"Ya need t’get some sleep, spook,” says Dell, finally.
Francois’s eyes snap towards him, then flick back to the motel room door. It’s been a good couple of years since just the two of them were sent out on a contract together; longer than Dell would like, long enough that he knows he’s missed too much.
“I will sleep later,” says Francois, with a dismissive wave. His hand is trembling, just a little, and the marks under his eyes are like bruises, deep and ugly.
Dell kicks the scratchy motel sheets off, flings his legs over the edge of the mattress. “C’mere.”
“Non.”
“Spook.”
“Non.”
“Git yerself over here,” says Dell, giving the mattress a sharp slap.
Francois’s gaze snaps towards him again. “Chérie, je ne suis pas d'humeur.”
“Don’t really give a darn.” Dell pats the bed again. It gets him a roll of the eye, but Francois hauls himself out of the uncomfortable, hard motel chair and over to the equally hard, equally uncomfortable motel bed. He drops down on it next to Dell.
Headlights pass the window outside. Francois’s whole body goes tense as a board. He stares at the window, hard, and Dell slings an arm around his shoulders and hauls him over closer, so it’s skin on warm skin.
“We ain’t nowhere near the target,” says Dell. “And it ain’t hardly a target anyhow. There ain’t gonna be no problems tonight, and we both know it.”
“Zat is ‘ardly ze point,” says Francois.
Dell gives, “maybe not, but it’s still the truth. You gonna lay down with me?”
Francois scrubs at his face with one hand, and then gives a heavy, indulgent sounding breath. “You are a pain in ze ass.”
“So ya keep tellin’ me.” Dell shifts, pressing his shoulder against the headboard. It’s remarkably easy to manhandle Francois down into his lap, between the gunslinger and the fact that Francois hasn’t slept more than three hours in as many days. “I got readin’ t’do anyway, spook. Just lay down.”
Francois mutters something in - Czech? It sounds vaguely insulting and vaguely nonsensical. He closes his eyes, and he does not sleep.
It’s close enough.
