$
$: an accidental text:
[text] go ahead, put that hit out. I’m shaking in my fucking boots.
[text] shit
[text] wrong number
[text] don’t waste your time scrolling up, I know you’re too busy for that.
Gregory wiped at the arm of his sleeve, sneering at the chance that Mole had purposely dirtied his favorite shirt. He hadn’t- but one could never be absolutely sure. “I know I’d offered, but...” He stared as the beer was finished in no more gulps than he had fingers on one hand. The beer was imported, obviously, and ran him nearly five Euros a can. Not that he touched the stuff, save for rare occasion. It was flat as water, for all he knew. He doubted Mole’s cigarette-stained mouth would taste the difference. He tapped his fingertips across his forearm, his mind already running the cost of re-stocking.
“...Well. At least it’s to your liking.” Gregory would typically have granted permission for a guest to make themselves at home, and to take as much as they’d like... but Mole’s armful of them made it quite clear that Mole wasn’t waiting to be told what to do. That was... different. That’s what set Mole apart from clientele, he supposed. That, and Gregory would never allow anyone else to freely curse within his own home. It’s barbaric, unnecessary, and it was so very Mole-like. But somehow, it sounded a lot less childish when it was laced between a thick French accent and a toothy grin.
A quick jab to his chest had him clenching his fists, which was an action in vein as Mole had just as quickly turned away from him to fetch ingredients. He could have sworn he saw the man’s shoulders bouncing in a silent snicker. Bastard. Resilience of this sort would only lead to fruitless banter, of which Mole was obviously more skilled than he. With an unheard huff he took to the closet, he removed two aprons from their hangings, and returned to the stove. He threw a dark blue one over Mole’s shoulder, tying his own light-green one around his waist. “Your speech is far too dirty for all this sugar.” He quipped, unable to hold back a retort as he carefully pulled the top up of his apron over his hair and around his neck. He retrieved the main ingredients easily enough from the pantry, holding the last overly large bag of sweet powder hostage while his grin vested for opposition.
“Ah-ah, not before the apron. It’ll look charming, with your disheveled hair and your oh-so-enticing beer breath.” Some semblance of a compliment, layered between thick, blatant insults and a dangerous smile. If Christophe were a girl, she’d be sure to slap him (and justifiably so). But since that wasn’t the case here, Gregory thought that he may be able to get away with a bit of witty rudeness. At least Mole was interesting enough to bite back.
