[Oddly familiar is the sense that sneaks up on him as he's approached by the waitress, and he hates to admit at first he is irritated, assuming this member of the staff wants something of him — will ask him to mingle or request to confirm his status as a high-rank individual with proof. He doesn't like to use his abilities carelessly, and less when it might paint a target onto his back in this strange place. Subtlety is the goal of disguise, isn't it?
Yet he struggles with such a thing, having had little prior experience, and he's not very good at acting. His sister would perform better.
The woman's voice chimes like a bell in his ear at this thought, blinking him back to reality. That humor is lost on him, cool exterior resilient to the play on words; he's looking at the martini glass and wondering if it will give him the illusion of blending in. Something in hand, to look busy.]
Please. I appreciate it.
[He reaches out, gloved fingers plucking the stem of the glass from that proffered tray. He doesn't lift it to his lips. His gaze drifts now onto the outfit the waitress is wearing — but it flits away, avoiding the sight of pale skin through dark fishnets, then carefully returns only to examine that pair of weathered wings from a backless dress.]
Don't let me keep you, I'm certain there are other guests who require your... consideration.
[Even these words carry a dull, stinging sense of wrongness, and perhaps that is why he cannot take his eyes away from her, even after he has had his discreet fill of looking.]
scoops you up 🥺
Yet he struggles with such a thing, having had little prior experience, and he's not very good at acting. His sister would perform better.
The woman's voice chimes like a bell in his ear at this thought, blinking him back to reality. That humor is lost on him, cool exterior resilient to the play on words; he's looking at the martini glass and wondering if it will give him the illusion of blending in. Something in hand, to look busy.]
Please. I appreciate it.
[He reaches out, gloved fingers plucking the stem of the glass from that proffered tray. He doesn't lift it to his lips. His gaze drifts now onto the outfit the waitress is wearing — but it flits away, avoiding the sight of pale skin through dark fishnets, then carefully returns only to examine that pair of weathered wings from a backless dress.]
Don't let me keep you, I'm certain there are other guests who require your... consideration.
[Even these words carry a dull, stinging sense of wrongness, and perhaps that is why he cannot take his eyes away from her, even after he has had his discreet fill of looking.]