[ There is the barest hint of what could pass for an almost-smile on his own face in return. Amos doesn't consider at length what he means beyond the surface of the words, but at the same time, he doesn't need to know to respond with his own equally dry, straight-faced remark. And like everything with him, too, there's always more to it. Amos could see Marc mingling around the crowd of people like Avasarala, though he doesn't strike Amos as the type to necessarily enjoy rubbing elbows with a bunch of bureaucrats. Looking the part and being the part are worlds away.
Marc wouldn't be fully wrong to consider soldier in relation to Amos, though nothing he'd done in his past was ever through any official channels. He was muscle for the crime bosses, simple as that. Or not so simple, really. But life took a sharp left from that whole way of being.
When Marc's leaning near, it's easier to see the way that shirt's clinging to him; Jesus, whatever amount of time he's spent in hot countries like this at length, there's gotta be a better way. To himself, he considers one of the cabins where he'd seen clothes left behind, thought of doubling back later to grab a few things if any were left. One of the t-shirts he remembers seeing seems like the last thing a guy like this would ever wear, which is the whole reason he should. Mostly he'd be in it to see his reaction if he suddenly tossed it his way.
For his next move, he doesn't explain himself; rather, he takes that blue drink, pours half of it into the empty glass, follows that with tequila to fill it to the top. There's the other one now, and the guy said vodka with all seriousness, so. He's not against it, isn't even the type to question someone's choice of vodka over anything else, it's just not his choice most days.
But, alright, vodka it is. Can it make the shitty sugar drink better or worse? Well, time to find out. Maybe enough of the vodka, the rest don't matter. But Marc wanted something on the rocks, so he's not actually thinking with any true seriousness that this will be to his taste (or his own, frankly), but he's curious. Mostly because he usually just drinks something neat, doesn't do cocktails or the like. While he's here and half the drink is already made, well, give it a try, he figures. So to the other glass goes the rest of the taste of blue hell, and as much vodka as he can fit in there. And the little umbrella.
This, he pushes closer to Marc again.
But first things first. He takes his glass, brings it close, leans against the shelves behind him for a moment. ]
You gotta fill in on the a lot part.
[ It's not said as a challenge, no inflection of even the hint of defensiveness in his tone. Tequila explains something, so — go ahead. ]
no subject
[ There is the barest hint of what could pass for an almost-smile on his own face in return. Amos doesn't consider at length what he means beyond the surface of the words, but at the same time, he doesn't need to know to respond with his own equally dry, straight-faced remark. And like everything with him, too, there's always more to it. Amos could see Marc mingling around the crowd of people like Avasarala, though he doesn't strike Amos as the type to necessarily enjoy rubbing elbows with a bunch of bureaucrats. Looking the part and being the part are worlds away.
Marc wouldn't be fully wrong to consider soldier in relation to Amos, though nothing he'd done in his past was ever through any official channels. He was muscle for the crime bosses, simple as that. Or not so simple, really. But life took a sharp left from that whole way of being.
When Marc's leaning near, it's easier to see the way that shirt's clinging to him; Jesus, whatever amount of time he's spent in hot countries like this at length, there's gotta be a better way. To himself, he considers one of the cabins where he'd seen clothes left behind, thought of doubling back later to grab a few things if any were left. One of the t-shirts he remembers seeing seems like the last thing a guy like this would ever wear, which is the whole reason he should. Mostly he'd be in it to see his reaction if he suddenly tossed it his way.
For his next move, he doesn't explain himself; rather, he takes that blue drink, pours half of it into the empty glass, follows that with tequila to fill it to the top. There's the other one now, and the guy said vodka with all seriousness, so. He's not against it, isn't even the type to question someone's choice of vodka over anything else, it's just not his choice most days.
But, alright, vodka it is. Can it make the shitty sugar drink better or worse? Well, time to find out. Maybe enough of the vodka, the rest don't matter. But Marc wanted something on the rocks, so he's not actually thinking with any true seriousness that this will be to his taste (or his own, frankly), but he's curious. Mostly because he usually just drinks something neat, doesn't do cocktails or the like. While he's here and half the drink is already made, well, give it a try, he figures. So to the other glass goes the rest of the taste of blue hell, and as much vodka as he can fit in there. And the little umbrella.
This, he pushes closer to Marc again.
But first things first. He takes his glass, brings it close, leans against the shelves behind him for a moment. ]
You gotta fill in on the a lot part.
[ It's not said as a challenge, no inflection of even the hint of defensiveness in his tone. Tequila explains something, so — go ahead. ]