Acton possessed the kind of bright arrogance that hated to see any other version of itself. Oh, Denocte drew his kind like rats to grain, all swagger and flash and a dare-me kind of grin, but ever the buckskin had been plenty secure in his place as a Crow, King Reichenbach’s very own magician.
For the first time he faced a funhouse-mirror copy of himself without the kind of confidence that came from having a place in the world, and Acton didn’t care much for it.
Of course, he hadn’t expected the stranger to say Yes, please, give me a good shove, but there was still a measure of disappointment when the golden man so airily side-stepped his offer of violence. Acton shaped a neat, tight grin in response. “How flattering,” he said, “a man who wants to get to know me.”
He blew out a breath, then, dropping just a little of his alpha-male stance. If they were in for a longer time together he may as well get comfortable. Acton wasn’t really in a talkative mood, and was about to say so – when the stranger’s next words caught his attention like a tossed rock.
The buckskin’s gaze angled on the other’s again, and if he was at all embarrassed about his little outburst he showed none of it. Instead he just laughed – a watermelon? - and at the offer he shook his head, feeling like he was bartering at the stall of a market-trader entirely new to the game. “Aw, buddy, but I just hate to be disappointed. If you had a thing worth seeing I’d know about you already.”
But Acton was a tease, and by the gods he loved an interested audience; he couldn’t help but let the natural mask he wore shift with his magic, just a little, just enough to bleed black across his cheeks where it hadn’t been there before.
And then it flickered back to normal, abracadabra, and the buckskin didn’t wink but he sure as hell raised an eyebrow. “Besides,” he added, the words rolling lazy and round as the sun in his mouth, “what kind of showman shares his secrets?”
And that, at least, was a fact that had been known to him since his colthood. No Crow, however new-grown into its feathers, would give up something on only a stranger’s promise of something in return.
Still he kept his distance, gaze lazy on the golden man, still coming around to the idea that there would be no scuffle in which to work all his black feelings out. At last he flicked an ear almost dismissively, and turned his amber eyes back over the bleak, black landscape.
“Anyway, if you’re hungry – for watermelon - you’re in a bad place for it. Unless you like yours charred.” There was a wry note to his voice that was nearly as dry-ash as the landscape.
WHY'D YOU BRING A SHOTGUN TO A PARTY
@Thranduil <3 I'm so sorry for the wait - and can't promise this was worth it, ugh. I'll get back into the swing of him by the next one
