evidence of absence
One brow cocks as Nate starts going on his own little tangent about pain and broken bones. “At least I’d get some sleep if you knocked me out. You snore and in that tiny truck it practically echoes in my eardrums.” While he says so he twitches back on the counter and tries to pull his foot away when the wrapping gets pulled a little too tight.
“I’d stop wiggling if you’d learn how to do that shit better. Seriously man you’ve had enough practice by now.” Considering how often Russell seemed to be on the receiving end of their mishaps. He stops fidgeting long enough for Nate to finish the job and then he leans back on his hands with a long drawn out sigh. They should have just kept driving and found some place to loot that was closer to the road rather than go so far off the trail. They were probably going to be stuck here for the night, maybe even the next day and there’s no telling whether or not there was food or water in the old shop.
As if to remind him of it his stomach grumbles. When had they last eaten?
Dark eyes roll to the side before fixing on Nate, “If by better you mean it aches and I’m pretty sure I can’t feel anything around the area then yeah sure, it’s great.” Russell leans forward and to the side, chest brushing the tops of his thighs so he can get a better look at what Nate’s doing as he searches for anything of use. Unable to see anything from his vantage point he sits back up and turns to stretch one leg out on the counter — eyeing the wrapped ankle nervously. It hurt like hell.
Russell pokes at the hammer with a bored sort of curiosity but then he shoves it back at Nate a second later, “Well I would be if we had any coffee to make.” He frowns, “I miss coffee.”
Even though Nate had stopped himself from finishing the word ‘Gran’ it was painfully obvious. Russell stares at the mug for another breath and then lays back on the counter to stare at the pockmarked ceiling. He tried not to think about it. The burned out husk of a house or the infested streets of his hometown, but now and then the smell of charred wood would come back to him in his dreams. He’d wake up to Nate shaking him and telling him to shut up. He’s pretty sure he didn’t scream in his sleep, but the mumbling must be irritating enough to get Nate’s attention anyway.
“Maybe we could throw it at the walkers.” Russell suggests, halfheartedly while he starts to think of impromptu weapons they could put together from the store’s knickknacks.
S n o r i n’ ? -The trucker wrinkles his nose, a poor attempt at batting the mirth of his mug for ample time to deliver what Russ could already assume was nasty news, just from experiencing it first hand, and oh--just about every other time Nate mused aloud.- And all this time I thought me jerkin’ it was what kept you tossin’ and turnin’. -A loud snort accompanies his own insinuations as he gives the poorly wrapped ankle a bearishly unnecessary pat. A few of them actually.-
And you had enough practice gettin’ the shit knocked outta ya to stop moanin’ like a pussy by now. But that don’t mean you have, now--does it? -It’s laughable, really, how often this little shit winds up hurt, sore, and practically begging Nate not to help, just because every malignant attempt seemed to prolong the suffering rather than ease it. Needless to say, if he knew how to numb the stuff without his whiskey backwash, he’d have tried it by now, that’s for fucking sure.
He pats the area again, just for that extra “helpful” interjection of sass; it’s not like he needs it to know they’re dick deep into a cheese grater, here. Kind of ironic, seeing as these tourist traps would bleed you dry, even without the hoard of hungry walkers humping the walls.- Good, you can pretend the whiskey you’re gettin’ later’s coffee then. ‘Cause I am not listenin’ to you whine your little toesie woesies there.
-Honestly, he’s surprised the kid’s even stuck around this long after the incident. But that charred home was like every dream the kid held onto for who knows how long? Couldn’t say he understood that particular feeling. He probably would have laughed if he saw his folks’ house like that. Ashes from ashes and ashes from dicks or however that saying went. Still, he’d rather keep the clumsy fuck around, so he bit his tongue and hurried under the blanket edge Russ had lifted for him to escape under, or at least coax him under because he looked too tired for a fight.- If you wanna be that dick who makes a Speedy Gonzales walker by giving it caffeine, can ya do it when I’m in the other room? -Hopping over the counter, he wedges himself under Russell’s arm and lifts.- All right, let’s unzip and fuck off. Thought I saw some stairs going down in the hall back there. Which obviously means moonshiners. Or, y’know--a really dank basement with a window outta this hellhole.
...Or both.
