xp_logs | Getting Good Help [Empath and Monet]

Manuel is a zombie. Monet's always wanted a house-zombie. A naked house-zombie.

The hall was almost empty as Monet strode along it. She didn't have anywhere in particular to go, but she preferred to stride as it meant she was less likely to have people start conversations with her. Also, she really really wanted a sandwich. She whisked around the corn and slammed into Manuel. As she staggered to regain her balance she hissed at him.

"Get out of the way, you fool."

Manuel didn't say a word, which was odd for him, but instead flattened himself against the nearest wall to give Monet the maximum amount of space possible for her to pass by. He is also dripping wet, which is highly odd, and his clothes are soaked through.

Monet, randomly annoyed by the world, shook her hair at his behaviour. "You're such a tool. Don't you have a spine, you bootlicker."

Manuel started to bob down towards Monet's aforementioned boots, then straightened up ramrod-straight. Then he turned around and as best he could displayed the existence of a spinal column to Monet.

If Monet hadn't been good at figuring out what obscure communication meant, she probably would have just thought it was some added weirdness on his part as it was, her eyes widened. "Oh," she said. Then her eyes narrowed again, thoughtfully. "Ohhhhh." She smiled. "Come with me."

Manuel turns around obediently to follow Monet to wherever she is going to lead him.

Monet strode back to her room, checking just once to see he was following her. Happy that he was, she made plans.

Manuel waited patiently for someone to tell him what to do next. He didn't move, didn't fidget, didn't twitch - all he did was shiver a bit as the water slowly evaporated from his soaked clothing.

Monet turned to look at him thoughtfully when she arrived at her bedside. "First," she ordered. "Strip. You're dripping on my floor."

Manuel obediently shed every article of clothing he was wearing and dropped the soggy clothes into a pile on Monet's floor.

Rolling her eyes, Monet sighed. "Don't leave the wet things there, put them on..." she glanced around the room, then pointed at a chair. "Leave them on Rahne's chair."

Manuel picked up his soggy things and, still naked as the day he was born, dropped them in a wet heap on Rahne's chair. He then returned to his red-eyed (literally!) slack-jawed waiting.

Monet sat down on the bed. "Now, sit down and remove the nail-polish from my toes," she said, holding out a bottle of remover. "Then you can paint them a new colour."

Manuel sat down on the floor and took the proffered bottle of nail polish remover. He then obediently began to remove the polish from Monet's toes. And yes, it seems that while his _brain_ may not be all the way connected yet, his _body_ apparently is.

After watching for a few moment, Monet shook her head at Manuel's physical reaction and collapsed backwards onto her bed. "This isn't bad," she said aloud. "I could get used to this."

Manuel finished up with Monet's right foot, then started in on her left foot. No wasted movements, no reactions other than the movements of his hands at toenail-polish-removing.

When he'd finished, Monet handed him a small bottle of blue nail-polish. "Put this on my toenails," she said carefully. "Neatly." She lay back down then sat up again. "After the first coat's dry do another," she added, before lying down with her hands folded behind her head, obviously enjoying the attention.

Manuel proceeded to do exactly what Monet instructed him to - apply one coat, neatly, to both feet. Then he stopped, looking at the toenails intently, as if willing them to dry faster.

Monet stared at the ceiling. "I wonder if you're gonna stay this way? It could be very useful. Think of all the time I could save!"

Manuel didn't grace Monet with a reply. Instead, he merely stared at her feet and waited.

Monet didn't mind not being answered, and settled in and thought about other things that she could get done.

After a long enough wait, Manuel applied the second coat of polish to Monet's toenails. Then he recapped the bottle and ... waited. Unnatural.

Monet looked at him, sitting curled on the floor, naked and patient. "Well then," she said, "get up onto the bed and you can brush my hair." She watched him climb to his feet. "A lot," she added.

Manuel climbed onto the bed as instructed, took the hairbrush, and began to brush her hair. Apparently this is something that he's quite familiar with, as his skill at hairbrushing is admirable.

Which is something she appreciates, not having many people available who'll brush her hair. She relaxes into it, comfortable and really quite happy. "Everyone should have their own zombie," she mumbles indistinctly.

Manuel doesn't respond to the flattery, deciding instead to continue to brush hair.

Eventually, even hair brushing wears thin. Monet shifted for a moment. "Stop now," she ordered. "Go and get me some raisin toast. And coffee." She thought for a minute. "A cup of liquid coffee, with one sugar and milk." She shifted back in her bed reaching for a magazine. "Don't take too long."

Manuel got up off of Monet's bed and jogged out of her room, headed down towards the kitchen. Still naked as a jaybird, still not visibly reacting to anything.

Some time later, Monet sighed and tossed her magazine on the bed. "If the fuckwit's gone and gotten lost, I'm getting myself a new zombie," she muttered, and headed down towards the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Manuel waited, his glowing eyes empty and content, coffee in one hand, raisin toast in the other naked and waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.