"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that," Steve shot back.
If it was in Danny to twitch, Steve's pretty sure he'd be doing it now. Now, when Steve finds it impossible not to smile. Licking his top lip, through nearly bitting into his bottom lip, before he claims his pint glass, because it's horribly outlandish. He shouldn't enjoy this. He shouldn't be catching the way Danny's going to fuck up his shot long before he's shooting even.
The hold of his shoulders, and how tense his arms are. The way he's nearly glowering a hole into the table. While that girl is sidling up not too far away, as Danny's setting up. Setting out, when he's barely cast a glance her direction, and more for the edging into his space than anything else. "I don't think I've seen you two around here before."
Leaving Steve at the impasse of bluffing out now, for the sake of Danny's GP or at least the rant about his GP that will be forthcoming he's sure, later, or just. He could. He could pretend not to notice. Or. He could push it a little ways. Nothing big. As nothing before had been. Nothing that wasn't about as polite as he was to the last girl.
Or he was really to any civilian who stepped in his way and asked a question.
Steve shrugged and took a drink. "Seemed like a good night for it."
Which really did not point whether they'd been here before or planned to be here again. Or that it was on a list of places they came now and again, whenever they felt like it. He was busy mouth tensing a little at the rough shot Danny took, even though it did end up in. The shot was clean. Easy clean. The kind he's aware Danny should have been able to make without much practice even.
Especially with how well he can aim a firearm in one direction at a target right in front of him.
"Oh, man, almost," She breathes, like the game is the point. Not the way she's twisting her cue in her fingers, and adds, listing into his space the half step. "I'm here off and on week nights. It's Ahulani, but you can call me Lani."
There's the faintest shift Steve gives maybe. The consideration that if it were any other night, any other month, he totally knows the words that would have fallen out of his mouth. Made his eyebrows raise. When that's the whole point of the game. The whole point of mentioning her name.
"Oh, you speak Hawaiian?" It's a breath of amused triumph from her, as Danny's second ball goes clack into.
When Steve doesn't feel compelled to toss the line. Easy line about heavenly places, sanctuaries, and shrines, any of them. While Danny is losing control shots that are pathetically easy, with that tense line across his jaw, that is ground against the hold of his teeth, both on some kind of direct circuit line with the muscles in his own cheeks. When he can't stop. Not even for want of trying.
Except he doesn't want to. Try. To Stop. Not when he's giving simply, without answering the question or taking up the bait, beyond the enigmatic smile, "Steve." He's even steps in more than he should, nearly jostling Danny's shoulder and grinning when he passes him. "And this is Danny."
When he's surveying the last two of his own before the eight ball, listening to her tell him, or Danny, It's nice to meet you both, somewhere in the background of all the other things going on with the table. And Danny. Or the table. Or Danny. He calls it, and even though there's two different stripes balls in the way, for across from him, and a third of the table space.
Enough force to send each of the first two into the other, but not have them follow through with the third. When he's bright against the simplicity, against the inability to look up and catch Danny, still rigid and as uninviting as a subzero winter, making him smile even harder as he connects. First to the second. Second to third. Third in. And the second rolls slow toward the pocket, stopping maybe an inch and half out.
He's given Danny a shot, but if he can pull it together fast it won't actually matter.
Not now that he's down to his last before the eight. Not now he's pretty sure he's winning even if he doesn't.
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If it was in Danny to twitch, Steve's pretty sure he'd be doing it now. Now, when Steve finds it impossible not to smile. Licking his top lip, through nearly bitting into his bottom lip, before he claims his pint glass, because it's horribly outlandish. He shouldn't enjoy this. He shouldn't be catching the way Danny's going to fuck up his shot long before he's shooting even.
The hold of his shoulders, and how tense his arms are. The way he's nearly glowering a hole into the table. While that girl is sidling up not too far away, as Danny's setting up. Setting out, when he's barely cast a glance her direction, and more for the edging into his space than anything else. "I don't think I've seen you two around here before."
Leaving Steve at the impasse of bluffing out now, for the sake of Danny's GP or at least the rant about his GP that will be forthcoming he's sure, later, or just. He could. He could pretend not to notice. Or. He could push it a little ways. Nothing big. As nothing before had been. Nothing that wasn't about as polite as he was to the last girl.
Or he was really to any civilian who stepped in his way and asked a question.
Steve shrugged and took a drink. "Seemed like a good night for it."
Which really did not point whether they'd been here before or planned to be here again. Or that it was on a list of places they came now and again, whenever they felt like it. He was busy mouth tensing a little at the rough shot Danny took, even though it did end up in. The shot was clean. Easy clean. The kind he's aware Danny should have been able to make without much practice even.
Especially with how well he can aim a firearm in one direction at a target right in front of him.
"Oh, man, almost," She breathes, like the game is the point. Not the way she's twisting her cue in her fingers, and adds, listing into his space the half step. "I'm here off and on week nights. It's Ahulani, but you can call me Lani."
There's the faintest shift Steve gives maybe. The consideration that if it were any other night, any other month, he totally knows the words that would have fallen out of his mouth. Made his eyebrows raise. When that's the whole point of the game. The whole point of mentioning her name.
"Oh, you speak Hawaiian?" It's a breath of amused triumph from her, as Danny's second ball goes clack into.
When Steve doesn't feel compelled to toss the line. Easy line about heavenly places, sanctuaries, and shrines, any of them. While Danny is losing control shots that are pathetically easy, with that tense line across his jaw, that is ground against the hold of his teeth, both on some kind of direct circuit line with the muscles in his own cheeks. When he can't stop. Not even for want of trying.
Except he doesn't want to. Try. To Stop. Not when he's giving simply, without answering the question or taking up the bait, beyond the enigmatic smile, "Steve." He's even steps in more than he should, nearly jostling Danny's shoulder and grinning when he passes him. "And this is Danny."
When he's surveying the last two of his own before the eight ball, listening to her tell him, or Danny, It's nice to meet you both, somewhere in the background of all the other things going on with the table. And Danny. Or the table. Or Danny. He calls it, and even though there's two different stripes balls in the way, for across from him, and a third of the table space.
Enough force to send each of the first two into the other, but not have them follow through with the third. When he's bright against the simplicity, against the inability to look up and catch Danny, still rigid and as uninviting as a subzero winter, making him smile even harder as he connects. First to the second. Second to third. Third in. And the second rolls slow toward the pocket, stopping maybe an inch and half out.
He's given Danny a shot, but if he can pull it together fast it won't actually matter.
Not now that he's down to his last before the eight. Not now he's pretty sure he's winning even if he doesn't.