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Pink Floyd (Floyd Pinkerton) (
2013-10-28 02:03 am (UTC)
He heard the door open, hears it close, and still felt no fear. No shame. It was remarkable. As euphoric as any drug. Even when he heard the voice, moments later, and recognised it, that old, hateful weakness didn't come. And why should it? This was nothing to be ashamed of. If Spike didn't approve, then to hell with him. He could burn, just like all the other bleeding hearts.
"Spike." His voice cut, strong and clear, through the still air. "Just a moment. I'm almost done."
More water, on his face. Rinsing away shaving cream and hair. Drying himself, and slicking back his hair. Sharp, sleek, severe. As it should be.
And he exited the bathroom, holding himself tall, a cold distance in his eyes, to present
his new self
to his friend. For good or for ill.
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