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“–and if you were to look to your left, you’d see–” He gestures towards the side. “–the RD051, a whistle finely tuned to be singularly heard by the army’s attack dogs, easily modifiable for either a group call or a one-on-one specific retrieval on the basis of the already existing chip implants.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Tom sighs, adjusting his hold on his datapad. “Just.” He presses his lips together. Shakes his head. “Don’t.”
“I’ll do it,” Tord says, nevermind actually knowing what it is.
“No.”
“Yes.” Tord still doesn’t know it. He begins to walk backwards, a semblance of replicating what apparently sparked his secretary’s ire. “I’ll. Do. It.”
“They won’t take you seriously.”
“Don’t really care about that.” Tord stops once he reaches Tom. “Will you take me seriously?”
Tom stares at him, at how Tord’s facing him backwards, head over the shoulder to maintain eye contact, hands on his hips, maybe a knee cocked at an angle. “Gee.”
“What shouldn’t I do?”
Another sigh, bigger than the last. “When you present your latest inventions, could you spare the barest hint of professionalism.”
Tord blinks. He’s got a suit and tie. Hadn’t sworn even once. “Top hat, a cane, or a fedora? Should I lose the accent too? Borrow yours.”
“I’m going to punch you.”
“At least that’d make sense.” Tord finally turns around properly. “Surprisingly, I find that I’m actually doing quite the decent job for this practice run.” Granted, it was boring as hell. But is that not the very essence of professionalism? He thought Tom agreed, hadn’t had a single retort the entire time until this very moment. “What shouldn’t I do?”
It seems Tom is at his wits end, the grip on the datapad tightening. Tord spares a second to dwell on whether or not he should reinforce the casing for a sturdier humonster-scratch-proof material before Tom releases one hand from it.
He lifts.
Waves over the RD051.
And shimmies.
Tord blinks. Glances to and fro from Tom’s hand to the whistle. From the whistle to Tom’s hand.
He lifts his own hand.
Waves over the RD051.
And shimm— “Tord!”
“What! You’re doing it too!”
Immediately, Tom stops, fist clenching and—yes, the answer is yes, Tord should definitely replace that datapad’s casing. “Don’t fucking do jazz hands over military weapons.”
“Oh come on, where’s your whimsy?”
Tom frowns. “There’s a solar powered electric chair right over there.”
“Ah, yes, right over there .” Tord splays his hands over the chair, jazzing his hands up.
Tom hits him with the datapad. And hits him again when he doesn’t stop. And again. And again–
“Okay, ow, yeah, okay, I get it.”
“ Stop it. ”
If an outsider of the scene comments on how it took more than a few tries to catch Tom’s hits, he’ll simply not believe it. All that matters is him finally taking a hold of the wrist with the datapad, and the attempted blunt force trauma ceases. Tom glares at him. He has to wiggle the datapad off the other’s grip. Preventive measures.
“How am I supposed to associate an invention as the one I am currently discussing? Would you like me to specify its color? The red one. The other red one. The third red one. They’re all red, Tom.” He swings their connected hands around. Tom glares harder. “Crimson, ruby, burgundy–”
“Moron.”
“Maroon, yeah.”
Tom uses his other hand to hit him. Tord catches that too. The datapad becomes an unfortunate casualty on the ground.
Tord starts swinging both hands now. “Maybe I should shine a spotlight on each creation. I announce the name, then the lights turn on.”
“Gaudy shit. Why can’t you just point at stuff?”
“I point at stuff, then the lights turn on.”
“Oh my fucking god.” A losing battle is what Tom’s fighting, while a dance is apparently what Tord’s doing, as he sways them around, their gripped hands twisting to and fro.
Tord leads them to the side, and shimmies both their hands at a vial in display. “ Arsenic! ” He calls out with a grin, though no spotlight appears. Yet. 80% chance he’ll be sincerely workshopping that. 85%.
However, there still erupts a hint of brightness. It comes from a small snort. Quickly buried into a navy collar, poorly hidden as the other’s lips twitch upwards.
Tord’s grin widens.
“Professional enough, for you?” He asks, bringing Tom closer, one hand wrapping around his waist as he fully intertwines their fingers with the other. “Maybe I really do need that top hat, complete the showman manner.”
A scoff, but Tom’s free hand finds itself fiddling with Tord’s tie. “Whatever.” He sighs, long and winded. Then, his forehead thumps on Tord’s chin. “As long as it isn’t jazz hands.”
“There will definitely be jazz hands. I jazz my hands, then the lights turn on.”
Tord gets a kick for that.