Great. Danny wants to rip his own face off, and Steve is having the time of his life, checking in with this newest girl to see whether she gets his joke or not (she does, except Danny'd bet ten to one she'd laugh at literally anything that came out of Steve's mouth right now), and it is seriously like needles sticking into every inch of his skin, that laugh.
Totally innocuous, lightly flirtatious, like a knife in his back.
And he can't even be pleased that Steve scratched, because that just means the attention is getting to him, making him more expansive, making him show off, like he needs to do any more of that, right, like Steve's default setting is not already straining at zero restraint.
"Keep scratching like that and it'll be over before you know it," he says, feeling the slow approach of the black-haired girl like stitches tugging loose, one popping with each step.
Jesus. He's got to focus. Plucks the cue ball from the shunt, does his best not to dent the velvet when he puts it down again, surveying the table for his best shot, mouth a square line, a muscle leaping at his jaw.
There. The right side pocket, an easy nudge from here, if he can keep his shoulders from locking up as he leans down, if he can keep his eyes stubbornly on the ball, and not on the way barfly number three comes sashaying slowly up in a way that makes him think her eyes are more on Steve than the game.
He calls it, shoots, and knows it's not looking good when the thirteen wobbles against the lip of the hole before falling in, instead of taking a smooth, straight line there. Too easy a shot to totally miss, but he's in it now, ends up bouncing the ten off the bumper and sending it on a lackadaisical spin, clacking into the others that are left.
At least he didn't scratch, right. Or dig a tear into the pool table velvet. Even if he thinks he'll wear the edges right off his molars by the end of the night.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-27 11:33 pm (UTC)Totally innocuous, lightly flirtatious, like a knife in his back.
And he can't even be pleased that Steve scratched, because that just means the attention is getting to him, making him more expansive, making him show off, like he needs to do any more of that, right, like Steve's default setting is not already straining at zero restraint.
"Keep scratching like that and it'll be over before you know it," he says, feeling the slow approach of the black-haired girl like stitches tugging loose, one popping with each step.
Jesus. He's got to focus. Plucks the cue ball from the shunt, does his best not to dent the velvet when he puts it down again, surveying the table for his best shot, mouth a square line, a muscle leaping at his jaw.
There. The right side pocket, an easy nudge from here, if he can keep his shoulders from locking up as he leans down, if he can keep his eyes stubbornly on the ball, and not on the way barfly number three comes sashaying slowly up in a way that makes him think her eyes are more on Steve than the game.
He calls it, shoots, and knows it's not looking good when the thirteen wobbles against the lip of the hole before falling in, instead of taking a smooth, straight line there. Too easy a shot to totally miss, but he's in it now, ends up bouncing the ten off the bumper and sending it on a lackadaisical spin, clacking into the others that are left.
At least he didn't scratch, right. Or dig a tear into the pool table velvet. Even if he thinks he'll wear the edges right off his molars by the end of the night.