Do you know how low one must sink to be to watching Japanese reality TV? Connor asks, stopping short of the threshold to take stock of the scene. It's not one of Bjørn's best looks, draped across the sectional with a soon-to-be-empty blood bag hanging from his lips, but Connor's seen him in worse states and so the vampire's attention slips off from the human's impassive expression and back to the screen.
At the lack of response, the thrall takes half-a-step back to lean his weight against the door jamb and folds his arms across his chest. Not to belabour the point but do you even understand Japanese?
The answer to that is a resounding no, but Bjørn's far too proud to admit he's forgotten all about the subtitles and wouldn't pretending to watch Japanese reality TV fall many rungs lower than watching Japanese reality TV? Gaze still fixed on the screen, the vampire hums. When he speaks, it's out the corner of his mouth, blood bag slipping down his chin. What if I wasn't watching it?
Considering you are, Connor says whilst pushing off the door jamb, I fail to see the point of answering that.
Bjørn's response is a cross between a grunt and a snort, drowned out by the audience laugh track. The forced laughter alone is enough for him to paw at the pillows in search of the remote. The television dings at him, an annoying little jingle he's not yet figured how to mute, and the screen goes dark. He tosses the remote onto the coffee table and pushes himself up, long limbs struggling to read the brain's signalling.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, we see a mythical creature of the night. Vampires are renowned for their grace, although this is a misconception wherein—
—Just shut the **** up, Bjørn interrupts, managing to find his footing — barely. He swipes the empty blood bag from the pillows and throws it across the sitting area into its allotted receptacle by the custom refrigerator. In spite of his body's slow response to neural command, his aim stays true.
Sidestepping the wicker basket filled with low quality crafting bits and bobs — which he usually tinkers with while watching something in earnest, Bjørn rubs at his face and rakes both hands through his hair. It's been cut, but still remains long enough for a ponytail. As he rounds the sectional and leans back against it, he reaches back to pull the frazzled curls into a low ponytail; half of his hair cascades out of it the moment he's snapped the rubber band in place and he's forced to tuck the strands behind his ears.
You reek.
Yes, well, doing your bidding in the sewers all the day would result in pong. Connor shoots a Duchenne smile over his shoulder before continuing to empty the backpack onto the crafting bench.
Bjørn pushes off the couch, eyeing the loot. I've always told you to go at night.
Yes, yes. Rats are nocturnal and the threats are more likely to be overground. Please, do repeat yourself. As if turns out, some of us keep to regular human hours in light of us being, you know, human. Connor hoists the empty backpack onto his shoulder and steps away from the table, giving Bjørn access to the meagre spread.
You staying tonight?
I am. You're not.
A day spent in the sewers means Connor has had plenty of time to harness his irritation and work on his arguments, which is why Bjørn keeps his mouth shut. Instead of pointing out the obvious — that this is his lair — he picks up the silicon bags filled with formaldehyde and rat tails, carries them to the refrigeration unit to put them alongside the rest and makes a note to sort through his inventory at some point this week, though not tonight.
Tonight, as so many nights afore it, he allows himself to be exiled.
At the lack of response, the thrall takes half-a-step back to lean his weight against the door jamb and folds his arms across his chest. Not to belabour the point but do you even understand Japanese?
The answer to that is a resounding no, but Bjørn's far too proud to admit he's forgotten all about the subtitles and wouldn't pretending to watch Japanese reality TV fall many rungs lower than watching Japanese reality TV? Gaze still fixed on the screen, the vampire hums. When he speaks, it's out the corner of his mouth, blood bag slipping down his chin. What if I wasn't watching it?
Considering you are, Connor says whilst pushing off the door jamb, I fail to see the point of answering that.
Bjørn's response is a cross between a grunt and a snort, drowned out by the audience laugh track. The forced laughter alone is enough for him to paw at the pillows in search of the remote. The television dings at him, an annoying little jingle he's not yet figured how to mute, and the screen goes dark. He tosses the remote onto the coffee table and pushes himself up, long limbs struggling to read the brain's signalling.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, we see a mythical creature of the night. Vampires are renowned for their grace, although this is a misconception wherein—
—Just shut the **** up, Bjørn interrupts, managing to find his footing — barely. He swipes the empty blood bag from the pillows and throws it across the sitting area into its allotted receptacle by the custom refrigerator. In spite of his body's slow response to neural command, his aim stays true.
Sidestepping the wicker basket filled with low quality crafting bits and bobs — which he usually tinkers with while watching something in earnest, Bjørn rubs at his face and rakes both hands through his hair. It's been cut, but still remains long enough for a ponytail. As he rounds the sectional and leans back against it, he reaches back to pull the frazzled curls into a low ponytail; half of his hair cascades out of it the moment he's snapped the rubber band in place and he's forced to tuck the strands behind his ears.
You reek.
Yes, well, doing your bidding in the sewers all the day would result in pong. Connor shoots a Duchenne smile over his shoulder before continuing to empty the backpack onto the crafting bench.
Bjørn pushes off the couch, eyeing the loot. I've always told you to go at night.
Yes, yes. Rats are nocturnal and the threats are more likely to be overground. Please, do repeat yourself. As if turns out, some of us keep to regular human hours in light of us being, you know, human. Connor hoists the empty backpack onto his shoulder and steps away from the table, giving Bjørn access to the meagre spread.
You staying tonight?
I am. You're not.
A day spent in the sewers means Connor has had plenty of time to harness his irritation and work on his arguments, which is why Bjørn keeps his mouth shut. Instead of pointing out the obvious — that this is his lair — he picks up the silicon bags filled with formaldehyde and rat tails, carries them to the refrigeration unit to put them alongside the rest and makes a note to sort through his inventory at some point this week, though not tonight.
Tonight, as so many nights afore it, he allows himself to be exiled.