"You got some guts," Graves grits his teeth despite the smile that cuts into his face - he's doing his best to appear amiable, friendly, charming, absolutely sincere. He's not doing himself any favors though, teeth chewing on the end of his cigar before his fingers pull it away from his mouth. "actin' all familiar with me. Like we were partners, or something." He spits with venom.
He’s mad--of course he’s mad, absolutely livid if the news Fate’s heard are any indications--but there aren’t going to be any apologies. Fate has always been a greedy man, swayed wholly and easily by avarice; he knows, and Graves does too, that if he had a chance to choose between Malcom Graves and magic, he wouldn’t change a damn thing.
“Simmer down, hotshot; don’t tell me you’re still mad about that,” Fate chuckles, and oh, he knows--he knows how this is a risk, how this pushes Graves ever closer to the edge, and how, like a string drawn taut, it can all come undone in just a matter of seconds.
He relishes in the thrill and the luck he’s dealt today.
“You know as well as I do that only a fool plays the hand that he’s dealt.”