"You're joking. You really don't know what a zombie is?"
It's clearly not the first time Elliot had been asked a question similar to this, evident in the tired sigh that parses through his lips, and the way his shoulders slump downward.
"I think you'll find that I don't know what plenty of things are, Doctor. And yes, while you can continue to prod at the points of my ignorance, I'm also equally available to be enlightened, should you be so kind as to inform me."
Crawford raises their eyebrows, and the corners of their mouth tweak upward. They’d noticed that Spencer's exasperation had begun to amuse them — almost in an endearing way. The way his lips pressed together and how his eyebrows tensed; the expressiveness was a reminder that Elliot was just another man. An occasionally condescending and contentious man, no doubt, but a man nonetheless.
"You have a phone, don't you? You know you can just look things up."
Elliot gives them a sideways look. "I'd rather not. Books still exist for a reason. Personally, I preferred when phones were exclusively tethered to walls. Half the time, the thing doesn't even function properly. Not everything needs to be so … multi-purposed."
He pulls the device from his pocket, and clicks the button on the side to demonstrate how the display failed to illuminate with an air of casual triumph, satisfied to have made his point. Crawford reaches a hand over to his phone, still in his hand, and presses a different button on the other side, the screen flickering to life in reply.
"And I figure you also preferred when carriages were drawn by horses. The evolution of technology is a lovely thing, Mister Spencer. Just wait until you find out about the lightbulb. Truly revolutionary stuff."
Elliot huffs, and promptly shoves the phone back into his coat, not bothering to turn it off. The unrelenting light from the screen lit up the inside of his pocket.
"Remind me how old you think me to be, again?"
Crawford stifles a laugh, and makes a show of looking the other up and down.
"Old enough to have seen dinosaurs in person, maybe." They pat the space on the couch next to them. "Sit with me, let's watch something. — Enlighten you, if you will. It’s not like you’ll be walking home anytime soon. ‘Least not without floating downhill."
They shuffle their feet up from the floor, bringing their legs close to their body with the remote gripped in their hand.
Elliot stiffens. While true, he had been in Crawford's flat a number of times before, it was usually a pitstop for a change of clothes, and once, where he got a bullet hole sutured. Part of him - most of him wants to deny the offer, and return to his own lodgings, though it had little more to offer than a mattress on the floor, and a pile of books he'd already read through twice. He'd only come in for a glass of water and some shelter from the torrential rain, after all.
"Alright." His mouth makes the decision for him, and he awkwardly settles upon the cushion. Crawford seems very comfortable, and it felt almost … wrong, to bear witness to them being anything but vigilant to the point of paranoia. "I'm not sure I know enough French to adequately understand their programmes, though."
They snort at that, continuing to flick through what was presumably a list of movies and shows.
"Me neither. And even if I did, I sure as shit wouldn't be watching French television."
Crawford laughs quietly at their own jibe, eyes still locked on the vast selection.
“What I had in mind, was a little more relevant.” The last three words are each punctuated by the press of a button, until the words “Night of the Living Dead”, were distinct on the screen.
“You know Frankenstein, right? I’m pretty sure that was your time.”
“Mary Shelley?” Elliot says, appreciating the feeling of finally being familiar with something. “Of course.”
“Great. This is kind of like that - but not really. A zombie is like,” And Crawford pauses, biting the inside of their lip, trying to find the right words. “A zombie is like if the monster from the book was a lot more stupid, and ate people. And crawled out of graves.”
“That doesn’t sound anything like Frankenstein.” Elliot criticizes.
“Excuse me for trying to give you something to relate to.”
Somewhere in between the banter, Crawford had begun the movie.
“See?” They said, pointing with a splayed hand toward the screen. “It’s in black and white. Feeling right at home, yet?”
“I don’t remember films having sound, and I certainly don’t recall watching them in my own home, so no, not particularly.”
“Jesus.” Crawford crosses their arms and tucks their feet closer toward them. The view of the outside is obscured by heavy rain, and any silence is filled with the sound of water hitting metal rafters. “Everyone’s a critic.”
—
The film is watched without much issue. A fact here, a comment there — Elliot only notices how comfortable he had gotten when he was making a snide, though lighthearted remark about the authenticity of some scenes. He’d sunk into the couch, and Crawford had become rather close to him in proximity. The movie was too laughable (yet captivating) to think much about it, though.
“You’re funny.” Crawford says, recovering from a small laugh incurred by his offhanded comment. “No one ever told me that.”
“And what did they tell you?”
“Nothing in particular. You just don’t seem like the sort of person who would be.”
“Should I apologize?” Elliot sarcastically questions.
“No, no -” Crawford lightly shakes their head with a small grin. “It’s just a nice surprise.”
“Oh,” Elliot says, pausing. The rain is still coming down hard, draining out the dialogue of the actors. “Glad to keep you alert, then.”
The rest of the film proceeds without incident, the two of them realizing that they might actually delight in each other’s company. This realization seems to reach both of them at the same time, and the atmosphere is suitably affected.
—
The film ends, and the ending credits roll.
“Well,” Crawford starts, shuffling to get comfortable on the couch cushion. “What did you think? Do you feel educated, now?”
Elliot gives a curt, closed-mouth laugh. “Sure. In a way, I suppose.” He checks his wristwatch. “It was decent entertainment. Better suited for someone else, though, I imagine.”
“Glad you could at least tolerate it. It isn't one of my favourites either.”
In the room, the comfort they had cultivated between each other over the past few months seemed to have evaporated. Neither of them say anything, and neither of them seem to want to.
“It seems like the rain has passed, for the most part.” Elliot interrupts, the silence almost shattering upon contact with his voice.
Crawford turns their head to look out the window and is for some reason, disappointed, to see that he was right.
“Yeah, yeah - looks like it.”
Another silence settles between them, but no longer is there torrential rain to fill uncomfortable gaps.
Elliot places his hands on his thighs, and rises from the couch, smoothing down his shirt.
“I’d best be off, then. Thank you for having me, Crawford.”
“Wasn’t a problem at all.” Crawford nods, getting up as well. Their legs were numb and cramped, and they felt weirdly dejected. “This was nice. I’ll walk you to the door.”
There’s something weighty in the air as the both of them silently trudge toward the exit. Crawford unbolts the door, and swings it open, motioning for Elliot to leave. He takes one step out of the apartment before the voice behind him asks for his pause.
“Hey,” Crawford says, an index tapping at the rim of the door. “Modernization isn’t all bad, you know?”
Elliot looks like he wants to respond, but is quickly interrupted.
“The museums in the area had some nice renovations done. The Louvre had some stuff added to it in the 80’s. A big pyramid, right in the middle.”
“A pyramid?” Elliot echoes curiously, trying to follow along.
“Not a huge pyramid - but that’s not particularly important. They have an interesting exhibit on display right now. “Making Sacred Images”, I think it’s called. Dramatic paintings, Christian themed. I don’t have any personal ties to the faith, but I’ve always appreciated the aesthetic.”
Crawford inhales deeply through their nose.
“I’m getting off track. I just wanted to ask if you would be interested in potentially accompanying me, if your schedule isn’t too overwhelming. I figure you and your historical insight can bring some unique commentary I’d like to hear.”
With a minute tilt of his head and a couple of blinks, Elliot thinks for a moment.
“Why not. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been able to look at any of the works of the Old Masters.”
“Cool, great.” Crawford measures their tone very carefully, intent on sounding very casual. “Well, I’ll be seeing you. Get home safe, Elliot.”
They close the door, but stay near it, listening to his footsteps as Elliot went down the stairs and finally, out the door.
Crawford breathes a sigh of relief, and something in their stomach flitters. Their face is warm.
The scent of his cigarettes still faintly lingered in the air. As much as they loved the smell of rain, they couldn't bring themselves to open a window.
Sugar Spite: I don't do boys. I just do girls. I just do girls with style and class. I don't do boys. I just do girls. I just do girls with kissable ass.♡
Sugar Spite, my pastel rainbow clown slasher sona. ^^
- Misandrist/Targets men
- Motive: Hate/Revenge [I have a hatred towards men who look down upon myself and other women. I also resent when other slashers say that a cute lady can't do a better job at killing.]
