"My bloody wall," Spike repeated before he let his hand (and accusing finger) drop. "Fake Mitchell," he tried, but that was before he finally bothered to look into those dark eyes, cheaply illuminated by a ... something that came out of the man's chest - or distinct lack thereof. Now, he had seen Samir from afar from time to time - not that hard, considered that they shared a damn floor - but looks was all that he seemed to share with the vampire he'd known before. That man's mannerisms were hard and guarded, almost to the point of pushing everyone away. Mitchell's on the other hand, never had been - not quite. The stupid sod. He actually missed seeing behind him the damn bar.
It was something in those eyes he'd seen before - or damn near similar, enough for Spike to gather himself up and take a tentative step towards what seemed to be a big ... a really big ... ball of fire, with a man in its dead center. Hands held out, he remembered his hatred of fire. Anguish. Pain. That was what he'd seen in the other Mitchell's eyes before.
"You're not Fake Mitchell," he blurted out in total surprise.