It’s been a long time since Moira has had a drink, and the flavor is sweet as nectar to her (figuratively, of course). It amuses her to see that Shin clearly disagrees, and she just barely hides a smirk at his expression, which contains both disgust and an oddly solemn resolve to see the drink through. She’s surprised, then, when he accepts a second, and soon she’s lost count of how many times the neck of the whiskey bottle has clinked against the rim of either of their glasses.
She holds her liquor as well one might assume of an Irish woman, but she’s still human and celebration has always been ample reason to push one’s limits (then again, when has she ever needed an excuse for that?). The warmth of the drink starts to burn, and she knows that the heat in her cheeks is no longer solely from the fire crackling beside them. Whatever conversation they’ve managed steadily fades into stray comments that are ultimately consumed by the sounds of the nocturnal wildlife let in through an open window. She studies the glass in her hand before setting it down (noisily, it seems) on the table beside her. When her sights turn to him, she sees something she’s longed for more than whiskey, something she’d be loathe to admit in a clearer state of mind: contact with another being, one who isn’t holding her life in their palm.
Of course, she’s never seen Shin in any romantically appealing light. He’s too timid for her tastes, and she knows that in other circumstances they might very well be facing off rather than standing side by side. But he’s intelligent, he’s attractive enough…and he’s here. That’s prompt enough for her body to act, over a mind too busy buzzing to come up with a reasonable objection. Her foot finds the seat of his chair, and a rather suggestive position at that. His reaction is spectacularly lackluster, but it doesn’t deter her, nor the smirk that comes automatically to her lips.
She doesn’t move for a moment, and her mismatched gaze is fixed on him as if with the intent to pin him in place. Finally, the heel of her shoe scrapes against wood as she drags her foot from between his legs and firmly plants it on the floor. She leans forward in her chair, and considering her height its enough to bring her within reach of Shin. Her left hand, unscarred and perhaps less intimidating, comes to rest atop his leg, just above the knee. It slides towards him, only slightly, as long fingers would bring her touch close–too close–to the juncture of leg and hip, and Moira at least has enough presence of mind to test the waters before diving in. That doesn’t do much to reign in the rightly predicted smug expression she casts at him with the slight incline of her head.
She leans in, and Shin leans back. Muscle -- (and it is muscle, despite his stature) -- jumps beneath her hand where it settles, warm and heavy, upon his thigh.
Dumbly, he lets it sit, the shape and weight utterly foreign.
(’Don’t,’ something in him cautions, flagging, thick with drink. ‘Whatever you’re going to do -- whatever you’re thinking of doing--.’)
The image of a lizard’s tail detaching beneath the paw of a predator yaws listlessly through his head.
(’It’s really best that you don’t.’)
“Moira,” he says at length. It would be a warning were he not more perplexed than anything. Having just enough presence of mind to tighten his hold upon his glass, he drops his chin into his free palm and peers at her with a bleary, searching look.
The room tips on a slow, unsteady axis.
“I think--...” (and oddly enough something almost like a smirk twists abruptly at his mouth here, as if he’d quite nearly laughed in a way he knows he shouldn’t at the words poised clumsy upon the tip of his own tongue) “--you’re drunk.”
