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"--No, I'm fine.

"No, seriously, I am perfectly happy with my current body. Form. Whatever.

". . . Well, okay, yeah, the big smashy claw is kind of awesome. --But mean, no, I'm fine.

"Well, okay, I'll take a look at it."

Tom takes his copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves, Our Cybernetic Arms, only a little dubious, and starts for a chair -- and turns around and trots back to Bar.

"Wait wait sorry I'm a dumbass. Can you give a copy of this note to, um, Shaun, Andrew, Elle, and Hawkgirl? Thanks."

(The note reads Let's do this Saturday. --Tom. All the other phrasings he came up with sounded even more like he was asking them to dinner and a movie. Way too awkward.)

That done, he heads for a table and sits down to flip through the book, distractedly. Saturday is -- not that far away.

[OOC: This is Tom's last open entrance post for a while, so it's open for tags indefinitely.]

[tinytags: Gordon Freeman]

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The book gets a mildly curious look before Gordon realizes who's reading it.

"I'm not sure I ever got to thank you."

"Hn?"

He looks up from a page detailing the most appropriate way to mesh muscle tissue and titanium.

"Oh! Hey. You look a hell of a lot better."

"Nita does good work," says Gordon. "I'd still be in the infirmary if it weren't for you getting her. Thank you."

"Hey." He shrugs. "Been in the hellish combat situation, done that, got to collapse in here. Though I've never gone for more than a day straight. Anyway, I'm glad I could, y'know, pay it forward. Want to sit?"

(Tom's a little on edge tonight. It makes him babbly.)

Gordon nods silently and settles down on the first available chair; his appears to be made of Magnetix, which makes for an interesting time with the crowbar that he's got jammed through his belt. He manages eventually, though.

"You all right there?" he finallysays.

A shrug. "Just. Nerves. It's nothing."

Talking about his upcoming trip to zombieland with a guy recovering from fending off an alien invasion seems kind of tactless.

"Still carrying that around?"

. . . On the other hand, that's maybe not much better on the tact scale.

"Might as well," says Gordon. "I don't like being without it."

He doesn't see anything wrong with the question, himself. He's become quite used to its presence, but he's fully aware of how few other people would necessarily feel the same way.

"My door vanished. If it comes back without warning, I want to have it on hand for the return trip."

Tom nods, a little rueful. "Yeah, I hear ya. If your door comes back are you just gonna--" He makes a sharp gesture. "Jet out?"

"Someone recommended I look for people to come help clean things up, assuming it's as bad as I'm afraid it might be," says Gordon. "I'm still thinking that one over. I'm not going back without my HEV suit, though, that's for sure."

"That did look like a pretty sweet suit, I've gotta say."

You can't get bitten through armor, right?

That provokes a twitch at the corners of Gordon's mouth, something that might almost become a smile. "It is," he agrees. "It's not bad, for a glorified hazmat suit. They issued those to us to use in high energy labs and other hazardous environments, like the toxic zones and the on-site reactors. Normally there's a helmet, but mine got crushed early on."

"I'm supposed to tell you my girlfriend's going to dismember you herself if I don't come back alive."

He gives him an apologetic sort of smile.

". . . That seems fair."

"I don't think she was serious, but she's not one to underestimate."

He smiles a bit.

"Got your message."

"Oh, yeah? Good! That's good."

Tom is a little on edge.

"So what, I should take my chances with the zombies?"

. . . When Tom is on edge, his brain-mouth filter disappears.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I think she was mostly mad that I didn't talk to her first."

"Oh. Yeah." A sympathetic wince. "I can see that."

"I have some problems with communicating," he admits.

"... She wanted to come with me."

". . . Oh?"

Ummm.

"What'd you say? I mean, if she wants to come -- is she a good shot?"

"I talked her out of it. I.. don't want her putting herself in danger because of me."

hu shrugs.

"I don't know anyway, I was the only one who actually got to use the gun."

Tom nods.

"That's. Yeah. Yeah, I get that."

He's not crazy about friends in danger, let alone a girlfriend.

(Although of everyone coming, Hawkgirl's the one he's least worried about, honestly.)

"Yeah."

He's staring at the table again.

. . . Tom doesn't quite squirm, but it's close. He does chew his lower lip for a second, eying Shaun.

"You know you can still back out if you want to."

He shakes his head.

"Nope."

Don't think he hasn't thought about it, though.

Marlowe, as previously stated (http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/19790582.html), has a little problem with curiosity. So, after a minute (which is mostly taken up by Marlowe attempt to find her center of balance before walking over), Tom gets a brown-haired, one-eyed woman in black at his table, left eye bright and expression curious.

"'Big smashy claw'?" She says, voice soft and British.

He looks up, blinking (and attempts not to stare at the eyepatch).

"Hn? Oh. One of the . . ." He waves a hand vaguely. "Thingies Bar offered me. It had a smashy arm and a saw arm. I've gotta admit, it looked kinda cool."

Amused,

"Hence the book?"

"Apparently? I dunno. I've been here, like, a year and I've managed to not get turned into anything. I'd kinda like to keep it that way."

Beat.

"Now how the hell have you managed that?."

A quick grin. "I'm a recluse."

"...aye, that'd do it."

"It sure helps, anyway."

"Although, the boredom worth it?"

"Totally. I'm a fan of boredom. You can drink! It's like being back in college."

(Tom is a little on edge; it makes him babbly. Talking to a pretty girl doesn't help.)

She grins at him.

"Aaaaand have to wake up before dawn every day to get to class?"

"And you don't have to do that. Best part."

Amused,

"Speak for yourself. I had to, else I'd get kicked out. And the fucked up thing is the habit sticks."

He makes a face. "That is fucked up."

"Tell me about it." Tone? Very, very dry. As long the British can. She offers her ink-stained hand.

"Marlowe."

He shakes. "Tom. Nice to meet you."

Man. Between the name and the eyepatch and the British accent, TOm is thinking maybe she's a spy. Cool.

"Likewise. Been reclusing long?"

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