[He sees it there, that sly feline look, a look he knows right down to the dark quiet parts of himself that echo of three years ago and he's braced already for something sharp and knifey, something that will cut. Something he'll accept as his due because that's what he does even when he finds cutting words of his own to slip back in return only to think of later and berate himself for but--
--but. Instead there are only those two words and he blinks once, twice. It isn't what he'd been expecting, and so he winds up stumbling blindly over his own words.]
Oh. Well, um. Maybe sometime. I'd think about it. Perhaps.
[He clears his throat and casts his glance away, towards the array of little glasses laid neat across the bar.]
It's your turn, I believe. Or perhaps you've given up?
no subject
--but. Instead there are only those two words and he blinks once, twice. It isn't what he'd been expecting, and so he winds up stumbling blindly over his own words.]
Oh. Well, um. Maybe sometime. I'd think about it. Perhaps.
[He clears his throat and casts his glance away, towards the array of little glasses laid neat across the bar.]
It's your turn, I believe. Or perhaps you've given up?