[ The thing about Amos is that in most situations in life — whether just sitting at a bar under the moonlight or outrunning gunships out in the stars — he's just here. Existing. Things happen or they don't. Bad things, good things, they come at him and he deals with it. What he feels in any given situation or moment is often just — yeah, I'm here, gotta be somewhere. Or, under the threat of impending death — sure, I'd like to keep being somewhere. He can feel things like mounting tension, the way a moment just tightens and the air goes out a little. Or, in good times, he can feel the way it's easy to just be, just breathe, keep being and keep steady. It's hard for him to attribute emotions or feelings to that state of being most of the time, but he's started to get a little better at it.
A little.
So here and now, he thinks the way his shoulders loosen and drop just slightly, the way the guy next to him doesn't quite smile and that feels familiar — it's all kinda...easy. Like a rhythm. That way you come down from a float and let out a breath. It's good, he thinks.
He hasn't really needed or cared to keep up interacting with the people he's met here so far. He's had a few he's thought about more than once since they parted, but not enough that he felt compelled to try looking up their number and check on them. His normal state of being is just doing his own thing, which — isn't good for him for too long, he knows that. And without the influence of his crew here, he's aware he needs — well, some people, anyway. For the moment, it might as well be the guy decked out like he's about to show up to a gala, the guy that's so far easy to talk to.
With the index finger of his left hand, Amos taps the bartop once, twice, and almost-but-not-quite smirks, casting a sidelong glance to him as he tilts his head slightly. ]
Nah, see, you say it like that, now we gotta find out. [ We, because seemingly — at least for the duration of time they're occupying this space together, the guy next to him is his ride-along in this boozy little misadventure. Come on, man, it's better than that melting ice, right? At least it's a — flavor. Of some sort. If not actually a good one, or a good time.
Is Amos fucking with him, though? Also remains to be seen.
Their robot buddy seems to just be — staring(?) at the umbrellas on the ground. Did the thing short circuit, what the fuck —
Wordlessly, Amos gets up from his seat, goes around to the other side of the bar, starts to pick up the umbrellas. Completely inelegant about it, though; he just scoops the bunch of them up between his hands, drops them into the trash, all except one. A little blue-and-white one that he sets down in front of the seat he'd been occupying. He taps Thomas' metallic shoulder, and it seems to jostle something enough that it starts moving again, down to the other end of the bar to wipe it clean with a dry cloth. Amos kneels and starts to look at the bottles there, a slight clanging echoing between them as he moves some around. When he stands up, he's got a bottle in his hand, showing it off. ]
Thomas doesn't know it yet but he's gonna make it up to me and send me back to the city with this bottle of tequila. So what's your drink? You know — the real stuff, not the filler.
no subject
A little.
So here and now, he thinks the way his shoulders loosen and drop just slightly, the way the guy next to him doesn't quite smile and that feels familiar — it's all kinda...easy. Like a rhythm. That way you come down from a float and let out a breath. It's good, he thinks.
He hasn't really needed or cared to keep up interacting with the people he's met here so far. He's had a few he's thought about more than once since they parted, but not enough that he felt compelled to try looking up their number and check on them. His normal state of being is just doing his own thing, which — isn't good for him for too long, he knows that. And without the influence of his crew here, he's aware he needs — well, some people, anyway. For the moment, it might as well be the guy decked out like he's about to show up to a gala, the guy that's so far easy to talk to.
With the index finger of his left hand, Amos taps the bartop once, twice, and almost-but-not-quite smirks, casting a sidelong glance to him as he tilts his head slightly. ]
Nah, see, you say it like that, now we gotta find out. [ We, because seemingly — at least for the duration of time they're occupying this space together, the guy next to him is his ride-along in this boozy little misadventure. Come on, man, it's better than that melting ice, right? At least it's a — flavor. Of some sort. If not actually a good one, or a good time.
Is Amos fucking with him, though? Also remains to be seen.
Their robot buddy seems to just be — staring(?) at the umbrellas on the ground. Did the thing short circuit, what the fuck —
Wordlessly, Amos gets up from his seat, goes around to the other side of the bar, starts to pick up the umbrellas. Completely inelegant about it, though; he just scoops the bunch of them up between his hands, drops them into the trash, all except one. A little blue-and-white one that he sets down in front of the seat he'd been occupying. He taps Thomas' metallic shoulder, and it seems to jostle something enough that it starts moving again, down to the other end of the bar to wipe it clean with a dry cloth. Amos kneels and starts to look at the bottles there, a slight clanging echoing between them as he moves some around. When he stands up, he's got a bottle in his hand, showing it off. ]
Thomas doesn't know it yet but he's gonna make it up to me and send me back to the city with this bottle of tequila. So what's your drink? You know — the real stuff, not the filler.
[ He grabs another glass, an empty one. ]
And ain't you dyin' in that suit?
[ Least they ain't in the full view of the sun. ]