Sunshine lists into Spike, propping her chin on his shoulder. This is a good place to be. She can make sure he's drinking her drink. His drink. It seems important that he do that; no Bellini should go to waste. "You're famous," she informs him in hushed tones, as if imparting a great and marvelous secret. Then she tucks her arm through his companionably and shifts to rest her head more comfortably on his shoulder. "Poor Spike. Don't be mad." Pat, pat.