Church tensed under Wyoming’s hand and his glowered darkened behind his glasses. “No, actually. I feel like exercising my right to have nothing to do with you. And bringing up my Pop ain’t gonna change my mind. So you go have a seat, mate.”
He was actually kind of proud…
“Hey!” Church attempted to protest, being dragged along whether he wanted to be or not. Despite his gentlemanly appearance, age and outward show of ease, Wyoming’s hand was like an iron vice around Church’s arm (Church’s lack of strength in question or not).
The moment Wyoming let him go to sit down, however, Church was turning on his heel to get back to the counter. “Ah don’t care what you have to say about mah Pop. Leave me out of it.”
Dammit. That fucking accent was getting loose again.
Wyoming sat at the table and propped his chin on his fist, watching as Church spun around to stalk off back to the counter.
Wyoming would still be able to talk to him if he was at the counter, but it was the principal of matter - which was, to get Church to sit down and actually
gossip chat with him.
“You know,” he called to the retreating figure, ” we don’t have to talk about the Director. Honestly, I don’t like him all that much myself.” His voice lowered in scandalised horror, “he puts coffee in teacups. And, well, let’s not even mention his goatee.”
He stared critically at Church’s back before turning his attention to his fingernails, buffing them lightly on his sleeve - “You know, we could talk about Tex if you like.”
Any mention of Church’s father and Wyoming’s supposed dislike of him (as if Church would believe that even if it were true) didn’t slow his strategic getaway any. The mention of Tex, however, made him rock to a halt, spin around and stalk back.
He glared down at Wyoming, visibly seething. “What,” he demanded, “do you have to say about Tex?”