( Historically speaking, having a stranger park themselves on the barstool next to his own usually precedes a dirty fist-fight. While punching out his frustrations can be deeply cathartic Eggsy is in no mood for a fight tonight. He eyes the man sceptically, ready to turn away and leave him to his business— or rather, he would have turned away, had his order not been smoothly interrupted and transformed into something else on the strength of a single murmur. )

Sorry, who the fuck are you?

( In other words: no, he can not. Eggsy sits up properly as he gives the man a quick once-over from head to toe. There's an easy confidence to him that reminds him of Harry— he seems sure of both himself and his superior taste— which pinches Eggsy's brow into a little frown as he gestures towards the bartender. )

I liked what I was drinkin'— I'll have the same again, like I said.

( Amber, spicy, relatively inexpensive when compared to the rest of the drinks menu. Old habits die hard, and for all Eggsy's recent introduction to the world of expensive Scotch he doesn't feel comfortable ordering such stately drinks for himself. Unfortunately for him, the bartender seems to have chosen selective deafness over customer service. Perhaps he approves of the new man and his recommendation, perhaps he simply doesn't like Eggsy, but it's enough to leave him feeling well and truly ruffled. )

... Or not. ( Honestly. This fucking place. He raises an eyebrow at the man. ) So you just go around changin' people's drinks orders, yeah?