That's a good whistle. Alec makes an internal note to find out if he knows how to whistle later, for similar conversational purposes.

"Doubt it." A quick break to cram more fries into his mouth, watching the waiter go through more of his mechanical routine. "Zombies are dead. They're not."

Alec drags his straw back to his mouth and drinks deeply, one long continuous obnoxious slurp. He taps his fingers on the counter top. The waiter's left foot catches funny on the floor, and so he stumbles awkwardly.

The waiter's smiling expression shifts. It's barely noticeable, a faint and passing consternation, hardly a dent in his sunny good cheer before he rights himself and keeps moving. Alec has stopped slurping.

"Careful," he says, softly. "That floor looks slippery."

Alec's plate of fries slides down the counter to within John's reach. He slips off the stool and stretches his arms out behind his back, rolling his wrists.

"You can have the rest of those, if you want. I just remembered I have to go check on something. Best of luck with the laser eyes, yeah?"