( the cacophony of the glasses shattering, some of them hitting the floor, the others hitting the back of the bar, is enough that he's startled--well, his version of startled, anyway, a rounding of his eyes into something shocked and a little murderous. it's noisy, and rude, and more than that, she's hauled her tray everywhere to clean up after the people here, just to have it all ruined in the end? it doesn't matter that life often goes that way, the irony of bad decisions, but still--a part of him is tempted to immediately fish the couple apart from each other and charge them with attempted battery or something equally ridiculous. not that he has any kind of authority to do that, but still, it's--quite frankly bullshit the way people act in this place.
aghast, he shakes his head a little, taking a step back: and that's when she feels for him, a hand that brushes against his sleeve for balance.
he holds it, tightening up his arm for her, but his gaze is falling, racking down her arm, down to her dainty wrist, to the gloves she's wearing, and back up again. if nothing else, there's plenty of material between them--plenty of material that, perhaps, will no longer be between them later, but he'll have to answer his own assumptions before he can get anywhere with that. )
...You're not a Devil.
( a ridiculous thing to be asking, with the cacophony of the casino behind them, whoops and cheers from winning tables, the sound of a fight breaking out at another; loud music, glasses and dishes clinking, distant conversations, and the sound of the couple on the bar groping and pushing fabric out of their way, and yet what he asks seems to be the stupidest of them all.
too bad it's a chilled look that he's directly down at her, even though he's still holding still to be her balance--and her shield, if the couple ends up coming off the bar, already prepared to pull her behind him if he has to. )
You're not a Devil. ( saying it again makes him feel a little better, like he needs his own reassurance all the same. ) Am I correct?
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aghast, he shakes his head a little, taking a step back: and that's when she feels for him, a hand that brushes against his sleeve for balance.
he holds it, tightening up his arm for her, but his gaze is falling, racking down her arm, down to her dainty wrist, to the gloves she's wearing, and back up again. if nothing else, there's plenty of material between them--plenty of material that, perhaps, will no longer be between them later, but he'll have to answer his own assumptions before he can get anywhere with that. )
...You're not a Devil.
( a ridiculous thing to be asking, with the cacophony of the casino behind them, whoops and cheers from winning tables, the sound of a fight breaking out at another; loud music, glasses and dishes clinking, distant conversations, and the sound of the couple on the bar groping and pushing fabric out of their way, and yet what he asks seems to be the stupidest of them all.
too bad it's a chilled look that he's directly down at her, even though he's still holding still to be her balance--and her shield, if the couple ends up coming off the bar, already prepared to pull her behind him if he has to. )
You're not a Devil. ( saying it again makes him feel a little better, like he needs his own reassurance all the same. ) Am I correct?