Although Guns was nowhere near relaxing too much, not with a Bull-Man hybrid in his line of sight, he couldn’t help but notice that the tension that stretched his skin thin over his knuckles had already dissipated almost immediately after it unfurled. On a normal day, it would take Guns several hours before he could completely convince himself not to blow someone’s head off after a particularly exhausting train ride across the city. But with Marijuana only a few feet away from him, his short fuse had already been doused with an overwhelming amount of calm. Soon enough, it would be too soaked for the fire-power to be any more volatile than a lit joint. Guns drew in a breath, allowing cooling smoke to fill his gut in placating manner that eased the jittering of his knee and unclenched the muscles at his calves. Barely a few seconds into meeting Marijuana, Guns was already feeling more languid than he has in a very long time.
His smile returned and grew lazily as his slouch became more and more pronounced in his seat. “I’d never pretend to understand why you even need a bodyguard in the first place,” Guns replied to make it impossible for Marijuana’s bodyguard not to overhear. Guns couldn’t be bothered to sort out the faulty logic in a mortal guarding over an immortal but he was terribly amused by it nonetheless.
For Wes’s sake, he shifted in his seat and adjusted his coat in such a way that the lapels parted to reveal the semi-automatic Guns always kept at his hip. He even took the liberty of thinking about his insatiable need to shoot things a little too liberally than necessary to project the urge nearby mortals. Noticeably, the few bar patrons that had weapons on their person bristled in their seats, their slightly tipsy faces crumbling slightly as if they were suddenly reminded that their mission in life was to compete with the person next to them for ever-dwindling source of food they needed to feed their families. Guns smiled an innocent smile, like a child proud of his own cleverness. Hopefully, that would make the bodyguard fail to enjoy a drink or two in a supposedly quiet little bar littered with unassuming (yet armed) people of New York.
Guns gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Same old. Still selling firearms to people who know how to use it. And I don't mean the Feds." Then at the mention of 'immortal drama' he straightened up a little in his seat. He looked at Marijuana curiously, wading a little out of his Marijuana-induced bout of calm until he became a more interested in Marijuana's news than Marijuana's shirt. "Drama? What drama?"