First, Reno looks thoroughly fucking confused when Roche picks up that thing off the table, evidently his "phone," and then hands it to him. If not for watching him handle it right in front of him, he'd have absolutely no idea what to do with it. This is not a fucking cell phone. This is... something with a touchscreen. Okay. Got it. He can—fuck. Jesus Christ, he's not that old and out of touch yet, he can handle some unfamiliar technology, it just takes him a second to conceptualize the notion of dragging his finger down the screen to scroll up and down. What the fuck is this thing almost comes out of his mouth, but doesn't.
What does is the next thing: ]
Reno.
[ Not Red. Also there's your introduction. They're both master classes in irreverence.
The third thing to happen is that these "answers" are a nightmare to look at. The dates are more than two fucking years ago. It doesn't take more than a few seconds of scanning the messages and timestamps to figure out exactly what these are referring to. This was the fucking plate job. What a fun trip down memory lane! Now it all makes sense. (It makes no sense.) Reno stares and stares and doesn't bother to look up or answer for, oh, a minute, maybe two.
The last thing that happens is that he just starts fucking laughing. Like just kind of helpless, vaguely delirious laughter. It starts off as a haha no fucking way chuckle and then just kind of turns into Reno cracking up a little bit, a snort escaping him right as he hands that "phone" back. In spite of all that, there's nothing especially happy about his expression here; this is the laughter of someone who's excited to officially announce that they're at the end of their fucking rope.
And his answer? His answer for all these lofty accusations? ]
no subject
First, Reno looks thoroughly fucking confused when Roche picks up that thing off the table, evidently his "phone," and then hands it to him. If not for watching him handle it right in front of him, he'd have absolutely no idea what to do with it. This is not a fucking cell phone. This is... something with a touchscreen. Okay. Got it. He can—fuck. Jesus Christ, he's not that old and out of touch yet, he can handle some unfamiliar technology, it just takes him a second to conceptualize the notion of dragging his finger down the screen to scroll up and down. What the fuck is this thing almost comes out of his mouth, but doesn't.
What does is the next thing: ]
Reno.
[ Not Red. Also there's your introduction. They're both master classes in irreverence.
The third thing to happen is that these "answers" are a nightmare to look at. The dates are more than two fucking years ago. It doesn't take more than a few seconds of scanning the messages and timestamps to figure out exactly what these are referring to. This was the fucking plate job. What a fun trip down memory lane! Now it all makes sense. (It makes no sense.) Reno stares and stares and doesn't bother to look up or answer for, oh, a minute, maybe two.
The last thing that happens is that he just starts fucking laughing. Like just kind of helpless, vaguely delirious laughter. It starts off as a haha no fucking way chuckle and then just kind of turns into Reno cracking up a little bit, a snort escaping him right as he hands that "phone" back. In spite of all that, there's nothing especially happy about his expression here; this is the laughter of someone who's excited to officially announce that they're at the end of their fucking rope.
And his answer? His answer for all these lofty accusations? ]
I need another beer. You want one?