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The manufactured weather at Milliways is still cold enough that the seats by the fire are prime nap locations. Shaun is taking full advantage of this by sprawling across the entire sofa.

He'll move if you poke him hard enough.

[ooc: not in the best headspace right now but wanted to play anyway. Warning for probable slowtime.]

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"--Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah."

Fortunately, most of the shops that deal in that sort of thing have had time to replenish their stocks by now.

Tom kind of stares at him.

". . . I did hold a gun on you guys," he points out, in that carefully neutral tone you use with people you suspect may be a little off.

"And you'd still be willing to buy me bullets."

"Long as you don't use them on us."

Hiiiiiiiii inappropriate humor.

"Seriously... I know what it's like."

"Sure."

He mostly manages to keep it from sounding dubious.

"I would -- I would really appreciate that. And, uh, I'd pay you back." Rueful: "Somehow or 'nother."

"Sure, no problem. What, uh... size?"

"It's a Glock .45. Uh, GAP rounds, I think. I could get you a bullet to take with you, if you want."

"Yeah, that'd probably be best."

He's looking at Tom like he wants to say something else, but isn't sure what.

"Cool. Thanks."

Pause.

". . . What?"

He shakes his head.

"Nothing."

Uh-huh. Sure.

"Okay. If you say so."

Weird. That wasn't even particularly crazy, for him.

"Must be pretty awful out there."

We're speeding back into the Realm of Awkward now.

"It's not great, no."

It's a little terse; mostly it's just tired.

"If there's anything I can do..."

It's sort of a lame offer and he knows it... but it's well-meant.

"Hey," Tom replies, with an attempt at cheer, "you already are. You're bringing me bullets."

The attempted cheerfulness is met with a half-mumbled "least I can do."

Tom's not the only one repressing memories.

Having to repress memories sucks.

Aaaaawkard.

"Well, um," says Tom. "How about I go get you one of those bullets."

Seriously.

"Yeah. Great."

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