That finger, as far as Conway is concerned, is a cheap imitation of a real one. It smells far too much like rubber and plastic to pass for a real finger.
Callie, meanwhile, doesn't seem to care that it's rubber and plastic. She wants to eat it. This is why Den now has the company of one dogboy and one actual dog.
He lets his shoulders droop, grinning up at Conway with a sheepish expression. "Damn. Guess I still have some work to do. It's supposed to be for this zombie movie a friend of mine's working on, but-- Well, never mind. I was testing it."
He rubs the tip of his nose with one finger and goes to pet the actual dog, stopping just before he's in range to be bitten. "Uh, can I? Pet her, I mean."
"Well, that's good I guess. Don't have to worry about smell in film. Yet." He gives a low sound that could be a chuckle and ruffles the dog's ears. "Hell of a sense of smell you have."
There's really no use in trying to hide it, anymore, when he makes it so glaringly obvious from the get-go with everyone. He watches the ruffling, then unconsciously scratches behind his own ear. "So, y'make props? Or did you just have a spare finger layin' around?"
"I make props, yeah. Part dog?" Den rubs under the Callie's chin, down her neck, and then sits back in his chair once he's firmly endeared himself to the animal. He grins--only joking, only joking. "So if I said 'sit'!"
You can never tell in Chicago. Sometimes it's just better to test things.
He chuckles and goes back to petting Callie. "Sorry, guy, had to give it a shot. You can never tell around here."
The last comes with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile, open to interpretation. Friend or foe? It's telling, how people react to an opening like that.
"That's true," Conway agrees with a shrug, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Though I will admit I've had the urge to retrieve things. Y'know, like fetch." A pause. "...please don't throw anything, 'cause I won't get it and then we'll both look stupid."
Callie, meanwhile, doesn't seem to care that it's rubber and plastic. She wants to eat it. This is why Den now has the company of one dogboy and one actual dog.
"'s not Halloween, y'know."
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He rubs the tip of his nose with one finger and goes to pet the actual dog, stopping just before he's in range to be bitten. "Uh, can I? Pet her, I mean."
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Conway makes shifty eyes. He really needs to learn to not go around telling people what things smell like. It's weird.
"Yeah, sure! She's very friendly. Aren'tcha, Callie?"
Callie confirms this with a wag of her tail.
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There's really no use in trying to hide it, anymore, when he makes it so glaringly obvious from the get-go with everyone. He watches the ruffling, then unconsciously scratches behind his own ear. "So, y'make props? Or did you just have a spare finger layin' around?"
He chuckles.
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You can never tell in Chicago. Sometimes it's just better to test things.
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Conway Donald Rankin sits for no one.
(Except Rachel Dawes, apparently. But she caught him off guard. Shut up.)
Callie wriggles her way closer to Den, setting her chin on his thigh. There was petting. Why has it stopped?
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The last comes with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile, open to interpretation. Friend or foe? It's telling, how people react to an opening like that.
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"That's true," Conway agrees with a shrug, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Though I will admit I've had the urge to retrieve things. Y'know, like fetch." A pause. "...please don't throw anything, 'cause I won't get it and then we'll both look stupid."
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