The sheer urgency in that voice was enough to finally get his attention, or at least, warranted a brief departure from his self pity. He finally managed to turn around, but not without smacking his head against the gravestone and depending on whatever shred of willpower he had to do so. Quickly, but definitely not leaving out an quiet and disgruntled 'ow', Spike's head peeked out from behind a solid mass of stone and looked around, all the while the crucifix still made a sizzling mess of his flesh. Hold on a tick. He hadn't exactly heard the man's voice yet, but he knew the accent. Grandsire Angelus just so happened to hail from the Emerald Isle himself. Quick thinking did the rest. God, this bloody place. Irish vampires were the bloody worst. He didn't know if it were their bloody praties or what, but fuck him. Fuck him for letting himself get into this bloody situation in the first place. All he wanted to do was get drunk - and that was too much asked. First Lisa, now Mitchell.
Fuck, he'd need another lobotomy when the day was done.
He wasn't exactly a fast vampire. Faster than the average human, yes. He was equally matched in speed and strength when it came to the Slayer, yes. That much he knew, but the alcohol in his system made him just a tiny bit slower. And that mattered right now. It took him a couple of seconds to get up. A few more seconds to realize that the burnt skin of his palm was fused together. It took a few more seconds for the pain to kick in. There was a definite pained snarl as he finally ripped his hand open again. And he didn't even watch the crucifix fall to the ground.
Instead, he was at Mitchell's side in a few more seconds, where he didn't catch the scent of blood in the air. Well, at least that hadn't happened. But ... what the fuck was he supposed to do? It wasn't like he'd done this for any other vampire but himself. "Talk to me," he ordered.