"You know, amazingly enough, we had pool tables in Jersey."
Lots of them. Populated by a loyal subset of bar-goers, who couldn't get excited about the prospect of darts. "I used to play on the boardwalk, back in the day. Arcades in Wildwood, bars after hours. No Navy SEAL deathmatches, but it's a hell of a lot less of a hassle than hockey. Not to mention easier to play while drinking." Said with a lift of his bottle, one hand leaving the cue across his shoulders, before he takes a sip, watching Steve eye the table while he thinks back.
Those boardwalk arcades. Full of tilted, rickety tables, the velvet all but rubbed off, cue balls weighted to a sluggish roll so they'd be heavy enough to drop back out if someone scratched. Dinging games pressing immediacy from the sounds of the boardwalk, laughing children, calling gulls, the ever-present shush of waves on sand. Scent of salt water, taffy, kettle corn, pizza drifting in; easy summer days that felt like they stretched for weeks.
And it's almost enough to relax, nostalgia creeping in, along with the faint warmth of being a beer and a half in, a mix of vaguely impressed and vaguely exasperated with Steve and how he just can't stop being a show-off, ever, but it's not so bad, could be worse; at least it's just the two of them ragging on each other like usual, and he's even eased into the beginnings of a grin, a compliment edged in an insult ticking its way out of his mouth, when the bubble is shattered by a piercing whistle.
Getting a blink, and a crane of his neck as he looks to see who it was, where it was directed, because if this is another woman hitting on Steve, so help him, he will...
Continue to stand here, gritting enamel off his teeth, feeling like he could spit bullets, because there is not a single other option to take. Here. In public.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-27 06:55 pm (UTC)Lots of them. Populated by a loyal subset of bar-goers, who couldn't get excited about the prospect of darts. "I used to play on the boardwalk, back in the day. Arcades in Wildwood, bars after hours. No Navy SEAL deathmatches, but it's a hell of a lot less of a hassle than hockey. Not to mention easier to play while drinking." Said with a lift of his bottle, one hand leaving the cue across his shoulders, before he takes a sip, watching Steve eye the table while he thinks back.
Those boardwalk arcades. Full of tilted, rickety tables, the velvet all but rubbed off, cue balls weighted to a sluggish roll so they'd be heavy enough to drop back out if someone scratched. Dinging games pressing immediacy from the sounds of the boardwalk, laughing children, calling gulls, the ever-present shush of waves on sand. Scent of salt water, taffy, kettle corn, pizza drifting in; easy summer days that felt like they stretched for weeks.
And it's almost enough to relax, nostalgia creeping in, along with the faint warmth of being a beer and a half in, a mix of vaguely impressed and vaguely exasperated with Steve and how he just can't stop being a show-off, ever, but it's not so bad, could be worse; at least it's just the two of them ragging on each other like usual, and he's even eased into the beginnings of a grin, a compliment edged in an insult ticking its way out of his mouth, when the bubble is shattered by a piercing whistle.
Getting a blink, and a crane of his neck as he looks to see who it was, where it was directed, because if this is another woman hitting on Steve, so help him, he will...
Continue to stand here, gritting enamel off his teeth, feeling like he could spit bullets, because there is not a single other option to take. Here. In public.
Perfect.