Alex teased. He held his phone in one hand, both his elbows on the restaurant table. “I mean, you’ve got fangs in your hand, posing like you’re about to bust out some terrible nerdcore rap, but all this lens flare makes it look like you’ve just joined Starfleet… I don’t know if I’m supposed to think you got these fangs from vampire Klingons or vampire Tupac, y’know?” “Oh, like you’re the guy to critique anyone’s photography,” retorted Jason. Baskets of half-finished gyros and Greek fries sat between the pair. “Didn’t you burn down a church the last time you busted out your camera?” Alex cringed. “I’ve taken pictures since then,” he said, his voice dropping. He wore a blue dress shirt and black slacks, having come over for lunch from work. “And it was just a funeral chapel. Anyway, you know we didn’t take out all the bad guys that night. Why would you want to ask for more trouble?” “Dude, nobody’s listening to us.
