Neal hadn't considered music at all, although he realizes now that it was silly for him to overlook such a thing. He'd discovered an excessive and impressive database on his phone — as unexpected as the phone itself in a town that's otherwise behind the times. Another bizarre allowance, probably to ensure the locals are comfortable enough that they don't cause problems. He wishes he were unfamiliar with these kinds of tactics, but he's honestly lived his whole life under similar circumstances so he can't quite muster the surprise.
I DON'T MIND A GOOD CONVERSATION INSTEAD, he writes in response to the offer.
He watches Wes in the mirror while he putzes around, curious and observant as ever to see more than what's offered. He seems precise and confident and like he's not stretching to impress. Interesting. It's a bit of a change from their last meeting, isn't it?
In the air there's the sulfur of a match followed soon after by the smell of something so familiar it makes Neal's throat tighten. He swallows down the feelings, momentarily distant and glancing thoughtfully at the candle before looking back to admire himself in the mirror.
He runs his hand through his hair, critical of the length and finding it easy to submit to that distraction. Sitting back, he retains his writing pad, crosses his legs primly and flipping to the next page while he waits.
DO YOU THINK YOU CAN WORK WITH WHAT I'VE GOT GOING? He holds it up the new note against his chest, cheeky and watching for a response in kind.
no subject
I DON'T MIND A GOOD CONVERSATION INSTEAD, he writes in response to the offer.
He watches Wes in the mirror while he putzes around, curious and observant as ever to see more than what's offered. He seems precise and confident and like he's not stretching to impress. Interesting. It's a bit of a change from their last meeting, isn't it?
In the air there's the sulfur of a match followed soon after by the smell of something so familiar it makes Neal's throat tighten. He swallows down the feelings, momentarily distant and glancing thoughtfully at the candle before looking back to admire himself in the mirror.
He runs his hand through his hair, critical of the length and finding it easy to submit to that distraction. Sitting back, he retains his writing pad, crosses his legs primly and flipping to the next page while he waits.
DO YOU THINK YOU CAN WORK WITH WHAT I'VE GOT GOING? He holds it up the new note against his chest, cheeky and watching for a response in kind.