oh oh and the #7 that’s like “who the hell do you think you are” “well” “it was rheTORICAL” with whiskey too that’d be so funny (pls make it funny bc i’m lowkey scared you’re gonna turn everything angst)
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
As far as first impressions went, you wouldn’t say that pointing a gun at a supposed dinner party guest was a good way to introduce yourself. But after you had noticed he would have this slight, dead-eyed stare, zoning out of the conversation for a little too long, looking around the house a little too much, you had requested your squad mates to run a scan on any and all transmissions, and had picked up on a very slight signal. One could make an educated guess about that.
So, you had walked up to him, snatched those glasses off of his face while the other guards in the dining room had their guns trained on him, and put them up to your face. Maybe it was rude, seeing as he was in the middle of talking, but you had been hired to protect your client, and so you will.
“Jack?” you heard a concerned, female voice call through the glasses. Curious. You had never seen any tech like this before. “What are you--” Taking off the glasses from your face, you handed them off to another guard to secure them, then immediately pulling up your gun to train them on Jack.
“Now, is this any way to treat a guest?” he asks, his words honey by his Southern drawl. You cock your head.
“Is spying and gathering intelligence on your host any kinder?” you ask him back, voice level as you scan him. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Jack” you say cooly, “take out all your weapons slowly, and put them on the table.” He puts his hands up in mock surrender, moving slowly, as you had requested, and pulling out a lasso and a bullwhip. He sees your questioning look, and shrugs.
“I was gonna go to a rodeo later,” he says, as if in explanation, although it’s clear it’s a lie from the way he tries to incorporate humor into his tone. “Although I doubt you’d let me leave now. I was hoping that maybe I could leave with you when the night is over,” he adds with a wink. “I do like a person who can kick my ass.”
His attempt at charm bounces off of you. Maybe in any other scenario, you would’ve liked to be chatted up by someone who looks like him. In a different setting, maybe, like a bar or party that you were a guest at. But that wasn’t what this scenario was. In this scenario, he was at the end of several gunpoints after being found out to be not a potential investor for your client’s company. Despite that, he was being cocky and (attempting to be) charming.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” you ask him through gritted teeth.
He at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“I would like to remind you that I have a gun that is, coincidentally, pointed at your head,” you say sharply. You smile at him, all teeth and no warmth as you adjust your grip on the pistol in your hands. “So, you wanna try sweet-talking me again, honeybear?”