Pipe snickered into his diner-burned shit-brown coffee; John was curled up in the dirt under the van and no one had yet been able to convince him out, which was why they were making this shit-stop pit-stop in the first place. It was probably good that he was, mood he was in - he'd have been trying to take off Billy's head with a chair-back at the first hint of zombies.
John Oxenberger, goddamn axe-man, Joe thought to himself, and did a bit of snickering himself.
Billy, ever the fucking target, just gave him the finger and hunched his shoulders, Joe's sky-grey hoodie hanging loose on his skinny frame. The rings under his eyes made him look like the raccoon that Joe'd never had the trashcans to raid, and his hair was grease-dark and limp, almost covered by the hood, bottle tops studding the edge a testament to a night when everyone else'd been asleep and to more coke than was good for (had ever been good for) Joe.
"Long night Billiam?" he asked, voice sharp like the morning cold. "Long night, Billiam?"
No response. No response but Billy taking the seat next to him and a sip of his coffee, asshole Billy turning to curl his legs over Joe's lap and push about as close as he could get, prickled, spiky Billy pushing his head too hard against Joe's shoulder, sleep-flattened hair cheek-flattened against his face.
She - whoever - wasn't here, and he'd learned that that had to be what counted.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momijizukamori
no subject
Date: 2009-01-11 06:49 pm (UTC)Pipe snickered into his diner-burned shit-brown coffee; John was curled up in the dirt under the van and no one had yet been able to convince him out, which was why they were making this shit-stop pit-stop in the first place. It was probably good that he was, mood he was in - he'd have been trying to take off Billy's head with a chair-back at the first hint of zombies.
John Oxenberger, goddamn axe-man, Joe thought to himself, and did a bit of snickering himself.
Billy, ever the fucking target, just gave him the finger and hunched his shoulders, Joe's sky-grey hoodie hanging loose on his skinny frame. The rings under his eyes made him look like the raccoon that Joe'd never had the trashcans to raid, and his hair was grease-dark and limp, almost covered by the hood, bottle tops studding the edge a testament to a night when everyone else'd been asleep and to more coke than was good for (had ever been good for) Joe.
"Long night Billiam?" he asked, voice sharp like the morning cold. "Long night, Billiam?"
No response. No response but Billy taking the seat next to him and a sip of his coffee, asshole Billy turning to curl his legs over Joe's lap and push about as close as he could get, prickled, spiky Billy pushing his head too hard against Joe's shoulder, sleep-flattened hair cheek-flattened against his face.
She - whoever - wasn't here, and he'd learned that that had to be what counted.
"Long fucking night," he said.