Leaning in just a tad closer. "If you ever catch me staring, it's because you're one very handsome being." Just saying. Just saying, and sipping his drink between motor mouthing.
"I like it here. It's...less complicated than back home. You don't have to hide, or risk it just going outside when the sun's up."
There was a time, he was so careless, he'd go out any time of day. In retrospect, he counts his lucky stars nothing too bad ever happened. But that's then and there and in the past. He'd much rather be in the here and now.
Some people might get freaked out about the prey comment, but not Lorne. He's spent enough time around savory and unsavory people of all kinds that this kind of remark really doesn't phase him. And if he's entirely honest with himself, it might not be the best thing because for all he knows, Skellig could be talking human prey.
But he thinks he knows people a bit better than that. He grins. "No yelling on the first date." ... ... ... "Just kidding. I don't do dates, I just flirt."
And go 'someplace else' with anyone willing, but that's beside the point. "Why would I yell at you?"
He exhales - maybe is a laugh, or perhaps a sigh, or just a breath - and shakes his head.
"People get angry when I get caught. Doesn't matter to them, they are throwing it away...they yell." Skellig mimes a 'shoo' motion with his hand. "Doesn't make sense. I'm hungry..."
And it's in the rubbish bin already. They are not going to eat it. So why can't he?
The pieces of the puzzle are slowly settling where they need to be, and Lorne nods, all his humor gone. Having to eat what other people throw away... "How long?"
He shrugs. Time is not important, not to a man that can't read or write.
"Summer is better - warmer and easier to find mice to hunt. Winter..." He makes a bit of a face, a wry smirk on his features. "...don't like the snow. Rather stay here. Bar's got the food of the gods. Fresh, too. Twenty-seven and fifty-three. Michael used to get it fresh, after the old man died and they moved in."
Yes, we're well aware that was probably the most sense he's ever made in one sentence.
Making sense is one of the most wonderful things ever, if Lorne's answering smile is anything to go by. He's a conversationalist through and through, and more used to being the one confusing people. It's...interesting being on the receiving end of things, but this making sense bit is just lovely. Almost makes him feel special. Almost.
"This is probably going to sound very silly and ignorant to you, but...what is that? Twenty-seven and fifty-three?"
"Oh!" The delight in his voice is palpable, and his smile beams right up to his eyes as he claps his hands together. He might've known. He should have guessed, but he just didn't. Something about a guy with wings ordering takeout just didn't click. Maybe he isn't as open-minded as he thought, but nevertheless, he's absolutely delighted. It's been a while since someone could surprise him like this, it calls for some cheering.
"I love Chinese!"
A beat, "But give the little ones some credit, hm? You're talking about hunting mice, practically their next of kin, they got a right to feel jumpy. Just give 'em some time to get used to you, they'll come around."
And he's right about the rats - even if he'd never eat anything of their size (or with that much lead in them, if we're being honest) or here in the bar. There are rules in the bar. He won't break them.
Getting kicked out...would be very, very bad.
Apparently, his mind is made up - and he shifts and stands from the table, careful not to brush his wings against anything. It wouldn't do to make a mess.
Very simple answer: He couldn't. So, fruity drink in hand, he comes on over with a smile.
"Hey, darling. Long time no see."
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Skellig offers the green demon a smile in response to the greeting. He is also more than welcome to join him at the table.
"Been watching."
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"Watching or looking?" He has a feeling Skellig knows how to appreciate the difference. "For what?"
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A beat.
"It's...different. From outside," he points at the door. "Not like everyone else, doesn't mean trouble here."
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"I like it here. It's...less complicated than back home. You don't have to hide, or risk it just going outside when the sun's up."
There was a time, he was so careless, he'd go out any time of day. In retrospect, he counts his lucky stars nothing too bad ever happened. But that's then and there and in the past. He'd much rather be in the here and now.
"Do you like the sun?"
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He tilts his head to the side. "Depends on the prey, suppose."
Mice are easier to catch in the dark - no shadow to scare them away. Snails are indifferent to his approach.
The compliment does get a smile.
"Don't mind you staring, you've never yelled."
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But he thinks he knows people a bit better than that. He grins. "No yelling on the first date." ... ... ... "Just kidding. I don't do dates, I just flirt."
And go 'someplace else' with anyone willing, but that's beside the point. "Why would I yell at you?"
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He exhales - maybe is a laugh, or perhaps a sigh, or just a breath - and shakes his head.
"People get angry when I get caught. Doesn't matter to them, they are throwing it away...they yell." Skellig mimes a 'shoo' motion with his hand. "Doesn't make sense. I'm hungry..."
And it's in the rubbish bin already. They are not going to eat it. So why can't he?
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"Would you like something to eat? My treat, anything you want. Unless you were just casually remarking how stupid people get when you're hungry..."
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"Not now," he corrects. "Back outside. Sometimes it..."
How to word this. He closes his eyes and tries to think.
"...the bar takes a long time to find me."
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He shrugs. Time is not important, not to a man that can't read or write.
"Summer is better - warmer and easier to find mice to hunt. Winter..." He makes a bit of a face, a wry smirk on his features. "...don't like the snow. Rather stay here. Bar's got the food of the gods. Fresh, too. Twenty-seven and fifty-three. Michael used to get it fresh, after the old man died and they moved in."
Yes, we're well aware that was probably the most sense he's ever made in one sentence.
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"This is probably going to sound very silly and ignorant to you, but...what is that? Twenty-seven and fifty-three?"
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"Chinese takeaway from the place up the road from the old man's," he replies promptly. "If the rats were not scared of me..."
(The area around their table is free of waitrats, save for the random brave one that might dart past on the way to another patron.)
"...could get some from bar. Twenty-seven and fifty-three. Spring rolls and pork char sui."
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"I love Chinese!"
A beat, "But give the little ones some credit, hm? You're talking about hunting mice, practically their next of kin, they got a right to feel jumpy. Just give 'em some time to get used to you, they'll come around."
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"Should get some. Nothing better."
And he's right about the rats - even if he'd never eat anything of their size (or with that much lead in them, if we're being honest) or here in the bar. There are rules in the bar. He won't break them.
Getting kicked out...would be very, very bad.
Apparently, his mind is made up - and he shifts and stands from the table, careful not to brush his wings against anything. It wouldn't do to make a mess.
"Be right back," he promises.
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