[Richie, whose life was decidedly lacking in animal adoration and even more lacking in exotic animal know-how, is unsure how to take the nuzzling of a baby fucking hippo. He tries stepping around it real ginger-like but the thing is determined to stay at his heels.]
I don't have food. [He chides somewhat perplexedly, but of course that does nothing to dissuade it. She knows it'll grow up to be a cantankerous, thousand-pound man killer, right?
He manages to get around it and shuffles in after Ros, hands stuck heavy in his pockets and eyes drifting over what damage he can spot from behind. No wonder she had been game for a drink.]
Whiskey's fine, honey. I'm not feeling so particular today. [A beat. Hesitation. There's no real safe topic here, even outside of their distance, the drastic measure between their temperaments. He can't say why he showed up. Well, persistent voicemails aside. Perhaps it's something to do with her reservation. Even in distress she proves herself chilly. That's better than the other people who's doors he could be knocking on.
Even so? Having nothing to say isn't sitting with him so well. He could pick up something in the joint and ramble, make a few pot shots, but instead, he finds himself settling for a simple, hushed:] Where'd they keep your crew?
no subject
I don't have food. [He chides somewhat perplexedly, but of course that does nothing to dissuade it. She knows it'll grow up to be a cantankerous, thousand-pound man killer, right?
He manages to get around it and shuffles in after Ros, hands stuck heavy in his pockets and eyes drifting over what damage he can spot from behind. No wonder she had been game for a drink.]
Whiskey's fine, honey. I'm not feeling so particular today. [A beat. Hesitation. There's no real safe topic here, even outside of their distance, the drastic measure between their temperaments. He can't say why he showed up. Well, persistent voicemails aside. Perhaps it's something to do with her reservation. Even in distress she proves herself chilly. That's better than the other people who's doors he could be knocking on.
Even so? Having nothing to say isn't sitting with him so well. He could pick up something in the joint and ramble, make a few pot shots, but instead, he finds himself settling for a simple, hushed:] Where'd they keep your crew?