milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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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Tom is Conveniently Oblivious to Shaun's presence as he brings his Mountain Dew over and flops, expressively and not quietly, into a nearby armchair.

Fireplace, chair, a highly caffeinated beverage -- and thou.

Shaun's eyes open halfway at the creak of the chair, and he manages to mutter a hello.

Incoherent mumbling is totally a friendly greeting.

Tom replies in kind.

Well. Insofar as he keeps the "Aw, fuck" under his breath.

More or less.

Tom has had lots of time to build up Shaun as a No Good Dirty Zombie Loving Probably Commie (because these kinds of impressions always end with Commie, for reasons that are beyond Tom) in his head.

Somewhere along the way, his train of thought moves from 'what the hell crawled in my mouth and died?' to 'Oh shit, I know this guy.'

"Mmmf'ello."

"No zombies tonight?"

. . . Boy, that didn't take long.

"No."

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have achieved intelligibility.

"And it's just the one."

"Oh, well if it's just one, then it's fine."

Shaun's brain, while remaining unaccosted by the undead, is unfortunately too sleep-fogged for sarcasm.

"That's what I said,"

... Tom gives him a Look that is partially contempt for not recognizing the sarcasm, and partially annoyance for perfectly good sarcasm going to waste.

The expression on Shaun's face seems to indicate that he's just gotten the joke.

"Whatever. He's not here."

"I honestly cannot believe you keep it around."

He bristles a bit at the pronoun, but lets it go unremarked on.

"Don't believe it all you want, it won't make him go away."

Tom eyerolls. "As long as he stays away, I could care less."

He shrugs as best he can without actually sitting up.

"I won't promise he'll never show up here again."

"Oh great. Can't you control him? Oh, no, wait -- obviously you can't."

Or else Tom wouldn't have had to stop himself from shooting him in the head.

"I kept him from treating the place like an all-you-can-eat buffet. That not good enough for you?"

Long pause.

"'S worth something."

It's grudging -- very grudging -- but true.

"One trained zombie's nothing, I've seen what a group of 'em can do to a bar."

He pauses to go off on a tangent.

"I wonder what you call a group of zombies."

"A shamble," promptly, if a little absently.

"You mean you're not the only one who's kept one?"

Oooh, that's a good one.

"I meant... untrained ones. But no I'm not."

"Oh. Yeah, well, I've seen what a group of 'em can do to a shopping mall."

Brief pause for the resurfacing of memories and the emphatic reburial of them.

He winces.

"Yeah... Sorry."

For what, we may never know.

"Huh."

Another pause.

A longish one.

"Thanks."

... Aaaaawkward.

The silence is broken only by a slight sniff.

... It's really not going to get any less awkward.

Edited 2008-03-14 06:32 (UTC)

"Why the hell do y-- people keep them?"

Apparently, if it's not going to get any less awkward, it may as well get more awkward.

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