Lady Delyth Bamford (judgingyou) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2014-07-02 16:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-10-08, regan, zoie |
she talks to angels
Who: Regan & Zoie
Where: Zoie & Nora's home
When: Early afternoon
Regan stood on Zoie and Nora’s doorstep, staring down the neighbour with an entertained smile. Mrs What’s-Her-Face didn’t seem to realise that he was going to be the one to win this match if she continued. Having gone and said that, the way he was carrying on he was more likely to dissolve into laughter before he even got round to knocking. He was in the middle of singing Isn’t It Grand, Boys with an accent that was only growing in strength as he went on. Mrs What’s-Her-Face seemed to find it offensive. Or at least… perplexed. Regan just hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and grinned at her.
‘Sorry. He’s Irish,’ Angua offered in a vague attempt to nudge the woman into her own home. As if Regan’s origins were difficult to pinpoint at all, though he supposed the bloody morbid humour his singing provided might raise eyebrows. So he switched to that ditty about the drunken sailor that made him sound worryingly like a pirate and poked at the doorbell. Really, to be perfectly fair, he didn’t see why it was so strange to sing in public. Maybe there were certain songs that might not be entirely appropriate for everyone, but then Regan didn’t pay attention to the majority of them so why should it matter? ‘Because they stare.’ Well… No, he didn’t much care about that part either. Mortals were good at staring. ‘What are you going to do if Nora comes home?’ Interesting question. One which he pondered while his mind’s eye followed Zoie’s presence within the house. Was that creepy? Probably. “Stay as long as possible, then bail out back like the bit on the side? I don’t bloody well know. Stop thinking so far ahead.” ‘But what if--’ “Ah-ah!” They had spoken about this. Angua was not allowed the luxury of what-ifs. Speculation was his area. Not the bat’s. He had had much more practice with it. However, she was allowed to point out when he was being a pillock.
“Zoie,” he called at the door in his most authoritative tone (though the amused edge spoiled it a little). “If you don’t open the door, I’m coming through the fecking window. I’d pick the lock but your neighbour’s watching.” From her porch window now, yes, but he could still see her. And she could probably hear him. Ah, well.