocalypses (can you even have multiples?) taking place. Although he can't quite avoid a subtle smirk at the Satan reference.

He shakes his head. "I interned at Landman and Zack, but I'm pretty sure they aren't any more evil than your typical corporate law firm. And trust me, if I was on Nestle's payroll, I'd be able to afford a fax machine that actually works."

"I did happen to see that blessed little hole in the wall you call an office. Better than my mausoleum. How's the delivery around here? Let me tell you, it takes the promise of a pretty hefty tip to get anyone to deliver a pizza to a graveyard in Sunnydale." He was being so super serious right now, Matt.

"You make do with what you can get." He skips over the word 'mausoleum', taking it as a colorful way to describe a less than stellar living situation. 'Graveyard' does sound a little more literal, though, and it takes that to remind him that he's talking to a self-identified vampire.

A claim he's very slowly starting to accept as possibly true.

"Delivery is great, there are plenty of places open until all kinds of hours. I highly recommend the Indian place down on 9th and 36th." As if he's giving advice to a new resident of the neighborhood. The conversation is so normal it almost circles back around to bizarre. "So...the whole 'no heartbeat' thing really isn't just you being very very zen?"

"I like Indian. Food, as well." Don't ask, Matt. "Though, Americanized versions always seem so tame." Was he talking about the food too? Who knows?

A sip that muffled a snort, smile spreading after he swallowed. "More like me being very, very undead. Takes a little while to get used to, but the perks sort of outweigh the cons."

"You're in New York, I'm sure you can find the authentic article somewhere." Is he only talking about food? Take it you like, Spike.

Okay, well. It's not proof exactly, although Matt does remember that being offered during their previous chat, now that he thinks about it.

"I'm trying hard to imagine the perks, honestly. Other than not having to worry about dying again, I guess." And there's an unsettling implication, considering his experiences with a certain ninja. "On the other hand, you could just be off your rocker. You did show up to meet a complete stranger who could have turned out to be an axe murder. Hell, I could still turn out to be an axe murderer."

"That'd put a little spice in this relationship, wouldn't it?" The smile was something Matt could likely hear, Spike picking up the second scotch and downing it just as quickly as the first. "Get me somewhere private and I'll happily show you a little more proof. Not that I'm against doing it here, but humans tend to react oddly to vampires, and you lot have had your own little muck ups with non-humans. Rather not start a mob with pitchforks, thank you."

"Bored already?" Matt's enjoying the banter, there hasn't been much of it in his life lately. Mostly his own fault, of course -- too busy risking his life and angsting about everything.

Vampire or not, that sounds like an invitation he needs to give some serious thought. Does he want to bring a guy he barely knows back to his apartment? Especially someone he can't track by his usual means? Without the scent of cigarettes and the sound of his clothing, Spike might well be silent even beyond Matt's ability to hear. Does he take the chance?

"Likelier to be baseball bats and tire irons here, but I get what you're saying." He drains the rest of his beer. Of course he's going to take the chance. "Am I right to assume you don't have a place yet?"

"Haven't found a crypt to my liking yet. Now, New Orleans... there's a city a dead guy can find some decent accommodations in." He takes another longer, deeper swallow of his beer, watching Matt finish his with some interest. If he wasn't mistaken, there was intent to the way he finished it, as if he'd made up his mind about something.

Whether that was leaving him here or inviting him over... mm. There was an interesting thought. "You offering?"

"If you're serious about the crypt thing, then I have a feeling you're not going to like my place much. But unless I'm mistaken, it's still dark for a while yet."

He somehow doubts Spike plans to hang around after his show-and-tell, whatever that ends up involving. And if he does, well. Matt's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. It wouldn't be the first foolish decision he'd ever made.

"If you want another drink, I've got whiskey and beer. But you had better have some proof beyond making 'grr, argh' noises or claiming to sparkle."

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