((Can you tell I like dialogue yet?))
Spike made it back to the group's rented shack without much incident; he'd knocked someone over in his mad dash back, but didn't think it would cause any problems. That was mildly disappointing, but the promise of unlimited alcohol was making Spike feel less inclined to start trouble simply for the sake of it.
He still wasn't sure about the bath.
There were few things in life Spike found more irksome than bathing. Everything about it offended his sense of practicality- he was either getting irradiated or wasting water, just to take off some dirt and sweat that would be back in a matter of hours. As far as he was concerned, washing was something you did to plates and open wounds. Anything else just didn't make sense.
He fought with the door handle for a moment, got irritated, and kicked it open with one swift knock from his heel. The door flew back with a protesting crash and screech; he heard something give way in the upper hinge, and it came to rest at an awkward, slanting angle.
Small and cramped, the main room held a tiny stove and sink on the far wall. Three rough stools sat around a small, squat round table, covered by a threadbare cloth. Its original color was a mystery, now faded to a soft, dingy gray. Three packs leaned against the northern wall, and most of the remaining floor was covered in mismatched containers. Buckets of spare parts, crates of tangled wire, and countless piles of scrap created something of a maze across the room.
Spike left the door hanging open as he made his way through mounds of gear and clutter, weaving a path toward an especially large pile in the back. He started digging; pieces of scrap, empty bottles, clothing, and other detritus scattered across the floor. Reaching the bottom, Spike frowned, scrubbing a hand through his greasy mats of hair.
"Where the fuck's the bucket?" he wondered aloud, now surrounded by even more mounds of clutter. He started on the opposite corner, adding exponentially to the mess as more objects flew across the room. When he'd finished that pile, the shack was effectively trashed; Spike frowned, one hand on his hip as he stared around.
"Oh well," he shrugged, "can't take a bath. How awful."
It's the table. A man's voice, sounding like someone was standing right behind him, made Spike frown.
"No it's not," he scoffed, hopping over a pile of clothes and giving the table a kick. It bounced away from his foot with a hollow clang; the cloth fell off as it crashed against the wall, revealing a large metal bucket.
"Well shit." Spike let out a grumbling sigh. "Fine, smart guy, where's the fucking soap?"
In the kitchen, where you saw it last night. Idiot.
"Ugh," Spike grunted dejectedly, making several acrobatic leaps around the mess he'd made. Sure enough, the cracked yellow cake was sitting right on the edge of the sink; he picked it up gingerly, crooked nose wrinkling.
"Thanks for the help, Steel," he spat sarcastically.
No problem, little brother.
After another brief display of acrobatics, Spike grabbed the bucket and made his way outside. He was forced to lift the door by the handle to get it closed; a crooked grin spread across his face at the thought of Claw discovering it.
She's going to be pissed.
"She's always pissed." Spike slung the bucket over one shoulder and sauntered toward the town well, whistling tunelessly through his teeth.
You didn't have to kick it open, jackass. It needs to be pushed in, then pulled back out before you turn the handle. You KNOW that.
Spike shrugged.
"Forgot," he said dismissively. "Cutter can fix it, anyway."
Whatever. I don't know why they haven't killed your stupid ass yet.
"It's one of life's great mysteries," Spike agreed, slipping the bar of soap into his pocket. In its place, he withdrew a weathered bronze compass, flicking open the protective cover with his thumb. The wide, crooked grin spread across his face, wrinkling the scar running from just under his left eye down his jaw.
Don't let Claw see that.
"Thanks for the advice, I'm such a fuckin' idiot that I think I'll go wave it under her nose right now. Then I'll go piss on Brian's counter and tell him I've stolen at least two hundred caps worth of useless shit from him. Fuck's sake, give me a little credit."
That sounds exactly like something you'd do.
"Christ, the both of you think I'm fucking retarded." Spike closed the compass with a snap, and returned it to his pocket.
We've been right more than once.
"The tent wasn't my fault! I'd like to see anyone else pull that shit off and live."
Several passing townsfolk stared at Spike as he chatted casually with thin air. When he made no attempt to plead for money or demand repentance, they lost interest, continuing down the dusty streets.
"God, that's raw," Spike muttered, running a hand gently down his face. "She got me good that time." His cheeks were swollen and hot; the beating sun wasn't helping matters any.
What did you expect? A treat?
"He started it," Spike insisted, "saying I smell. What kind of fuckin' shit is that?"
You DO-
"Not listening," he sang, earning a few more mistrustful stares. "Don't know what you pussies are so worked up about!"
After drawing his water, Spike slogged toward the men's bathing shacks, cussing under his breath when the bucket banged his shins. He shouldered the door open, dropped the bucket, and stared down at the water with loathing.
"This is the most pointless shit," he grumbled. "I'm going to be dirty again in two hours. "
Binge drinking with Claw. Can you suck it up long enough for that?
Spike let out a long, injured sigh, shrugging off his coat and undoing his belt buckle.
"Bullshit," he muttered as he undressed, "fucking stupid. Motherfucking SOAP. " His voice switched to a high falsetto as he climbed into the lukewarm water. "'Use soap, Spike. Wash your hair, Spike. You smell like an open sewer, Spike.'"
You POOR thing.
"Fuckin' soap stinks worse than I ever could," Spike continued to grumble, scrubbing his ribcage viciously. "Like butchering an animal."
No, you smell a lot worse. Hair.
"Jesus, I'm fucking scrubbing, can a guy get a minute?"
The water around him was opaque when he finished. Spike tugged futilely at the knots in his hair, gave up, and shook out his clothes. Coughing in the cloud of dust, he paused briefly to admire the impressive collection of scars across his body. He traced the biggest one, which ran from just over his right collarbone and down his side. The knotted rope of tissue was finally beginning to fade to a lighter color; Spike sighed through his nose, and pulled his clothes on with unnessecary force.
"Fuckin' baths," he grumbled, tossing an arc of black water behind the shack. "See this shit?" He picked at his shirt with two fingers. "Dirty. Now I'm dirty, too."
Should have grabbed clean clothes.
"Well fucking THANKS for saying something back at the house," Spike threw his hands into the air, "you've been chatting all fucking day and couldn't bother with clean clothes?"
I can't do everything for you. Spike detected a smirk in the voices' tone. You could always take another bath.
Spike cackled all the way back to the shack.
"Oh, for the love of-"
Claw gripped her head in both hands while Cutter peered around her side, wide yellow eyes staring into the shack.
"Did someone rob us?" he asked, craning to get a better look inside.
"I don't need this right now," Claw groaned. "God damn it, god damn it. Go check the savings. Now."
Cutter scurried inside, nearly tripping several times over the mess on the floor. Claw gave the doorframe an angry kick, making the broken door creak sadly. So angry she could barely see, Claw started to pick things up, her head feeling like it was about to explode.
"There's nothing missing," Cutter's voice called, "doesn't look like they touched anything back here."
Claw released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, hand pressed against her racing heart.
"Looks like all the good junk's here, too," she replied, nudging a dirty shirt with her toe. Making her way into the kitchen, swearing as she stepped on and broke several bits of scrap, she searched the cupboards. Their carefully-managed food was all accounted for.
"What the hell...?" She wondered aloud, hands on her hips. There were several loud crashes as Cutter made his way to her side.
"All the packs and gear are there, too," the boy told her. "What d'you think happened?"
"Hell if I know." Claw pulled the kerchief off her head and tugged at her short hair in frustration. "It looks like a Yao Guai ransacked the place."
"Where's Spike?" Cutter wondered. "Didn't you tell him to come back here?"
"I told him to go take a bath. It's a better punishment than a beating any day."
Cutter laughed.
"How did you make him do that? The last time he even came close was when he fell in the river, what, two months ago?"
"I don't want to think about it right now," Claw told him with a grimace. "Let's just say I'm just going to regret it later, but we'll deal with that headache when we come to it. Come on, let's get this shit cleaned up. I need to find the boots and get them to Brian before he shuts down for the night. Might as well start packing while we're at it."
They had barely made a dent in the mess when Spike returned, bucket slung over one shoulder and his jacket on the other. Claw sniffed once, and threw up her hands in disgust.
"I can still smell you from here. Christ, I tell you to do one thing-"
"You told me to leave, and you told me to take a bath. I did both." Spike dropped the bucket, and started stripping off his clothes. Claw rolled her eyes, holding up one hand to shield her peripheral. "Steel thought it was funny as hell to watch me get all the way down there with dirty clothes on. Son of a bitch."
"Aw, what the hell, man?" Cutter threw the ball of string he'd been holding at Spike, who stood stark naked in the middle of the room.
"You were helpful enough when I couldn't find the fucking bucket!" Spike shouted at no one, dodging the ball with ease and proceeding to rip through the house again. "Where'd I throw my fucking pants? I know I saw them earlier."
Claw let out a wordless screech of rage. "You did this? What the fuck...why the hell...?" She sat down hard, head between her knees and fists full of hair. "Why do you do this to me?" she pleaded helplessly. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Couldn't find the bucket. Some asshole put a cloth on it."
"This is what I get." Claw tugged mercilessly at her hair. "Make him take a bath. I should have just shoved him in another river."
"You fucking jackass!" Cutter stormed up to Spike, who had yet to find his pants. "Why the hell would you just throw stuff everywhere, we've been organizing for weeks!" He swung at the older boy; without looking up, Spike grabbed Cutter by the front of his shirt, twisted his lanky torso, and tossed the boy over his shoulder. Cutter landed flat on his back, eyes wide and panicked as he gasped for air.
"Nice try," Spike didn't pause in his search. "Don't announce yourself. Moron."
"Spike," Claw groaned, "a punch in the chest is fine. Don't throw the kid, you're going to break his ribs."
"It's good for him." Spike straightened up, raising a pair of tattered jeans in triumph. "Broken bones heal stronger and all that shit."
"Can't..." Cutter gasped, reaching out for Claw. "Breathe!"
"I know." Claw patted his hand sympathetically. "Thank god he didn't actually want to kill you, huh? Try to relax, like we practiced."
"So," Spike cinched his belt around his sunken waist, "when are we hitting the saloon?"
"After you get this mess cleaned up," Claw snapped. "Like you have to ask. Find the boots, I need to go lay down. You gave me a headache. Cutter, you ok?"
The boy nodded mutely, now managing short, choppy breaths.
"Get me up in an hour." Claw picked herself up off the floor, and headed for the other room. She aimed a smack at Spike as she passed; he twisted out of the way with millimeters to spare.
"Don't draw back," he said, still throwing things every which way, but now into sorted piles. "Makes your swing take more time, and I saw you coming a mile away."
He threw up one hand.
"Maybe if people didn't disguise it as a fucking table," Spike continued heatedly. "It's always my fault, isn't it?"
"Just clean the house," Claw groaned. "Put the boots by the..." she pinched the bridge of her nose. "-by the door. Cutter, can you get that fixed, please?"
"I told you so," Spike stated matter-of-factly.
Claw stormed into the bedroom, slammed the door behind her, then threw herself onto one of three piles of bedding. She closed her eyes with a long sigh; her hands clenched into fists as the crashing and banging in the other room got louder.
The woman took a slow, deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity and letting it out gradually. She was already dozing off when she took the second breath, even as Cutter started shouting and something heavy hit the floor.
Deal with it later. Headache.