[ he won't even try to bring you down from this – for the moment, he's simply giving you a measure of the shit you dish out to him, and it's all good-natured. ( it always will be, with him. it could never be anything else. ) that knee gets bumped back, but he leaves it at that as he finally takes a sip of his new drink, finally beginning to feel the effects of the gin, nice and tingly and warming all over.

he hmms, licks his lips and pushes a hand back through blond hair, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at york and his mouth pulls to the side in the ghost of his own little smirk.

you're so full of shit your eyes should be turning brown. ] Three times, but who's counting? I'm not complaining, but it really is amusing to see the look on your face when you're trying to pout your way out of something.