Comment!Fic Collection Part 2
Personality Crisis, Misc, T-1000/Wolverine, PG-13 for fantasticpants
The T-1000 has not encountered a living adversary who could match him physically before.
The man is neither Human nor cyborg. The metal that coats his skeleton contains no processors or moving parts. It is unfamiliar, this is an event which the T-1000 has not encountered before.
Flash of, no other accurate word for it, claws. Faster than should be humanly possible, there are calculations that need to be re-done. Genetic modification was a path humanity never managed to take. A future possibility halted by the rise of machine.
It seems not unlikely, that a parallel universe could have produced modification, mutation.
Though parallel universes are not part of his programming.
However he knows their probability is high enough not to discount the possibility completely.
The T-1000, unlike the older and less advanced models, is not distracted by the unexpected. The unexpected is where improvement lies.
He sways away from a new offensive from the man, the improved, different, mutated man. The one that calls himself Wolverine. Though the animal that once held that name was neither so fast nor so formidable.
Movement and attack that leaves him, for one shifting moment diminished.
Parts of himself pool on the ground, and yet the T-1000 has so far failed to seperate flesh from bone, or indeed metal from flesh.
Every slice, every puncture, every opportunity for an attack has garnered him nothing but the brief, bright appearance of blood.
Wolverine's cells cannot die.
He cannot die.
If this is a human mutation it is a formidable one.
But he learns through repetition and so he continues to attack.
He is ninety eight percent certain that this man does not have the power to destroy him utterly. Slice him into many disconnected parts yes, but not render him inert.
He is inside Wolverine and he can feel the cells reforming around the shell that is his own exterior, trying to push him out, trying to bar him from somewhere he does not belong.
He is curious to know what would happen if he left a piece of himself inside. A piece of himself in that endlessly repairing flesh.
A sharp enough appendage, extended at speed, leaves Wolverine sprawled on the concrete.
There is enough blood that anyone else would be dead. But his cells cannot die which means they produce rapidly.
The T-1000 is briefly curious how the blood pressure does not constantly destroy him. How he doesn't mutate in ways humans would find grotesque.
Human mutation is unpredictable.
Though he thinks Wolverine is something close to what they would consider perfection. He touches its skin, tests it's strength, and finds it...adequate next to his own.
The T-1000, if he had to be a living creature, would choose this shell.
All the Time in The World, Heroes/Doctor Who, Ten/Sylar, PG-13 for capn_mactastic
Sometimes you get to the stage where all worlds look the same, where all the people make the same mistakes and the skies all rain in the same inevitable way.
That's how the Doctor knows to stop and have ice cream.
He finds a little ice cream place in New York city.
And someone to pass the time with, in the most literal of senses, he hasn't done that in ages.
"What are you doing?" Some people are so touchy.
"Sharing your ice cream, Mr Sylar" the Doctor says.
He produces a spoon from nowhere and does exactly that.
"Isn't that a watch?" The Doctor asks with his mouth half full. "Seems a bit silly naming yourself after a watch. What if it had accidentally been a Tag Heuer? Now that's striking fear into the heart of no one?"
The super-powered serial killer really should learn how to be cross properly. He's still at the petulant stage where he believes throwing all his toys out of the pram will get him the attention he craves.
The Doctor would tell him as much but he has his mouth full.
Sylar watches him while he eats, watches him notice that the Doctor isn't quite like everyone else, and then the Doctor watches him consider whether it would be worth exploring that differentness while surrounded by cheerful denizens and many flavours of ice cream.
"I have a power you can't touch," the Doctor says, amused and warning at the same time. "And if you tried to swallow it whole it would scorch your insides to ash- Oh hundreds and thousands, haven't had then for ages!"
The Doctor pokes among the swirls and ripples of pasteurised milk product until he has a ridiculously indulgent portion on their sorry excuse for a spoon and then devours it.
He can see Sylar trying to be quietly threatening on the other side of the table. Staring at the rapidly disappearing ice cream with an expression of quiet menace.
The Doctor twists his head and smiles at him, smiles all the way into crazy and out the other side.
"Oh I'm not afraid of you, I've died under worse than you. I've seen gods who wanted to eat the universe whole. We all love to think we're more important than we actually are."
"And you think you're important?" The question is clearly asked half in mockery. The Doctor indulges in a rather large portion of ice cream before answering.
"I had a friend," the Doctor says slowly. "That reminded me of you. Angry, petulant, grandiose sense of self-importance." The Doctor looks sideways for that one and it's hit somewhere close to centre, dragging a flicker of tension up the edge of Sylar's jaw.
"Oh don't bother to be offended you're just a baby really. Still a thousand years from now, when you have the power to pull the sun down...I might have to come for you as well."
The Doctor licks his spoon clean, and disappears into the crowd.
Explanations, Numb3rs/Torchwood, Colby Granger/Ianto Jones, for mercilynn
"So let me get this straight," Special Agent Colby Granger says carefully. "We can't take Simon Wade into custody because he is in fact-" He looks at Ianto for clarification.
"Because he is in fact an alien bounty hunter yes," Ianto tells him for the third, or perhaps fourth time.
"Right." Colby's voice still manages to hold an entire universe of disbelief, even after the tentacles and the shrink ray and the inter-galactic assassin disguised as a seven year old boy.
"I'm going to need more tequila," he says feelingly.
Ianto, who has some experience with this sort of thing, slides the bottle along the table.
"And the reason no one has noticed the fact that there are aliens running around-" Colby stops, tips his chin up. "Are you going to kill me?"
"No I'm going to retcon you. You won't remember any of this in the morning."
Colby peers at him curiously, as if to judge whether the crazy man from the secret alien organisation is in fact serious.
He seems to come to the conclusion that he is all by himself.
"Man that's cold."
"But understandable," Ianto points out. "It cuts down on the amount of people going 'oh my god there are aliens.' That sort of thing tends to get us noticed."
"You have a very strange- where are you from?"
He looks curious, but also slightly unnerved.
"Cardiff," Ianto tells him, then realises that may not be quite enough. "Wales." There's still the possibility that he hasn't given enough information. "Earth."
"I know where Wales is," Colby tells him. Though there is a certain amount of relieved tequila drinking going on for the next few seconds.
"So you're going to steal my memory?"
"I'm not going to steal it, I'm just going to blank it out, already have done actually. It was in the tequila."
Colby glares at his bottle as if it's entirely to blame.
"So I'm not going to remember anything?"
"No," Ianto tells him. "Sorry."
"Am I going to remember you?"
Colby makes a soft vaguely depressed noise.
"Still," Ianto tells him. "You're highly likely to not be as surprised next time you see an alien-"
He breaks off mid-sentence when Colby drags him in by a fistful of shirt and kisses him.
It's a strange angle, and Colby has had a lot of tequila, but he's a determined man. Ianto has become terribly used to giving determined men what they want. He does so until the counter creaks slightly under their weight.
Then Colby slides away, breathing smoothly against the curve of his jaw.
"You taste like peppermint," he murmurs.
Then promptly passes out on Ianto's shoulder.
Being Human / Life on Mars, A Tale of Two Annie's forrodlox
The one thing Test The Nation manages to prove is that George is ridiculously intelligent but doesn't know anything obvious. Annie watches far too much television and Mitchell knows both a variety of strange and not particularly interesting historical facts and rather too much about sixties and seventies music.
Still it's absolutely pouring outside and there's nothing better to do.
The biscuits are slowly going on a journey across and back across the sofa. Occasionally Annie will eye then with a vaguely depressed expression.
The answer to the fifth question is 'Manchester.'
"My Auntie used to live in Manchester," Annie says helpfully.
"Well I wouldn't want to live in Manchester, twenty years and it'll be some sort of giant Metropolis policed by armed robots," George says absently.
"I thought dire portents of the future were my responsibility," Mitchell points out, and tries to slide the biscuits out from George's relaxed hand.
A mission doomed to end in failure.
"She fell in love with a man that thought he was from the future," Annie adds.
George and Mitchell cease their battle over the biscuits, and Manchester, and both turn to look at her.
"He thought he was from the future," George says carefully.
Annie, sensing she has a captive audience, nods.
"Yeah, he thought he came from thirty odd years in the future. Not like screaming and raving and stuff...well sometimes if you talk to her when she's in one of those moods I get the impression that maybe there was a little screaming and raving. Not enough to get locked away though obviously."
"When was this?"
"Bout nineteen seventy five or so," Annie shifts on the sofa, tucks her feet up underneath her like she's cold.
"There was a girl in the television that used to talk to 'im and everything."
The biscuits tumble under one of the sofa cushions and George is going to cross about that later.
"A girl in the television?" Mitchell is actually managing to look surprised.
"The one that used to do the noughts and crosses when all the programs had finished for the night."
"The test card girl," Mitchell supplies.
George is still boggling, in his oh so very George-like way.
"What happened to him?" He asked quietly.
"Oh he disappeared, drove into a river they say but no one ever found his body."
"That's- I don't even know what to say," George says honestly.
"Was a bit exciting then I would imagine," Annie decides, then pushes her hair out of her face. "Before Star Trek the Next Generation...then there were people thinking they were from the future all over the bloody place."
Hair, Mighty Boosh, Gen, fluff for iniq
"What have you done to your hair?" Howard asks, though he's aware before the sentence has completely escaped that there's rather too much shock, horror and panic for even Vince to fail to spot.
The hair is the same from every angle, Howard knows, Howard has checked. It's like modern architecture meets an eighties revival and after a wild drunken party they conceive a hairspray flavoured love child.
"What's the matter, I couldn't tell if you were going out or coming in?"
Vince's arms fold in complicated ways until he has his hands balanced on his hips.
"What are you talking about, this is the future of hair, I'm decades before my time, this so is so close to the cutting edge of fashion I'm lucky I still have all my fingers!"
Howard hopes his facial expression does something to convey his inner feelings.
Vince huffs. "You're just jealous of the hair."
"I'm not jealous of the hair, I'm afraid for the hair, I want to sit it down and give it a warm cup of tea and a foil blanket." Howard tries to keep his voice level, but he fears a less than sensible strain of 'disturbed bystander' has crept in.
Vince makes a face down his own nose at him. Howard remains obstinate in his opinions.
"People love this hair."
"People," Howard says suspiciously.
"Real people," Vince raises his hands, waves them at head height, as if to smooth his new hair's hurt feelings without touching it. "They're loving it!"
"Oh they are are they," Howard isn't sure quite how close to get to the hair, it may have magnetic properties. "What did you do, ask a starling?"
"It was a Sparrow actually."
"Of course it was," Howard says sensibly. "And you were listening to a Sparrow's opinion on your hair why exactly, they have feathers."
"Yeah, well they've built up an entire history of hair envy, they're hair connoisseurs, they know what they're talking about."
"They're talking bollocks," Howard says, with what he believes is probably the honesty that Vince deserves.
"You've got to have the right sort of brain waves to carry off hair like this, put the wrong sort of brain under this 'do' and it'd collapse like a wet souffle." Vince makes his hair smoothing motions again.
Howard gives in, and resolves to pretend the hair doesn't exist, until such time as it's gone, or it manages to save the world in some astonishingly unlikely way.
"Yes, yes, whatever. I'm sure you have other people to show your hair to. I'm sure you have better things to do, like counting how many Smarties you can fit in a shoe."
"Don't be mad Howard, why would I put Smarties in a shoe? What would I do with a shoe full of Smarties?"
"Eat them?" Howard suggests, which seems the only possible sensible answer.
Vince eyes him like he's the maddest person in the whole world.
"After they've been in a shoe, I don't think so."
Mobile, Life on Mars, Sam/Annie, mobile phones for aprilechidna5
Sam Tyler and Annie Cartwright are currently laying in a field
Because neither of them are on duty. And since there's no one around and nothing resembling 'suspicious activity' is going on they're not quite coppers at the moment.
They are probably going to go blind if they stare at the sky for much longer though, but Annie is still laughing at the word 'Playstation' and Sam can't quite bring himself to care.
There weren't exactly any keep out signs but there hadn't exactly been open gates and lemonade stalls either. Sam knows it's a field that doesn't belong to them and would, under any other circumstances, probably get them chased by angry cows, or angry farmers.
Though Sam suspects this field hasn't seen a cow for decades.
Still he can imagine cows if he wants to.
It wouldn't be the worst thing he's imagined after all.
They're talking about the future.
Talking about the future, where no one can see.
Talking about the future in a way that's finally, finally free of any sort of frustration, or recrimination.
Talking about mobile phones and computers under a seventies sky.
"They're really going to be that small, seriously?" Annie's hair rustles on the grass when she turns it to the side.
"Why not, they managed to turn an entire switchboard service into something that could fit in a car in under twenty years."
Annie makes a soft noise that seems to suggest she can't argue with that.
"What do you think a phone will look like in thirty more?"
Annie doesn't have an answer for that, she pulls a face at him instead, tipping her head so her hair fans over the sun-warmed shoulder of his jacket.
"Can you call Australia on them?"
"You can," Sam admits. "Though the phone bill will ruin your whole month."
"But I have to wait thirty years for phones to be small enough to hide in a bra?" She says through another laugh, then shifts in the grass until she can lean up on an elbow, all smiles and amusement outlined in afternoon sunlight.
"In thirty years I'll buy you one," he promises. "Though by then I might have forgotten how to use it," Sam admits.
Russian Words, Chuck, Chuck/Casey, PG-13 for nikki74
Chuck normally enjoys learning things.
Normal learning things, where you were given information in friendly conversation or page sized snapshots.
He's learnt something today.
Russian is hard.
Russian apparently requires extra teeth, or more throat, it's a waterfall of a language where extra throat and extra teeth combine to form new and interesting consonants that Chuck is unfamiliar with.
Klingon is easy compared to this. Klingon is just enthusiasm and saliva.
Russian is like a gymnastics competition in his mouth.
And granted yes, that analogy has gone to a scary place but it's still technically sound.
The worst thing about Russian. The worst thing is that Casey already speaks it and is thus now mocking him in two tongues, which is blatantly unfair. Because normally Casey gets to do the hitting things and Chuck gets to do the thinking in full sentences. But at this very moment in time asking for directions to the train station is proving almost physically impossible.
"Hmm," Casey says.
Which really isn't all that helpful.
"Was that a good 'hmm' or a bad 'hmm' because you know sometimes with you it's hard to tell."
Casey gives him nothing.
"You're not helping," Chuck takes the opportunity to poke the air in front of him with a finger. "You're really bad at this!"
Casey catches his poking finger in the middle of the table and uses it to hold the rest of his hand to ransom.
"Ow, ow, ow!"
Chuck drags his hand protectively into his chest the moment Casey lets go of it. He checks briefly to make sure it hasn't been horribly mutilated.
"Look, I may conform to certain geek stereotypes but I am deeply troubled by all the casual physical violence, could you sometimes please just tell me what you want. It's why we invented words. Unless you get some cheap thrill out of invading my personal space and injuring me."
"It's a perk of the job," Casey says smoothly. "Again!"
"I am incapable of asking for directions to the train station." Chuck protests. "I'm clearly forever doomed to wander Russia in the hope of randomly coming across one, because my tongue does not do that!!"
One of Casey's hands snatches his tie and pulls him across the table.
He's not expecting the kissing, and he has his mouth open to protest and suddenly everything is very, very surprising indeed.
Oh my god apparently his tongue does do that...when it's given the proper motivation. And Casey is good at the motivational part. Chuck's hand slides across the surface of the table, flails for a second in mid-air, then finds an arm and decides that using it to make sure he doesn't actually fall on Casey would be a good thing!
There is apparently a secret art to Russian that Chuck has been unaware of.
Then abruptly he's dumped back in his seat, mouth wet and stinging and his hair an absolute wreck.
Casey glares at him for half a second.
"Again," he says.
Chuck takes a second to remind himself how to form words, then very carefully reproduces the mangled set of consonants, and this time he thinks he might have got it.....
Cake or Death, Firefly, Jayne/Mal, NC-17 for kat_lair
Mal is not having a good day.
For a start he's locked in an eight by twelve cell, that can put a crimp in anyone's day.
And some highly suspicious blue chemical is currently working it's way through his veins in a manner that's designed to upset the delicate balances of it if he isn't...taken advantage of and he finds the whole thing fairly well in keeping with how the universe likes to treat him.
Damned if that didn't almost sound friendly in his head.
And the only person within a million miles is Jayne. So, in all, the universe has a lot to answer for.
"Want me to go hammer on the door again?"
"Didn't do any good the last time." Mal's pretty sure they've all gone anyways and a load of hollering and pounding wouldn't be good for his blood pressure right at this moment in time.
What sort of lunatic would even engineer something that took all the fun out of sex and made it all about exploding hearts and horrible gruesome death anyway?
"How's about if I don't look?" Jayne asks.
"I'm pretty sure I'd still notice," Mal points out and glares at the door in the hope that some devious escape plan will make itself known. Possibly in a secret message under the rust.
"You're gonna let me anyways," Jayne says sensibly. "Might as well get it over with before there's blood and unpleasantness."
Mal knows it will put somewhat of a snag in the plan if he shoots Jayne now but he is so very sorely tempted. He doesn't think Jayne's corpse would make for good company in the last hours of his life. He suspects it would stare at him accusingly in a way that would, in fact, make it very unpleasant.
He could always shoot him afterwards?
"And you ain't allowed to shoot me after."
"Thought never crossed my mind," Mal says without a pause. But he stands up, and glares, and paces a little, a lot, a dizzying damned amount. Before he finally stops pretty much back where he started and jabs a finger in the air.
"We don't talk about this, we don't think about this, we do not refer to this with hand gestures or facial expressions or in any way acknowledge that it happened at all. Are we clear on that? Because if we're not someone is going to get accidentally shot someplace that'll make them limp for a long time."
By the time he's finished his dire warnings Jayne is standing pretty much where his finger is.
"You're gonna make this no fun at all aren't you," Jayne complains.
"This isn't supposed to be fun, this is saving your captain from certain death."
"Then it's work?" Jayne works his way through frown number twenty seven. "Do I get paid."
"No you do not get paid," Mal says in a voice he's fairly sure could cut through glass, given the need...and some glass.
He manages to accidentally on purpose smack Jayne in the ribs while divesting himself of his pants. He quickly realises he's going to have to get rid of his shirt too or the damn thing will get in the way. He does so, with much annoyed arm waving. Jayne rolls his eyes like Mal's undressing is some sort of unnecessary theatre.
"You're going to have to touch me for this to work," Mal points out.
Which Jayne seems to take as permission, he snags Mal's shirt out of his hands and tosses it somewhere across the cell.
"Where are we-"
"Wall'l do," Jayne decides, and Mal would kind of like to protest at that assumption, but there are already warm hands on his waist and cold concrete at his back and he's pretty much on the losing end here whatever.
"Do we even have-"
"S'in my pocket."
"Jayne of all the places I want to freely put my hand-"
"This ain't gonna be fun for you without," Jayne points out and so there is pocket searching, and Mal learns in the most random of ways what Jayne likes to keep in his pockets.
But he has what he's looking for and it's just a question of opening it while his fingers are still taking orders from his brain. But he never manages that because he finds his hand pushed into the concrete while the cap goes skittering across the floor.
"I wanna do it," Jayne says carefully, and Mal can't help the way his wrist flexes under Jayne's fingers. He swallows because this is saving him from certain death, it's not, it's not-
Jayne drags one of his legs all the way up to his waist, leans in until all the breath just falls out of him.
He has large hands and Mal has always been aware of this in a vague 'probably noticed since he's kind of huge anyways' sort of way but this is different, this is a lot different. Because the push and slide of one oiled finger is entirely different to the sort of exploration he might have, a time or two, let women indulge in. And if the noises he accidentally made might have encouraged that one finger to become two, well he's not taking the blame for that.
Jayne's other hand is moving now as well, dragging the buttons of his pants open and Mal isn't the sort of man who likes to be surprised, so he shifts his head and looks down, and then wishes like hell that he hadn't.
He's forgotten how to make facial expressions so he settles for swallowing something that wants to be either hysterical laughter or a protest of epic proportions.
But he doesn't do either, he just shifts under Jayne's hands, lets him in close, lets him twist and lift his limbs just right. Then Jayne presses in, presses all the way in and Mal can't catch his breath and that is more than he was expecting, deeper than he was expecting. One long impossible ache that he just takes and takes without question.
Mal reminds himself furiously that this is just assistance in the whole 'not dying' thing and is in no way just random sex. That he thinks he's not entirely, not absolutely, not enjoying.
He finds muscle soft enough to dig his fingers into, which produces the sort of enthusiasm that pushes a groan out of him. The hand that isn't wrapped round his thigh slams into the wall, braces there, and the pushes after it are a different sort of intense altogether.
He stops holding the noises then and just lets them out, damn it all he needs to breathe more than he needs to keep what's left of his considerably frayed dignity.
He tenses his thigh where it's balanced, and he barely realises it could perhaps be taken as encouraging. Jayne chooses to take it as such though, and after a surprised grunt the hand on the wall moves, and a second later it's shoved between them, awkward in the bare space, palm slippery against his cock, and good in all the ways that matter.
Good in the only way that currently matters and everything is briefly quite loud, and insistent and he has a vague memory of biting something, and a push that nearly breaks him.
Then it's all just bright light and breath in his ear.
Ok, make that no dignity at all.
And he thinks he's going to be mighty uncomfortable for a while.
"Are you not going to die yet?" Jayne asks into the damp side of his neck.
Which Mal thinks is perhaps, under the circumstances, the stupidest question ever.
Just Pretending, Torchwood, Ianto/Owen, R for kat_lair
"Well isn't this a shithole," Owen says feelingly.
"It's certainly not somewhere I would have chosen for clandestine operations," Ianto says quietly. He doesn't watch Owen slide onto the stool next to him. He's ordered a drink already, something complicated and colourful that looks like it should have an umbrella in it.
Ianto can be random at the oddest of moments. Owen leans over him, lifts the glass and pulls it close enough that he can tip it up and taste it himself.
"No bad," he offers, sets it back down halfway between them.
Ianto drags the drink back within reach, tilts his head to the side just enough that Owen can see the edge of his mouth.
"All set up is it?" Owen asks.
"Yes," Ianto says simply.
"Come on then," Owen grumbles against the pale curve of his cheek. "Kiss me for the security cameras."
His voice is bored, bitter, verging on something close to irritation. He watches Ianto sigh into his ridiculous drink over what clearly wants to be a scowl and is vindictively glad that he's managed to hit a nerve. Though which one and what it means Owen doesn't much care.
He puts a hand on the back of Ianto's neck. His skin is much warmer than Owen's fingers, which curl up into the ends of his hair, trailing through the strands. Ianto is far too professional to pull away, what he does is follow the plan. Every detail without question because he's the obedient one. Owen is the one who has a tendency to fuck with the details.
He finds Ianto's mouth still half turning, catches it open and wet, and it tastes like the drink, inside and out. Wet lines of fruit and sharpness and alcohol laid over something that's simply Ianto. The kiss isn't elegant, or tidy; at the moment it's barely even mutual. Owen is taking advantage and he fucking knows it. But Owen never, never gets to push Ianto like this, and while he has the opportunity he's taking it.
He pulls his mouth away, lets Ianto breathe.
"You can do a better job than that," Owen says into the edge of his mouth. "You're supposed to be convincing the nice alien security guard that you want to fuck me."
He watches Ianto's nostrils flare, watches his eyes flicker down to his mouth and then he slams Owen into the edge of the bar and tries to kiss the smile all the way off of his face. There are cold fingers untangling his belt, slipping into the loosened waistband beneath it and it's surprising enough that Owen snatches a breath, and lets them slide all the way down.
Ianto's fingers drift over the bare line of his cock, making a fucking point in a way that has him twitching and hardening while his grip slowly tightens. Then Ianto's mouth is gone, the side of his jaw stinging from the quick bite of teeth.
"Better?" Ianto asks smoothly.
Owen catches Ianto's wrist before he can pull it away, presses it down, and the fingers twitch against him.
"Much better," he agrees.
Being Human/Torchwood, Introductions, George/Owen, PG-13 master_kogane
When George wakes up there's a man in the basement with him. Thin, pale, unhappy looking, he's also not in pieces. He's sprawled on one of the bed frames, ankles crossed, dividing his attention between George and what looks like an old leaflet on nuclear fallout.
"Owen," the stranger provides. "Oh don't mind me I was just put here to make sure you didn't grow spines after that encounter with the walking puffer fish you had last night."
"What?" George manages, because that makes no sense, and he's naked...and the man- Owen has been trapped in here with him but isn't eaten. Though there is a lingering memory at the back of his head.
"You're- I smelled you when I came in, you smelled-"
George pulls a face, because he thinks for one brief moment that Owen will be offended. But when he simply continues to stare George nods.
"Nasty accident I had that unfortunately Bupa doesn't cover," he says, tossing the leaflet to one side when it fails to hold his interest. "Though you don't seem to be all that surprised."
"I'm rethinking my ideas on what's surprising lately."
"Sensible outlook that, specially with the changing into a wolf once a month."
Owen glances round the basement.
"Still even that has to lack a little fun if you have to shut yourself in a big metal room."
"It's better than the alternative," George tells him, which gets him nothing but grumbling and an expression which manages to know far, far too much.
"So you're a...zombie?"
"Perhaps not the most flattering way to phrase it, but until such time as I find a neat little compartment to fit myself in that's probably the one that suits me best."
Owen tosses him his bag.
"Put some clothes on will you, I don't know you half well enough to have naked conversations with you."
George has almost forgotten the fact that he hasn't actually gotten dressed yet.
"So, who are you again, and where did you- no what was that thing last night?"
Owen swings his legs round, and stands up.
"Your friend will be back in a while to let us both out. Buy a zombie a drink and I'll tell you all about it. And if you're very nice I'll let you put your finger in my bullet hole."