Graham Ross is a (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hauntedsoul) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
It was just like before, him rolling his eyes all exasperated-like and her instructing him on what he should say. That was nice, in a way, familiarity and nobody crying or making a mess of things. Graham just sighed. "Sure. She ain't as pretty as you." Dutiful repetition, but it was teasing; he was humoring her on purpose. He listened to her talk about Marina and her boy, and he chuckled when she made it real clear she didn't want to be a damn thing like the older woman. As for believing in Heaven, all of that, it was real hard to believe. Sometimes he wasn't sure he did, and sometimes he wanted to have faith so bad he thought he could. But he just shrugged, because he understood. He'd struggled with God and religion for a long, long time.
He looked back over his shoulder, one hand on the shaking door. "Yeah. Got some bandages in--"
That was as far as he made it. Graham heard the sounds from outside, like some kind of shots, high-pitch and whistling. He frowned, shot a glance at Clem, and started to move toward the window real slow when the bag came hurtling through the window. It was loud when it hit the ground, and his eyebrows went up in surprise. "The hell?" But it was more of a mutter, under his breath; zombies couldn't climb, yeah? Or throw shit through windows. He heard the slam of something heavy against wood, and it spurred him on into moving forward again, from where he'd paused, step by step bringing him closer to the sill. The crossbow came next, and he just looked down, watched it clatter close to his feet, and figuring it out wasn't rocket science. Ain't no zombie hanging from the edge, but any doubts about who it was were cleared up real quick when the words were spoken.
Shane.
Relief coursed through him, and Graham forgot all about announcing himself first as reached over to help haul him into the room, not caring about how he smelled or all the gore. "Christ. You're a sight for sore eyes."