It was a French fry, he found, chewing on it slowly as he watched the other look at him strangely, like he was concentrating very on something to be concentrated because he could not concentrate on that particular subject before. He distracted himself with the oh-so-intelligent discovery of greasy potatoes and sodium chloride on his tongue in order to not address the gaze that fixated on him. This was awkward, and though Desmond Miles personified awkwardness, Shaun Hastings was not supposed to be in the limelight of the making of this weird lacuna. He expected the latter to go back to eating after the rude shoving of junk against his lips—after all, the idiot had an attention span of a horsefly deciding upon whether it wished to devour horse manure or kitty vomit, and he had been bitching about his black hole of a stomach for ages. To suddenly have his—unwanted, mind you; unwanted—attention for more than forty-seven seconds was terribly uncomfortable.
Very terribly uncomfortable.
"What? Do I have something horrendous on my face?" his voice challenged, the need to break this moment overruling the tiny bit of poise he had. "Like a zit? Or maybe I have a horn growing out of my eye?"
"Shaun—"
"Well, whatever it is that is making you pucker up like a virgin, I don't really care for it. Simply, hurry up." His voice then dropped to a dead whisper. "You know we have a contract tonight. We need to get ready quickly."
The mention of the new assassination mission seemed to bring Desmond back from La La Land, judging by the way he shook his head and took another bite out of his hot dog. This primate may be the clumsiest, graceless, and most ill at ease moron in the universe, but he was a flawless assassin who was one of the highest ranked in the Brotherhood. And surprisingly, an ace when it comes to chemistry and physics. God, Shaun thought as he tasted the remnants of the fry, today was just one big mess.
"I am about to ring up the damn manager if the bill doesn't come in one minute and thirty-nine seconds," he huffed, grimacing at the cheap taste of beer. It seemed as if that Kadar-guy transferred his pansy ways into the alcohol, because this shit was worse than the Kit Kat Bars at the Ninety-Nine Cents Store. "This is just ridiculous—"
And then, it was back again—that eerie look that dominated Desmond's face, made his eyes widen and lock onto him like he was Jesus, or something. He was taken aback at the abrupt change in demeanor, and it made him uneasy when the other's hand latched onto his wrist with strength he took for granted. It was now, bringing his body back as Desmond moved closer, that he was starting to wonder if he really did qualify for a freak-show, or if he caused an idiotic revelation; his mind had dropped the acknowledgement of the annoying buzz of the restaurant, and he didn't even register the monochrome lighting, as he blinked heavily in wary expectancy. Something didn't feel right.
Bound (2/3) of [5/?]
Very terribly uncomfortable.
"What? Do I have something horrendous on my face?" his voice challenged, the need to break this moment overruling the tiny bit of poise he had. "Like a zit? Or maybe I have a horn growing out of my eye?"
"Shaun—"
"Well, whatever it is that is making you pucker up like a virgin, I don't really care for it. Simply, hurry up." His voice then dropped to a dead whisper. "You know we have a contract tonight. We need to get ready quickly."
The mention of the new assassination mission seemed to bring Desmond back from La La Land, judging by the way he shook his head and took another bite out of his hot dog. This primate may be the clumsiest, graceless, and most ill at ease moron in the universe, but he was a flawless assassin who was one of the highest ranked in the Brotherhood. And surprisingly, an ace when it comes to chemistry and physics. God, Shaun thought as he tasted the remnants of the fry, today was just one big mess.
"I am about to ring up the damn manager if the bill doesn't come in one minute and thirty-nine seconds," he huffed, grimacing at the cheap taste of beer. It seemed as if that Kadar-guy transferred his pansy ways into the alcohol, because this shit was worse than the Kit Kat Bars at the Ninety-Nine Cents Store. "This is just ridiculous—"
And then, it was back again—that eerie look that dominated Desmond's face, made his eyes widen and lock onto him like he was Jesus, or something. He was taken aback at the abrupt change in demeanor, and it made him uneasy when the other's hand latched onto his wrist with strength he took for granted. It was now, bringing his body back as Desmond moved closer, that he was starting to wonder if he really did qualify for a freak-show, or if he caused an idiotic revelation; his mind had dropped the acknowledgement of the annoying buzz of the restaurant, and he didn't even register the monochrome lighting, as he blinked heavily in wary expectancy. Something didn't feel right.