( a question that has him blinking rapidly, his gaze cast out to scowl at the rest of the casino, instead. it's this place, anyway, that's put him into this situation, not the fault of the girl next to him, the stupid vibrator in his hand, or the couple that he imagines is going to get sprayed off the counter by the time the bartender returns. something they'll have to hear of secondhand, as he angles his steps away from the bar, and more into the flooded chaos of the rest of the party. she's still following him, which either means she needs the credits, needs the catharsis, or just needs to keep teasing him; his lips purse, almost like he's trying not to jut out into a pout.

there's a slow, shallow shake of his head. )

You're incredibly frightening.

( the bland, almost playfully distant tone likely clocks that immediately as a lie. )

I have no idea who you are, or why you want to help me, or if i'm going to touch your face and your little--your ear--your... ( his free hand lifts between them to give a little gesture with a slender finger, like he's drawing her wing there onto his own head with invisible ink. ) ...If it's going to slap me away.

( it's a joke. well, he hopes it reads as a joke, anyway, dry at his own expense; when they start to move through a denser crowd, he does at least lift up that arm between them again so that he can press his palm to her back, lightly, closer to her hips than to her shoulders. he doesn't want her to get yanked around or pulled out of his sight.

it's easy to make the next assumption, then-- )

Have you been called an angel? ( probably by literally everyone else in the resort, he's guessing. )