*Small note, I'm not very good at comedy, so I'll do this in my usual style but try and make the characters accurate XD Short chapter, pre-slash, but it won't be long now ;) *
"Vyvyan's awfully quiet this morning," Rick postulated loudly, perched at the kitchen table, watery blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. By this time, a soundtrack of smashing glass, handsaws or heavy chains would usually indicate the punk's mood upon awakening, regardless of whether it was good or bad.
"Probably hungover from that petrol cocktail he invented last night," Mike said airily, eyes fixed on his newspaper, dressed as usual in a gaudy suit.
Neil lumbered about the kitchen units, holding a grubby saucepan of lentils and looking miserable as usual, grumbling quietly to himself.
The anarchist seemed to be unable to go more than a minute without hearing the sound of his own voice, and fidgeted moodily. He took a deep breath, folded his legs and posed primly as he opened his mouth to begin a voluminous anecdote about his sociology teacher, when deafening thuds heralded Vvyyan's descent downstairs. He stormed in, square-shouldered and stony-faced, padlock swinging violently on its chain. Rick's indignant yell stopped him in his tracks on his way to the fridge.
"WHAT TIME DO YOU CALL THIS, VYVYAN?"
There was a moment of stillness, then the flame-haired punk whirled round, face dark with fury and eyes terrifyingly blue, full of disbelief and hate. Rick was smirking, arms folded across his narrow, badge-adorned chest, when the fist connected with his jaw with shocking force. He crumpled from the chair, blood streaming from his bottom lip and teeth stained shocking red. The punk grimaced down at the brunette for a second, then spun in his usually unstable, Neanderthal-like manner to the fridge, yanked open the door and removed the half-bottle of vodka he kept in there, grabbing it with one hand, stomping back a step, and smashing the door shut with a violent kick with one steel-toe cap Doc Marten boot. He totally ignored the stares of his housemates, and strode in frightening high temper from the house.
Neil slowly turned back to the saucepan, saying nothing, but looking shaken. Mike too, seemed surprised by the unusual aggression shown by the punk.
Rick, white-faced and bloody-mouthed, wiped a trembling hand across his lips and quailed at the bright scarlet wetness left on his knuckles.