EZRA
She doesn't smile back, which is fine. You're willing to be patient and put in the work; it's what you're good at, after all. You must admit, you've been rather adrift since the whole fell through a portal into Lucas' basement fiasco, and while maybe bartending isn't exactly your forte, the skills are nicely transferable. Specifically the skills of make people happy by figuring out what they want and making them believe you can give it to them, or some facsimile of that. Happy people are people who don't stab you, after all, and right now your primary goal is pretty much to avoid being stabbed.Oh, but those eyes are like daggers on their own, sharp as ice and wickedly cold. A man less accustomed to hard situations might shrink away, but you? You just redouble your efforts, pouring enough whiskey your ginger and cider to melt a fucking iceberg. Cider is a kick of yours lately, fun to mix up into various more exciting forms, and while this place might not have much by way of luxuries, it is bloody lousy with apples.
Anyway. The girl. The next time you look up she actually is smiling, a toothy, predatory grin entirely unexpected. Oh. Oh. Maybe you misjudged this, but y'know, whatever. In for a penny, in for a pound. You manage to keep any surprise from your face, matching her feral grin with a smirk of your own as you push the drink toward her with two slender fingers, a self-satisfied expression on your face. "And what do you think, Ocean Eyes?" About the drink? About you? Hey, she can take her pick.
isn't it lovely, all alone
heart made of glass
my mind made of stone
