Not creative? Wylan has a mouth full of water otherwise that remark could beg comment. She was writing a story right now, didn't she realize? He chugs his way through two and a half glasses full before his stomach says room is best set aside for something solid. Still. Maybe he shouldn't be staring at her so fixedly when she was in the middle of talking.
The gaze had given her pause just as she was getting into something interesting. His nosiness wins out. Though he doesn't speak, there's a lift of the brow and a small gesture of his hand. A little encouragement never hurt anyone, right? Especially if they weren't planning to see each other again.
This was a one stop shop. With a lady who just slept on him after patching him up. He's had weirder.
"Cognition? Kinda like subconscious ways of how people view themselves? And the world around them? That sounds like a lot of hypothetical work for fancy research... let alone government grants. But you look like you know your stuff." A few key words that had been relayed to him from Faust were missing here. Palaces. Shadows. Metaverses. A world alongside ours. If they were related, that'd be...
"I've heard stories! Like for example, wouldn't you only drink the finest aged whiskeys? Or--"
Before he can chime in and ask some leading questions on the matter, the blonde has thrown herself back into the fantasy of his apparent mobster life. Building out that story with additional chapters that, frankly, he ought to entertain himself. Maybe it'd add some appealing character traits if a cutie like this was popping up about it.
The best answer here, is of course, to pull the gun he had on him from his belt- a careful display of the compact pistol before it disappears just as quickly. Before she can even dare to ask to hold it.
"I was wondering if you'd have pulled it off me last night, but~ guess you weren't as exploitive of my vulnerability as I expected. Hoped? Nah. I've got more than this, but not telling you how many." On him it was just the one, but back at home he had two others stashed away.
Yakuza connections and other foreign contacts had gotten them into his hands not too long after he first arrived in Japan those months ago. Funny. It'd only been for the one job- meeting with an old ... mentor seemed too fond a word. Arnik Kestrov was dead either way. Their shadow self terminated in that other world.
"Seeing that's enough for a cup of coffee, isn't it? I may not be hungover but I sure feel like shit like I am." Wylan remarks, resting his arm on the counters as she goes about her business. He pulls up his shirt, next, just to see if that doesn't get some eggs cracked over a pan. He gestures over the scars, turning around that she could see his back was lacking in the ink.
"I've been stabbed by Yakuza, does that count for anything?.. Geez. I feel like some kind of museum display right now. Glad you're not actually a doctor or nurse or something otherwise you might be asking about the scars and I do not have the energy to spin those tales."
"If you got places to be, I can leave anytime. You know. I'm not keeping you from that university department or something, am I? It's Tuesday."
