Howard's usually not big on people invading his personal space, but R moves so slowly that Howard can see him coming, and he lets R prod at his bony shoulder. He doesn't immediately respond to R's compliment, instead mulling it over. He doesn't feel like a good friend. He feels like someone who hasn't even gone out looking for Eponine yet, who's put Orc out of his mind, who suspected R of wanting to eat him and then asked for his rat.
But is it so unreasonable that R's as lonely as he is - possibly even as scared? It can't be easy being a zombie out here, moving more slowly than everyone else, unable to beg for your life if it comes to it.
And Howard finds that at least having something to do, patching R up, will help him focus on something besides every bump and noise outside. It'll make him feel useful. And he likes that; Howard clings to the idea of being useful, of being indispensable, like a child to a security blanket or a koala to a branch.
He looks back up, resisting the way his stomach flips when his eyes come back to the mess of R's face and the eyeball hanging like fruit from a sick vine. "Okay, hold still." He reaches forward - his hand is shaking, he holds it out for a moment and takes a breath until it isn't. He's never liked gore, never liked dead bodies. Back in the FAYZ he dealt with dead bodies, looting from their clothing, pulling the corpses of toddlers out of vehicles where they'd baked alive when he was salvaging from glove compartments and seat pockets. Those memories come rushing back to him now, humid and suffocating, and for a moment he has to close his eyes and swallow.
Then he reaches forward and grabs the eye. His other hand reaches behind R's head to hold him steady, and Howard shoves the eye back in. It doesn't really pop in; Howard was expecting it to snap in like a leg of an action figure back into the hip socket. It sort of smushes in and isn't entirely round once it's fit back. Howard wipes grime from his fingers onto his pants and sits back. R's already easier on the eyes (no pun intended).
"There, how's that?" Then he follows R's eyes to the rifle, and scoots it behind himself, out of view. "It's okay, dude, it's a prop. I stole it from the fake shooting range. Figure from a distance it's hard to tell that it's not real and..."
warning: dead baby talk
But is it so unreasonable that R's as lonely as he is - possibly even as scared? It can't be easy being a zombie out here, moving more slowly than everyone else, unable to beg for your life if it comes to it.
And Howard finds that at least having something to do, patching R up, will help him focus on something besides every bump and noise outside. It'll make him feel useful. And he likes that; Howard clings to the idea of being useful, of being indispensable, like a child to a security blanket or a koala to a branch.
He looks back up, resisting the way his stomach flips when his eyes come back to the mess of R's face and the eyeball hanging like fruit from a sick vine. "Okay, hold still." He reaches forward - his hand is shaking, he holds it out for a moment and takes a breath until it isn't. He's never liked gore, never liked dead bodies. Back in the FAYZ he dealt with dead bodies, looting from their clothing, pulling the corpses of toddlers out of vehicles where they'd baked alive when he was salvaging from glove compartments and seat pockets. Those memories come rushing back to him now, humid and suffocating, and for a moment he has to close his eyes and swallow.
Then he reaches forward and grabs the eye. His other hand reaches behind R's head to hold him steady, and Howard shoves the eye back in. It doesn't really pop in; Howard was expecting it to snap in like a leg of an action figure back into the hip socket. It sort of smushes in and isn't entirely round once it's fit back. Howard wipes grime from his fingers onto his pants and sits back. R's already easier on the eyes (no pun intended).
"There, how's that?" Then he follows R's eyes to the rifle, and scoots it behind himself, out of view. "It's okay, dude, it's a prop. I stole it from the fake shooting range. Figure from a distance it's hard to tell that it's not real and..."
He shrugs. "I'm an easy target. Always will be."