Logs:The Waitress and the Swamp Thing
The Waitress and the Swamp Thing
|Characters:||Gray and Roland|
|Summary:||Gray and Ro have had very different workdays. Follow up to Happy Hour Negotiations and Big Bad Evil Gator|
"Deadpool never had to deal with this shit." Roland flounders his way into the apartment, his tiger-striped camouflage covered in mud from jungle-boots on up. His face, painted in shades of gray, black, and green, has been smeared from its careful pattern of concealment by yet more mud. He's carrying a duffelbag, most likely filled with the tools of the last job -- NVGs, flak jacket, extra ammunition. Duct tape -- because every wound can be fixed with duct tape and a tampon. Despite the filth, however, Roland doesn't appear to be injured at all. He lingers at the door, slamming the bolts home and setting the duffel down. With a groan, he leans to begin unlacing his jungle boots.
And it's at this point that the Chairman makes his entry, mrrrrrowing loudly as he drops down off the scratching post and easing his way across the concrete floor. He doesn't seem to be sure whether or not to greet the filthy apparition, who chooses this moment to flop down onto his butt and grab his boot by toe and heel. Yanking, Roland finally manages to get the first off. And then the stinking, damp, sock underneath. On to the next.
Nope, Miaow reaaaaaaallly doesn't like the sound of that boot hitting the ground. But instead of running and hiding, the Chairman proves why he is the apple of his Daddy's eye. He crouches down, tail coming up, and begins to crawl toward the mysterious object. Sure, he's seen boots before. But this one smells funny. Roland, his second boot halfway off, pauses in mid-yank to observe. And then, suddenly, Miaow springs! He smacks into the boot, knocking it over, grabbing one of the boot-strings between paws and teeth.
Some of his bad humor evaporating, Roland leans forward, stroking at the top of the cat's head with one fingertip. "Yeah, li'l buddy. You killed the shit outta that."
One never knows really, from one day to the next, quite where Gray might go and what she might get up to when she's not slinging drinks or shaking her goodies on stage at the club. Frankly, that's the beauty of this arrangement, she's free to come and go as she pleases when she's off the clock. And while she is in the apartment when her erstwhile roommate reappears, it's immediately apparent that she, too, has been elsewhere this evening.
Comfortably draped on the sofa, her feet kicked up and crossed at the ankle atop the coffee table, with a cold beer at her lips for a sip as the door opens, the blonde turns her glacial eyes in that direction with an arch of brows readied for greeting, prompted by the dropdown of the little feline no doubt. Maybe she's forgotten what she looks like. Let's start with the footwear, shall we? Pristine white plimsolls, complete with resplendent, lace-trimmed ankle socks. A woefully brief glimpse of leg until a skirt of pale marshmallow pink, lent some volume by the netted petticoat beneath, begins just above her knees. Up we go. There's a waitress apron, formerly white but now a little grubby with grease stains and a thumbprint of what one can only hope is ketchup. Then the upper half of the uniform, all button-up and breast pockets, the fabric straining just a little across the feminine curves beneath.. and the top two buttons left undone. Hey, who doesn't like tips, right? No.. tips. The short sleeves of the dress are cuffed in pink gingham - yuck - and a glossy little nametag on one side proclaims 'Julia'. Did she lie or just neglect to change it from the hand-me-down workwear? Whatever. Her white-blonde mane has been tamed, for the most part, into a bun at her nape, though by now a few wisps have freed themselves, straying about her collarbones. And yes.. she has one of those jaunty little diner hats pinned atop.
All told? She looks like a cartoon. But that's still nothing in comparison to Ro.
Taking in the sight of the swamp creature with unabashed humor that grows steadily in her expression as he sets to taking off his boots, Gray sniggers around her mouthful of beer, forcing herself to swallow so that she can speak. "What in the ass.." Yeah, she'll always run with it, if Deadpool is brought up. Abandoning her rerun of Ru Paul on screen, she regards her companion with a broad grin, her crimson lipstick rather too vivid against that princess bubblegum palette. "What the fuck happened to you? Do not get that on the cat.." The tone turns momentarily warning, though surely the cat-father would never dream of besmirching his baby so. "..you stink, Ro. What is that?" Lowering first one, then the other foot to the floor, she at least shows willing to rise, needs be. She just doesn't bother quite yet.
She's never been quite so glad to smell of bacon and coffee.
It's not that he minds her moonlighting at every establishment she can get a gig with. Really, it's not. But if Gray is going to wear an outfit like that into the club, she really ought to consider turning it into a stage act as well. Roland looks over at her vaguely for a moment, hand poised over Chairman Miaow's head. His mouth drops open subtly, comical in the absolute filth of his face between layers of greasepaint and muck, his teeth gleaming brightly as he slowly starts to grin.
He doesn't answer Gray right away, instead leaning down to gently detach Chairman Miaow from the filthy boot, shooing him away with his fingertip. The cat goes reluctantly, pacing backward a few feet before stretching out on the concrete floor, blinking his green, slitted, eyes. Roland tugs off his second boot, then his sock, setting them by the door and wriggling his toes experimentally. He looks back over at Gray, taking in her appearance a second time. "Hey, garcon?" Oh, so we're on to Pulp Fiction tonight? Is Roland taking a break from Deadpool because a woman who can outquote him is intimidating? Or does he just want to set her up for a second wisecrack? He's generous like that. "Can I get a beer over here?"
The way he's staring at Gray, even through that ketchup-smeared apron, it's obvious Roland has other intentions than just a cold brewski. Maybe he just wants a look at those adorable little ankle-socks. He still hasn't answered her questions. But, as he begins to unbutton his camouflaged top, revealing an equally-filthy white T-shirt beneath, he says "Well. I got a short-notice gig. Three-headed snake, out west of the airport." Yeah, because that's tooooootally normal. He balls up the camouflaged top, dumps it on top of the boots, tugs off his t-shirt. Beneath, he is all muscle and sinew, no body fat at all. Hashmarks of scalpel-thin scars criss-cross his body at different points, some forming sharp angles, others more curved. "Turns out, whoever made the snake also thought it'd be a good idea to make some giant fucking ROUSes. And a two-headed alligator. Yes. Really."
He grins over at Gray as he pulls out Gun from the small of his back, laying it aside with a final fond pat. "We took care of the gator. And the snakes. And the rats. But I didn't find whoever did it. And...now I'm covered in pluff mud and swamp water."
Oh, she sees him. She sees that look. And it's answered with the same trademark lack of concern that every man gets when his gaze is wandering with thoughts of questionable morality.
Still. She does feel at least a little bad for him, all covered in muck and grossness. Or maybe she's just a few beers in and feeling charitable. Who knows. Either way, Gray pushes wearily to a stand in the wake of his Tarantino delivery, placing her own beer on the table and straightening, smoothing her skirts with a sweep of her palms. "Sure, Pumpkin." It's a reference, close enough.
Padding away from the couch, just as Ru is announcing 'Condragulations, you're a winner, baby' to this week's top Queen no less, the young woman heads to the kitchenette with a deep sigh. Miaow, true to form, skips along expectantly around her feet, ever hopeful of.. something. Foods, entertainment, fingers to attck, he's not fussy. As for the blonde he's pestering, she listens to this wild summary of events without interruption, the sound of the fridge door opening only somewhat detracting from the snort of amusement at the Princess Bride version of a bestiary entry. "You think someone's makin' these things..?" Returning around the side of the paper screen divider that separates the two areas, she wanders across to offer not one but two cold beers down to Ro, held between her knuckles at the neck. There's another for her, of course, in her other hand. "Who would wanna do that? That's some freaky-deeky shit, even for us."
Eyeing the growing pile of yuck atop his boots, Gray wrinkles her nose; sparing the man himself only an amused glance aside as he strips off. Ta-da, man nipples! "..I'll go start a bath for you." And she pivots on a dainty plimsolled toe to go do just that, though she continues to address him as she moves and even from the bathroom. It's not a big place. "Did it pay well, at least?" Hesitating briefly, she nudges the bathroom door open with a fingertip, peering through the crack before pushing it wide. She's been a little unnerved about closed doors, after that thing the other day.
Of course she sees him. Roland hasn't made any secret of his fascination with the woman, particularly after their rather close match at the shooting range. Is there anything sexier than a woman who can blast a hole in everything in her way?
Whether it's a pity-beer or not, Roland isn't going to protest. His gaze follows Gray as she pushes upright, moving up and down her candy-floss figure with an amused arch of one brow. "Thanks, Honey Bunny." Those skirts are smoothed down with tattooed hands, and he blinks, idly unbuckling his belt and tugging it loose. "I think the term I'm lookin' for," he says with another sharp grin, "Is cognitive dissonance. Damn, girl. You look pretty in pink." He doesn't seem to be too offended that his cat-baby follows the stripper-assassin-waitress-toll-booth-attendant-pizza-delivery-driver rather than staying to dote on his owner; after all, if one could control a feline, what would be the point?
He accepts the two beers, gazing up at Gray for a few moments, his attention lingering on those open buttons at the top of her outfit. One hand -- fortunately, the palm is free of grime -- encircles her ankle lightly, giving a squeeze. His features are a little more serious as he nods, belatedly answering her question. "There were stitch-marks all over the snakes and the gator. And the snakes weren't even the same sort. Copperhead head, cottonmouth, I think.. And the main one, I didn't really recognize. Anyway, man-made. I'm hoping we get a follow-on gig out of it."
When Gray goes to start his bath, he releases her ankle, allowing her to pirhouette away in safety. Rising to his bare feet, he drops his trousers, turning his back to her as he answers the next question. "Paid really well, actually. I insisted on a bonus for not telling me 'bout the gator and shit. He straightens, ambling toward the bathroom with Gun in hand, apparently unwilling to be too far from the troublesome firearm. The way she opens the door -- well, that doesn't surprise him. He hasn't slept with the bedroom door closed since their encounter the other day, either.
Popping one beer and taking a long sip, he leans against the bathroom door in his boxers, watching Gray fill up the bath tub. His skin, beneath the camouflage and t-shirt, is remarkably clean compared to the backs of his hands and his face. "Hey, about the other day. That was weird, right? Like, really fucking weird?"
"Thank you. I know, though." replies Gray, with an utter lack of snark or ego, in regard to her current attire. Handing off the beers, she pouts her lips in an overly-emphasised air kiss in Ro's direction before leaving him to finish undressing. She didn't seem to mind the absent-minded squeeze to her ankle.. it's just a bath does seem urgent if they want to get out in front of that smell. "So.. someone's literally stitchin' these things together, Frankenstein style? That's creepy as balls." There's even a shudder to punctuate the sentiment, before she stoops to turn on the taps full blast.
She lingers a moment here, adding some of her 'good' bath salts with a sprinkle to the surface of the hot water. So what if there's glitter in it? It smells good. Like chocolate and orange. Swirling the water with one hand, fingers drifting through to ensure the temperature is suitable, the blonde then straightens, snagging a handtowel from behind the sink to dry off her palms as she turns. Facing her companion once more, she seems unperturbed by the sight of him lounging there in his boxers. Hell, her first morning here he'd 'forgotten' he had company and wandered bare ass nekkid to the fridge to drink milk straight from the carton. There are few secrets left between them, when it comes to modesty.
As steam begins to cloud the mirror, Gray tilts her head, keeping her gaze level upon Ro's. That wolfish grin, however, does hint toward a mischievous touch of playful contemplation. Will she be nice to him? Suuuure, why not. Sauntering back over to the doorway, she half-turns at the last minute to press her shoulders against the opposite side of the frame, just enough room left to allow her to pass, if she chooses. She doesn't. She stops there. "..you need someone to scrub your back, sweetie?" she teases, with a quirk of one brow. But then it's back to business, such as it is. "What's this 'we' shit? I ain't comin' home lookin' like that!" She indicates the remnants of dirt and blech upon his skin. "Friggin' swamp thing. If that's a kink, it ain't one I've ever been asked for."
Anyway. Waving him past her and toward the tub with an idle 'shooing' motion of her hand, Gray relents as she considers his afterthought. "I think 'really fucking weird' might be the understatement of the century. Little warning, next time you decide to bring some Tim Burton characters home, yeah?" She pauses. "..at least the girl was nice to Miaow." Yeah, she'll concede that. "In a 'she's ten times prettier than you' kinda way, I actually liked her. The dude didn't seem as keen. But we can probably blame that on you. You didn't offer to show her your tattoo, didya?"
No snark, no ego, no attitude -- that's the sort of response that, on any normal day, would make Roland very uneasy indeed. But he's just been through Hell -- well, he's just been out into the Bayou, which is a very close approximation thereof. Nothing scares the man anymore. This might even be a good sign, all things considered. After the day he's had, he's entitled to one or two. "Creepy as balls ain't the half of it. I mean. Fucking monster-gator. Fucking. Monster. Gator. And the rats? They were moving tactically. I literally got outflanked by rats, Fal."
Roland doesn't notice the fancy glitter as the bath salts go into the water, or he might have protested. Then again, he might not. There are certain things that a man has to do, if he wants to win a woman's affection. Smelling of orange and chocolate isn't a bad way to go, even if it comes with a cost. He raises his beer, takes a long gulp as Gray meets his gaze.
Flexes his pecs. It's one of those ridiculously practiced moves that he sometimes unveils, so over-the-top that it has to be a joke. But they do ripple nicely, before he gives up and relaxes again. This may not be as great a power-move as wandering naked through the apartment, but in his defense...he does pay the rent. Gotta give him something, even if it's a punch to the nose.
As Gray eases into the doorway with him, Roland lets one eyebrow come up. He reaches out to play with the strings of her apron, idly twining one around a finger. His face is just comical this close -- stubble and greasepaint and peat mud all combining to render him ludicrously grotesque. "Actually," he replies, "There are a few hard to reach itches." A mud-covered eyebrow inches upward in what he probably means as a suggestive look. But, she's back to business, and -- at least on the surface -- he follows her. Another long gulp of the beer -- the first one is almost gone already. Good thing she brought him two. That's why they're partners. "Well, I mean, I figure you might want to make a little cash. Then I could scrub your back with that loofah. Get you all clean."
Fine, fine. Into the bath he goes. Roland turns and sashays toward the tub, holding his beers and firearm over his head as he gyrates his hips. It's not twerking, but it's... well, it's something. And it gives Gray a chance to fully appreciate, if she hasn't already, the magnificent tramp stamp on the small of his back. MAXIMUM EFFORT with Deadpool stretched out above it, holding a smoking pistol into the air. "I didn't show 'er. She's just...eager. And you're right, I shoulda warned you. I had...no idea. None. How weird that shit was gonna get."
Setting the weapon down, holding onto the beer, Roland strips out of his boxers without, for once, any flourishes. It's just time for a bath. He eases into the steaming water, hissing softly in satisfaction. "Can your crew get us some cold iron ammo? I trust that Peter dude about as far as I can count his teeth, and if they're lying about the gear or about the customers, I wanna be prepared."
Gray gets 1 success on an Occult roll.
"Stop flexin' before you pull something." Gray's admonishment barely qualifies as such, given that she's grinning across at the bare-chested club owner without so much as a hint of unease in his proximity. He knows as well as she does that she won't be intimidated.. which means he's just showing off to amuse himself, and her. The young woman does listen, though, even as she's regarding his greasy, toothy mug up close. "..tactically, huh?" No, she's not mocking him. Not this time. As her pale eyes wander Ro's mischievous features, she's plainly mulling something over. And, true to form, she voices it a splitsecond later. "Don't some leeches do weird mind control shit with animals like that?" There's no further elaboration.. mostly because that's about as much as she can remember, off the top of her head. "You might wanna get some wood tipped rounds, too. Just a thought."
Ignoring the idle toying of his fingertips at the strings of her apron - well, it's not like it was sparkly white anymore anyway - the blonde smirks as the 'boss' begins pondering aloud the merits of getting her equally filthy. "Really? That's the best way you can think of to get me down and dirty, huh? Kinda lacks imagination, for a man of your talents, doesn't it..?" And then he's actually obeying, sashaying his way toward the rapidly filling tub as if he were strutting down some Calvin Klein catwalk or something. Yeah, yeah.. admittedly, her gaze does wander, unseen, over the lines of him as he moves. Kinda inevitable. But the appreciation lingers a little lower than that tramp stamp. "I'm sure you're capable of diverting unwanted advances.. or of taking advantage of them. Hell, I dread to think what kinda tricks creatures like that could pull in the sack, right? Probably trippy as fuck." That's right, she went there. She always goes there. It's part of the reason they get along so well, the total lack of filter. Moving on, though.. "Eh, I'm not mad. Wasn't your fault. I'm just surprised you brought them down here without knowin' what you were dealing with." Pause. "Though, how often do we have any goddamn idea what we're dealing with.." Rhetorical. The correct answer is 'hardly ever'.
Gray waits until he's submerged in the steaming, subtly scented water of the tub before venturing anything further. And it's a simple response to his request, when it comes. "Sure, honey." The delicate rasp to her voice is pleasant, reminiscent of the Chairman's purring somehow.. though with just the same amount of threat regarding claws. Dropping a hand to the pocket of her apron, she produces an iPhone. An older model, of course, with a small crack at one corner of the screen and a protective, neon green and pink case. Apparently it'll take little more than a message to procure his heart's desire.. well, when that desire is cold iron ammo, anyway. That's a simple wish for his fearsome, sarcastic genie to fulfill. Hopefully the next two will be more scintillating. "Yeah.. he gave me weird vibes, too. And not just 'cause of the teeth. There's more to this than they're saying."
"I'll pull you," mutters Roland, in an utterly panache-less retort to Gray's commentary. As they linger there, in such proximity, the smell of cordite can be scented on Roland, beneath all the muck and smoky filth of the bayou. He watches her with his head tipped to one side, like an intelligent, very muddy, dog. Showing off or not, the man does have a surprisingly sharp intellect beneath the ridiculous exterior, and as Gray's mind begins to chew at the problem, Roland watches her with keen attention. "What're you...?" he begins to ask. And then she says. "Huh." Something seems to unsettle the bounty hunter, and he leans his head back against the doorframe. "If it was a leech, that means it was there the whole time. Directing things. Shit." He clears his throat, asks almost sheepishly, "Think you can get me a mag or three? Just in case?"
Thank God, she offers him a lifeline. Roland seizes hold of the innuendos as eagerly as, well, he's seized hold of Gray's apron strings. "I didn't say it was my best idea. Gimme some credit. I got imagination up to here, darlin'." And he stands on tip-toe, holding his hand inches above Gray's platinum locks, before he begins his sashay over to the tub. If he's aware of her scrutiny, he certainly doesn't seem to mind -- after all, what sort of strip club owner would he be, if he minded people looking at naked bodies? Even his own. Apart from the thin web of scars that trace across his frame, and the tramp stamp, he is quite the specimen. Might as well enjoy it, right? On the subject of Faerie lovers, he snorts softly as he slides out of his boxers and into the water. "She's ...ahhhhh, man, marry me, you bitch, this feels so good... She's damaged goods, kiddo. She can be as trippy as she likes, but that woman ain't my speed. She's a dancer, not a lover." A cold, cold, analysis -- dropped blithely, without any qualms.
He hooks one ankle over the edge of the tub, head drooping back as he raises his first bottle of beer and chugs the remains down. "Thanks, darlin'," he responds softly. His own Southern drawl complements her purr nicely, a bass rumble to match her baritone husk. "There's always more to it," he says after a few beats. Popping his second beer, he beckons Gray closer with a lazy crook of one finger, dropping his voice. In a murmur, he adds "We need to meet more like them. See if what they told us is true, or a load'a shit." He sips his second beer, reaches for a bar of soap, begins to scrub beneath the water. Still in that soft murmur, he says "They mentioned some sort'a problem. She had to turn into a dragon to protect him. You remember that? From what?"
"Worst. Proposal. Ever." mutters Gray, without glancing up from her screen. Apparently it's not the first time someone has declared a desire to wed her.. though this one, at least, is for not entirely unsavory reasons. So there's that. A few more taps and swipes and it appears the message has been sent. Hey, what's the point in being the daughter of an infamous mercenary and bounty hunter if you can't pull some militaristic strings now and then? "And isn't everyone damaged in some way..?" she counters, absent-mindedly, as she stows the phone away in her pocket once more. Only then does she cast her gaze back across toward Ro, along with one of those devil-may-care smiles. "It can even be kinda fun, with the right sorta crazy. You don't want one that's gonna cook your rabbit, though, I agree." It'd be hypocritical of her to be in any way perturbed by her companion's analysis.. she's just as black and white, despite her name, when it comes to.. well, almost everything.
Miaow peeks through the doorway, past her frilled ankle socks, just to make sure his humans are behaving. Then he's gone again in a flash. Important Cat Bidness. In the background the sound of the tv is reassuring white noise, the details of whatever's playing now indistinguishable from here but a cheerful ambience all the same.
Pushing up from her lean, Gray pads obligingly across the tiled floor toward the tub, watching Ro swig his beer and get to scrubbing. It's gonna take some serious effort to get him clean. May as well chat to pass the time. And if said chat happens to be about some unusual supernatural customers? So be it. Another day, another dollar. Nodding assent, the blonde eases down to a perch at a corner of the bath by his foot, hands bracing either side of her on the ceramic edge. "Yeah, I remember. And yet he's the one who seemed to be playin' bodyguard. What's that about?" Admirably, she's keeping her gaze levelly on Ro's own; her demeanor relaxed. "I've no idea what their world is like, obviously. But a dragon? Sounds like overkill, to me. I mean, if I wanted to protect you I'd just.. kill whatever was comin' at you. Keep things simple, y'know?"
Turning slightly, she reaches across to the edge of the sink, retrieving a flannel and then tossing it underhand toward his bare chest.
Roland watches that message -- that call for armaments -- being sent with the keen attention of a man whose life may well depend on the text actually being, you know, read. One can hope that Gray isn't an emoji-heavy texter, or he might be in trouble. Once upon a time, nestled onto the tit of the largest military-industrial complex the world has ever known, Roland might have been the one sending a text message. Tap-tap-tap, AIRSTRIKE. Alas, for the simple days of counterinsurgency. "You're right," Roland agrees. He disappears under the water for a moment, murky bubbles emerging, his beer held straight overhead. Emerging some moments later, he adds "But she told me she's basically a four-year-old in an adult's body, and I got the idea that there was some really weird sex shit that went on in the meanwhile." Full. Body. Shudder. "I think I'm gonna give it a pass. She's the sort of damaged you want to wrap in a towel and hand a Rubiks Cube."
Catching sight of Miaow, Roland straightens in the tub, rattling his fingers against the ceramic in an attempt to draw the animal closer. But this cat is no fool. Water? Hell, no. Cat Bidness, or Cat Escape -- either way, the Chairman is off to watch Ru Paul. Or whatever is on, by this point. Roland slumps back into the water. "I notice he's sleeping with you, half the time," he mutters sulkily. "Lucky." Ambiguous, as to which one he means -- the cat, or the woman.
Grease paint is running off his face in streaks now, beginning to reveal the features beneath. When Gray comes and sits beside his foot, Roland idly prods her pink thigh with a damp toe, grinning at her. "I dunno what his deal is," he says as he sips the beer, swishing it around and swallowing, "But I agree. I wouldn't maybe say bodyguard? More... handler. He's holding her leash. That bothers me." In case she might get the wrong idea, might think he's about to turn into some half-assed White Knight, he adds "Tells me he's worried she'll go fucking cray-cray. And worried about what'll happen if she does." He doesn't blink away from her stare as they natter, tracing his damp toe idly up her side -- as far as he can get until she smacks it, anyway.
When she tosses him the cloth, he reaches to grab it from the air -- and misses entirely, blinking as it slaps his chest and sinks beneath the water. Grabbing it up, Roland begins to scrub more industriously. He's focusing on his face now, rubbing hard enough that the skin beneath is red with heat and friction.
"Wow. Because being some sort of fairy princess that can be a dragon that can sing to animals like a Disney movie isn't plenty to deal with.. let's throw in some kinky shit, too. If I wasn't so damn hot, I'd almost be jealous. That's some resume." Gray quirks a brow, the twist of a smirk relenting to an amused grin at Ro's emphasised shudder. "Maybe you should add a Disney room upstairs. Or My Little Pony. Bring in the Neo-Nazi crowd, right?" She's joking. Probably.
The mention of the feline's preferred choice in snuggle-buddies elicits a genuine laugh from the young woman, her fingertips descending to the bathwater so she can flick a fine spray of droplets idly in Ro's direction. "Don't be jealous, sweetie.." Wait. Does she mean in regard to herself or the cat, now? She's deliberately just as unreadable, on that score. Calmly ignoring, for a while, the damp toe nudging at her thigh, darkening the fabric of her uniform where the moisture soaks in, the blonde quiets once again as her employer muses aloud the possibilities, when it comes to the nature of the relationship between the two Lost. "Mmm. Maybe. And didn't they say somethin' about being outcasts? Does that mean 'angsty and misunderstood' or 'we murdered a bunch of people and celebrated the naughty way on top of the pile of corpses'? I mean, no judgement either way. I just wanna know."
As that foot wanders innocuously up toward her ribs, Gray brings her hand back up from the water and traces a single, polished fingernail up along the sole, just enough to be maddeningly ticklish. It's a kindness, really. The initial urge had been just to grab him by the ankle and yank. But attempting to drown one's boss is probably ill-advised, even for her. "You hungry..?" Changing the subject abruptly, she pushes herself back up to a stand, smoothing her skirt in a habitual manner. "I brought a cheesecake home from work."
Starting for the door, she pauses after a couple steps to glance back. "Remember behind your ears. And don't do anything with that washcloth that I wouldn't do, aite?" Like that narrows it down...
Roland snorts another laugh as Gray goes through the list -- and it is quite the list, to be fair. But he really isn't as dumb as he looks -- he doesn't answer immediately. Instead, finally managing to scrub the last of his greasepaint off his face, he wrings the washcloth out in the water. "Fallon Gray," he says -- with solemnity, and gravitas, "The only way I want to fuck a Disney Princess is if you dress up as Ariel for International Mermaid Day. Crazy Fairy Lady ain't a threat to you. Believe me." He flicks water in her direction, looking genuinely scandalized, at the idea of soiling his perfectly above-board and savory bar -- say that with a straight face -- in such a way. "Hey. Heeey. Hey. What the shit, Gray? We punch Nazis, okay? We don't let 'em spend money in the bar. Not even if they're dressed up in their best furry costumes."
But, as ever, the topic swerves. Conversations between Roland and Gray resemble a pinball machine more than they do a straight line, but there's always a thread. There's always a clear line of reasoning, somewhere in the chaos. It's just really, really, hard to see. Roland catches the sprayed water on an open palm, shaking it down into the bath like a wet dog. "I just wish either one'a you would let me join you," he murmurs, faux-sulkily. After all, he can't really complain when his foot is creeping up Gray's side. Was creeping up Gray's side, because suddenly she's tickling him. SPLASH! Roland flails so hard, he slips almost completely under the water. Only the top of his face stays above the surface as he flails, struggling not to spill his beer. Guess she didn't really need to jerk, did she?
"They did, didn't they? Shit. We really, we reaaaally, need to find out what they meant by that." Roland squints up at the ceiling as he pushes himself back out from under the filthy water. "Alright, I guess we got a priority mission right now, kiddo. We need to go out and discover more Lost." Roland turns and flashes a quick, shark-sharp smile over at Gray as she pushes herself upright. "After all, we only promised to keep 'em safe inside the bar." He waggles his brows. "Maybe we get a better deal elsewhere. And yes -- I'd looooove some cheesecake." He seems about to say more, almost certainly profane, when she strikes him dumb with the wash cloth comment.As Gray leaves, were she to look over her shoulder, she would see him holding up the washcloth and examining it thoughtfully. "Well. I could... No. Nooo. No." He calls after Gray, "What would you do with it, babe?"