( maker, tony, the yolk of the egg is as edible as the white. these are the thoughts that cross gervais's mind, observing him, though his expression reflects (as ever) approximately none of his internal world and he's busying himself with his own breakfast in a somewhat more businesslike fashion, regardless.
(preudame lays her head on his knee, which pushes it down slightly. he pats her head absently, but his hand doesn't contain a sausage, so it's not a win.) )
J-j-j-—
( he drinks his coffee. )
Work, ( he says, finally, ) you, you, you're on the, ah, the right track.
( it's just the one stage of grief, it's "try and get on with it until you also die", generally. )
[ Tony laughs. Obviously kind of a tense laugh, but it's not disingenuous, a brief smile pressing thin while he navigates his breakfast plate. Maybe he's a picky eater because he certainly is being selective, ignoring slices of ham, the half-running yolk, the slice of bread.
He does pick up the tapered rectangle of cheese, breaking pieces between his fingers. ]
Sorry, uh, gallows humour. [ Badum-chhh. ] I'm good for that, work. You know, with the right tools, or a sense of. Um, purpose, even if that purpose sucks. [ Accepts a bite of cheese. ] I had a lot of projects going at home, actually, building things. Greater good kind of stuff. Here I don't even know what the hell I'm meant to do when I do get up to speed, which. You know.
[ Then he whistles, attention steering down and aside towards the dog. It's to her that he offers out his hand flat, a couple of cheese pieces on offer. ] You break it you buy it, [ he adds, in case she gets ambitious in her appetite.
The ease to which all these words come out so hurried makes it seem like the way he normally operates, as much of a tic as Gervais' own stammer. The fragmentation, however, is more indicative of the cracks beneath the surface. ]
I miss my robots. That's probably weird. Also they can never know, they've been sassy enough as it is.
no subject
(preudame lays her head on his knee, which pushes it down slightly. he pats her head absently, but his hand doesn't contain a sausage, so it's not a win.) )
J-j-j-—
( he drinks his coffee. )
Work, ( he says, finally, ) you, you, you're on the, ah, the right track.
( it's just the one stage of grief, it's "try and get on with it until you also die", generally. )
no subject
He does pick up the tapered rectangle of cheese, breaking pieces between his fingers. ]
Sorry, uh, gallows humour. [ Badum-chhh. ] I'm good for that, work. You know, with the right tools, or a sense of. Um, purpose, even if that purpose sucks. [ Accepts a bite of cheese. ] I had a lot of projects going at home, actually, building things. Greater good kind of stuff. Here I don't even know what the hell I'm meant to do when I do get up to speed, which. You know.
[ Then he whistles, attention steering down and aside towards the dog. It's to her that he offers out his hand flat, a couple of cheese pieces on offer. ] You break it you buy it, [ he adds, in case she gets ambitious in her appetite.
The ease to which all these words come out so hurried makes it seem like the way he normally operates, as much of a tic as Gervais' own stammer. The fragmentation, however, is more indicative of the cracks beneath the surface. ]
I miss my robots. That's probably weird. Also they can never know, they've been sassy enough as it is.