Something stirred in him then; it felt like a memory, but one not his own, distant and muted with age. He stopped where he stood, bringing them both to a full stop quick enough to jolt her small weight in his grasp. Faint as it seemed to her, he could feel the sudden vibrant pounding of his heart, a heavy drumbeat that reverberated through every fiber of his being. The old, familiar rush of adrenaline put him on edge, raising the hair at the nape of his neck.
"What?" The crease in his brow deepened, his jaw tightening to a hard line. He drew a deep breath, releasing it on a tired sigh. He gave a faint shake of his head, putting down her words to the incoherent ramblings of a drunk. The explanation felt hollow, and did not satisfy him; that niggling sense of unease prevailed, as if two sets of warring thoughts were clashing in his mind. "Alright, Living Dead Girl. Let's have a seat til you sober enough to let me get you home. Preferably without any passers-by accusing me of assaulting you."
He turned their unsteady steps back toward the lobby, picking out a slow path back to the broad couch there. Pun or not, she was certainly dead weight, and their progress was both slow and remarkably frustrating. He lowered her to the cushions, not letting go until he was sure she was secure on her perch. "No sudden moves, okay? I don't trust you, and I'm sure you don't trust me. But I'm feeling helpful tonight, so whenever you feel like telling me where to lead your drunk ass, by all means do so."