VARIATION ON PILLOW TALK. Post-zombie-battle crash in the hotel room.neverleftharlanJune 7 2011, 03:37:03 UTC
[Raylan collapses in the chair nearest their barred window, peering outside into the dark - or what would be the dark, if floodlights weren't turned on every inch of the former battlefield and the compound's grounds. His skin is still prickling from decontamination, the fresh scrubs provided (not particularly to his taste, but what can you do) chafing raw skin.]
You handle yourself rather well, for a reporter. Plenty with your license still can't shoot for shit in a combat situation.
[Even after Georgia turns off the lights, it's still much too bright in here, and her head is killing her already. She staggers toward the bed, flops backwards onto it, and pauses just long enough to take off her sunglasses before pulling a pillow over her eyes. It doesn't help much.]
Those people don't tend to stay alive for long if they ever go into the field, and they don't make very good reporters if they don't.
Used to be, war correspondents didn't carry weapons. Well, I suppose they could, if they wanted, if they had the paperwork in order, but they didn't always. Didn't have to by law. [He turns away from the window to look George over.] You need a drink? Know I could use one.
If you could convince someone to bring us a Coke... or coffee...
[There's a pause, and then she lifts the pillow off her face just enough to frown at him, in a pained sort of way.] Or did you mean alcohol? [...he can't really mean alcohol.]
[He raises his eyebrows at her.] I did, but I can find you a coke, I'm sure.
[Raylan hoists himself out of the chair and draws the blinds, shutting out the light from beyond the window. That's a bit better, at least. If there's one thing he's grateful for - well, one thing he's grateful for regarding Kellis-Amberlee - it's not having the vision problems so many do these days.]
[She sits up entirely and just stares at him for a moment or two, now that it's dark enough to do that without whimpering.] There's no way it's even legal for you to drink right now. I'm not allowed to take painkillers in the field. Regular, non-narcotic painkillers.
[And she's wondering again how she got stuck with the crazy, possibly suicidal marshal. There have to be sane ones. Somewhere. Even in this day and age.]
[That startles a laugh out of him, and he looks at her again with the same incredulous expression she has.] If there's one thing my people had right before the Rising, it was fighting for their legal privilege to bear arms and their ability to hold liquor.
[He wanders over to the bags they had waiting and pulls out a battered flask, holding it out.] We both just survived was was in all likelihood a sloppy attempt on your life that ended the lives of who knows how many others. As my aunt Helen used to say, if I'm going to die tomorrow, I'm not going to deprive myself today.
[She eyes the flask for a second, then sighs and looks up to meet his eyes with her patented near-emotionless stare. It's probably a lot more unnerving than usual without her sunglasses on.] Lack of fine motor control and pain sensitivity are both early side effects of alcohol consumption and amplification. Call me paranoid, but I don't want to give anyone an excuse to shoot me because I made them a little nervous.
[He stares right back with a boyish sort of innocence on his face.] Yes ma'am.
[Raylan unscrews the top of the flask and takes a pull from it himself, shuffling over to the comm and hitting the button for the equivalent to the concierge in this pseudo-prison hotel.] Excuse me, but Miss Mason would like something to drink. Coke, preferably, coffee if you don't have that.
[The man who's supposed to be keeping her from being assassinated sees nothing wrong with breaking probably several laws and drinking on the job. Even if they are theoretically safe in their room for the night... What is her life. Georgia sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to fight off a migraine by sheer force of will. Strangely, it's not working very well.
After a moment, she mutters grudgingly:] Thank you.
[Raylan leaves her to her sulk and takes another swig at his flask before room service arrives. He takes the pitcher of coke, the glasses, and the tray, and gives the boy delivering it all a very pointed goodbye as the kid leans around the door to try and get a look at the Georgia Mason.
Raylan ends up shutting the door unapologetically on the room service boy's toe.] Must be a fan. Of course, I would imagine most sensible folks are these days.
[He unloads the deliveries and pours her a glass of soda.] I don't suppose you're going to want to stay here long, given what just transpired.
[She is not sulking. Georgia Mason does not sulk. ...she broods.
And she doesn't dignify that comment about fans with an answer, just rolls her eyes, swings off the bed, and moves to grab the glass. She downs almost half of it at once, desperately hoping the caffeine will at least take the edge off her migraine.] No, I don't. I'm not sure anymore that we should be here at all.
Oh, so you'd rather be out there, helping with containment. [That's drawled and sarcastic, and he looks at her again as a librarian might, over invisible glasses. He takes another swig from the flask and screws the cap into place. There's a notepad on the table next to the rest of his belongings. He fishes it up and snags a pen before wandering closer to her, speaking as he writes.]
Wait for things to get quiet and we'll go out through the service entrance around back of the building. Have keys to the service vehicles to get us out of town, will ditch it and work things out from there.
I suppose with your kind of journalism, that's more appealing than sitting here and waiting to be handed off to the next batch of security guards.
[He raises his eyebrows and drops down to sit next to her.]
[She starts off glaring at him, but that fades pretty quickly when he picks up the notepad and starts writing. Sipping her coke a little more slowly now, she waits for him to finish, and then leans over a little to read what he wrote - and there might be the faintest ghost of a smile at that.
George sets her Coke on the bedside table for the moment, and reaches over to take the pad and pen from him as she replies.] Actually, yeah, I think I would. That outbreak might have been because we're here - the least I could do is help clean it up.
Sounds like a plan. Do me a favor and try to refrain from having another drink between now and then, if that's possible for you.
You handle yourself rather well, for a reporter. Plenty with your license still can't shoot for shit in a combat situation.
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Those people don't tend to stay alive for long if they ever go into the field, and they don't make very good reporters if they don't.
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[There's a pause, and then she lifts the pillow off her face just enough to frown at him, in a pained sort of way.] Or did you mean alcohol? [...he can't really mean alcohol.]
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[Raylan hoists himself out of the chair and draws the blinds, shutting out the light from beyond the window. That's a bit better, at least. If there's one thing he's grateful for - well, one thing he's grateful for regarding Kellis-Amberlee - it's not having the vision problems so many do these days.]
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[And she's wondering again how she got stuck with the crazy, possibly suicidal marshal. There have to be sane ones. Somewhere. Even in this day and age.]
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[He wanders over to the bags they had waiting and pulls out a battered flask, holding it out.] We both just survived was was in all likelihood a sloppy attempt on your life that ended the lives of who knows how many others. As my aunt Helen used to say, if I'm going to die tomorrow, I'm not going to deprive myself today.
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[Raylan unscrews the top of the flask and takes a pull from it himself, shuffling over to the comm and hitting the button for the equivalent to the concierge in this pseudo-prison hotel.] Excuse me, but Miss Mason would like something to drink. Coke, preferably, coffee if you don't have that.
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After a moment, she mutters grudgingly:] Thank you.
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Raylan ends up shutting the door unapologetically on the room service boy's toe.] Must be a fan. Of course, I would imagine most sensible folks are these days.
[He unloads the deliveries and pours her a glass of soda.] I don't suppose you're going to want to stay here long, given what just transpired.
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And she doesn't dignify that comment about fans with an answer, just rolls her eyes, swings off the bed, and moves to grab the glass. She downs almost half of it at once, desperately hoping the caffeine will at least take the edge off her migraine.] No, I don't. I'm not sure anymore that we should be here at all.
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Wait for things to get quiet and we'll go out through the service entrance around back of the building. Have keys to the service vehicles to get us out of town, will ditch it and work things out from there.
I suppose with your kind of journalism, that's more appealing than sitting here and waiting to be handed off to the next batch of security guards.
[He raises his eyebrows and drops down to sit next to her.]
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George sets her Coke on the bedside table for the moment, and reaches over to take the pad and pen from him as she replies.] Actually, yeah, I think I would. That outbreak might have been because we're here - the least I could do is help clean it up.
Sounds like a plan. Do me a favor and try to refrain from having another drink between now and then, if that's possible for you.
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