( the kind thing, he figures, would be to explain the rules. talk about the different chip values, or the fact that now this stranger is likely deep in the red--that the watch on his wrist has likely already neatly calculated the amount that that fistful cost him, chips scattered onto his side of the table. but what would be the point of that? he can't take advantage of a situation if he's always playing nice, and besides, he'd been the one that advocated for the strong not needing to take care of the weak--or the other strong, as it were. he doesn't have to help this powerful stranger.
doesn't have to make things easy for him, either. to hide his smile, he picks up his glass, taking a sip from it in a way that says how unaccustomed he is to the taste--if he finishes the whole thing, he thinks the headache will be just enough to prevent him from having any more. )
You make me sound so nasty. ( --comes the complaint, as the dealer sets the cards in front of them, and deals out to the other players. with the gentle clink of ice shifting in his glass, he sets it down; lips pursed, he looks at his card, then at the stranger's card, and taps the table for a hit. ) Maybe I like the face you have underneath better.
( a warm, almost teasing smile--and he taps the table again, knowing that the card total on his side will be an even twenty; he stops there.
with an expectant swing of his head, cheek tucked towards his own shoulder, he looks over at his new friend's card, waiting patiently to see how he plays. that'll determine whether he decides to declare another personal bet or not, and gives him the opportunity to lean further in his direction, crowding his corner of the table. )
no subject
doesn't have to make things easy for him, either. to hide his smile, he picks up his glass, taking a sip from it in a way that says how unaccustomed he is to the taste--if he finishes the whole thing, he thinks the headache will be just enough to prevent him from having any more. )
You make me sound so nasty. ( --comes the complaint, as the dealer sets the cards in front of them, and deals out to the other players. with the gentle clink of ice shifting in his glass, he sets it down; lips pursed, he looks at his card, then at the stranger's card, and taps the table for a hit. ) Maybe I like the face you have underneath better.
( a warm, almost teasing smile--and he taps the table again, knowing that the card total on his side will be an even twenty; he stops there.
with an expectant swing of his head, cheek tucked towards his own shoulder, he looks over at his new friend's card, waiting patiently to see how he plays. that'll determine whether he decides to declare another personal bet or not, and gives him the opportunity to lean further in his direction, crowding his corner of the table. )