Disclaimer: I don't own Matt or Mello, nor do I own Zeb, who belongs to . Yay Zeb! :D

A/N: Okay, sorry about the wait, I was having trouble with this chapter. But good news! I have about two chapters planned out for after this one! And the best part is that I may be beginning to wade out of the bog of fluff I've found myself in! Alright, on with the story here.

Chapter 10: Personification

Somehow, Mello and I both made it through dinner alive. I didn't die from poisoned soup; Mello didn't die laughing. Something about my request to switch bowls struck him as funny, and he laughed even harder when he realized that I was dead serious.

It was so good to know he took me seriously.

"You get to do the dishes," he informed me after we were finished, getting up and dumping his bowl in the sink.

"I figured, since you cooked." I turned the water on and started filling the dishpan in the sink.

Mello leaned against the fridge. I wasn't sure how he was doing that – I could see him twitching, and leaning on the refrigerator in such a way that he could watch me must've hurt like hell. "Does your dishwasher not work?"

I added a few squirts of dish soap to the water. "No, it's completely dead. It was like that when I moved in."

"It? No he? No she?"

"It was already dead when I moved in, I wasn't going to name it post-mortem, that would just be wrong."

Even though I wasn't looking at him, I could imagine the look on his face. It was the same one I'd seen when I'd first explained about Philbrook. "Matt," he said, with the air of someone talking to someone particularly dim, "it's a machine. It can't be dead, since it was never alive!"

Before I could respond, there was a ding from the other end of the counter, followed by a rattle, which was quickly silenced, presumably because Mello had glared at poor Philbrook hard enough to fry his circuitry. "Have you seriously never named an appliance? Ever?"

"No. I'm not that stupid."

"Piece of furniture?"

He paused. "…No."

Well, that was the most blatant lie I'd heard all day. "Spill," I commanded.

"I said I never named furniture!"

I grinned over my shoulder at him. "Oh, come on, you have too! Come on, tell me, it might be related to somebody here! You could find your coffee table's long-lost cousin or something!"

The annoyance was practically radiating off him by then. "I've been meaning to ask you, what did you do with my gun?"

"You're not going to shoot me because I made fun of your beloved throw rug," I said. The idea of a pained, annoyed, armed Mello didn't strike me as a wise one, though. Not that I thought he would shoot me, but you could never be too careful.

"It wasn't a fucking throw rug!" There was a thud a moment later as he kicked the bottom of the fridge, having realized his mistake.

I put the last bowl in the drying rack and turned around, leaning back against the sink. "Tell you what: If you tell me what you named, I'll tell you where your gun is, as long as you promise not to shoot me. Deal?"

He glared at me. "The couch. Now tell me where the fuck my gun is."

"What did you call it?"

If my sanity hadn't already been in question, goading Mello probably would've put it to the test. He looked murderous. "Zeb. Gun, now, or you're going to join your dishwasher in the afterlife."

…There might've been weight behind that threat if he hadn't flinched in the middle of the delivery. "I'll go get it, hold on a second." I headed into the bedroom and pulled out the bottom drawer, then rifled through the clothes until I found the gun. I grabbed it and stood up, then turned around and found myself face to face with Mello. He must've followed me, though I couldn't understand how someone who couldn't stop twitching in pain could manage to be that quiet.

Some of his annoyance seemed to dissipate when he took the gun out of my hand. He looked it over, then smirked. "You know nothing about guns." It wasn't a question.

"Why would I? I'm a gamer, not a gunman."

"Don't your games have guns?"

"Mello, most games simplify it to 'pick up the bullets lying on the ground and shoot people' with the occasional variation of 'pick your weapon'. Not exactly the best way to get a full education in guns."

He snorted. "I told you those things were useless." He took aim at the wall, not touching the trigger, thankfully. The neighbors wouldn't appreciate that. Then he lowered the gun again. "At least you didn't shoot yourself in the foot or something stupid like that."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, no, I made a point of not pointing it at myself. I am acquainted with the basics of guns, like 'it'll shoot where you're pointing it'."

"Well, you're not a complete idiot. That's comforting." His shoulder twitched again and he marched out of the room. I head him pull a cupboard open in the kitchen, then a vicious snap. Either he'd practiced for years to make that kind of sound or my apartment had ridiculously good acoustics, because I was two rooms away and I heard it loud and clear.

I headed out to the living room and flopped on the couch, and was joined a moment later by Mello, who had a bar of chocolate in one hand and the gun in the other. He put the gun on the coffee table and sat down at the other end of the couch, sprawling so his feet were in my lap.

"…Why Zeb?"

He glared at me. It must've been maddening that I'd teased that bit of information out of him. "Why the hell do you think?"

"Zebra stripes?" I guessed. He didn't answer, so I assumed I was right. "Is that why you like using me as your footrest? Because the stripes remind you of him? Wait, was Zeb a he or a she?"

"Matt," he said warningly, "shut up. And stop grinning!"

I, of course, continued to smile. "I'm guessing guy, Zeb seems like a guy's name." I wasn't quite fast enough to get away from the kick he landed on my side.

There was a long moment of silence, punctuated by snaps of chocolate.

"…Maybe I should name my couch…"

I ducked the wrapper that he sent flying towards my head with more speed than any bit of airborne foil should ever have.