Yeah, well. "Asshole" is just how they say "hey, friend!" in their neck of the woods; had this guy whipped out something about Dresden's mom, they might have had a problem. As it stands, it's just an on-the-nose assessment — one that rings particularly true as Dresden's eyes light up with a certain be-shittery befitting an asshole. A tall one, that slouches to the side in his big fancy chair and still doesn't have to do anything more than look left and meet Carmy's eye.
His legs are stretched out under the table. Pool noodles in nondescript sweats.
"Oh, buddy — to anyone else you'd be singing hymns to the Pope, but I'm afraid you're talking to a King here." That crooked grin spreads across his face, tugging at the long scar through chin, lip and raking up through his temple as he does his best to simper and play pretend like he's just as fancy as any Balfour at the table; "A Burger King, at that. Maccas doesn't know how to touch me the right way. That Sydney might, though."
A huge pause, after his mouth runs away from him and he finally takes in the chef whites. The general, uh. Sweaty chic of a guy who's been in the kitchen. And he adds, smile creasing sheepishly: " — you're the guy cooking, huh?" Whoops.
no subject
His legs are stretched out under the table. Pool noodles in nondescript sweats.
"Oh, buddy — to anyone else you'd be singing hymns to the Pope, but I'm afraid you're talking to a King here." That crooked grin spreads across his face, tugging at the long scar through chin, lip and raking up through his temple as he does his best to simper and play pretend like he's just as fancy as any Balfour at the table; "A Burger King, at that. Maccas doesn't know how to touch me the right way. That Sydney might, though."
A huge pause, after his mouth runs away from him and he finally takes in the chef whites. The general, uh. Sweaty chic of a guy who's been in the kitchen. And he adds, smile creasing sheepishly: " — you're the guy cooking, huh?" Whoops.