Spike, Open (2nd Floor)
It had finally happened: the reavers had somehow made their way into the hotel. Lily had sent out an urgent network post to announce the incident, Jayne had taken the initiative to walk (or limp) out into the fray, and Spike... Well, Spike was stuck in the infirmary and in no condition to even think of going much further than a bathroom. He may have managed to remain in one piece, but after having one of those damn creatures try to slice his arm off at the shoulder and cut him in half, it wasn't as if he were in good condition. Even though the attempts had obviously failed, damage was still done and blood had still been lost. He'd be a liability if anything - and that's if he made it past the door without either falling over or being dragged back by someone with the good sense not to let him go.
To say that this little fact upset him would have been a gross understatement. After all, it was practically hardwired into Spike's psyche to get up and go back into the 'line of fire' if he was conscious and he or his allies were in danger. He didn't want to stay there, sprawled across some stupid chair (for he'd have killed the first person to attempt forcing him into a hospital bed - be it real or makeshift), waiting for everyone else to either be mauled or kill the reavers themselves. He wanted in on the action, if not for the sake of killing things then for the sake of making sure Ed's (and Jayne's, since he technically owed the man for helping save him) lives were in capable hands. Or hand, since he wasn't quite tolerant enough of pain to try using his right arm and the injury itself would likely throw off his aim anyway.
With an agitated sigh (which was more like a grunt or growl by the sound of it), Spike gave a firm kick to the nearest thing on the floor: an empty soda can he'd used as an ash tray at some point last night.