Well, he'd been right. This was bloody awkward and uncomfortable. However, part of him was rather glad that it extended far beyond his vampire family and hell, he could just tune it out. That much he'd learned to do, just as long as there was no petting and ass grabbing. If not, Mitch was going to lose a few teeth. For bloody real, mate. He could and would wreak havoc on that pretty little Irish face. And it was rather pretty. A beat passed as realization sank in and he suppressed a shudder. Oh God. Suddenly properly disgusted with himself, Spike reached up to slap himself in the back of the head.
God. He was utterly ridiculous. With a disgusted grunt, he shook his coat off and for once, threw it on a gravestone. Cold or not cold out there, Spike hardly felt it. The T-shirt and coat were his one staple in his wardrobe and he wore it season in, season out. And he really didn't have any money to get the bloody coat dry cleaned, hence the throwing of trophies. "Well? You know how it's done. Pick your spot."