Flint stares at him. Then he stares some more, because it’s not immediately clear to him that Hal might be joking. His face twitches like he’s barely containing something (that something being both amusement and sheer exasperation with the bastard), the back of his neck warming.
“Always,” Flint says, dryly. Just for that, he fusses with the collar of Gates’ shirt again, then steps back to finally let the man breathe. “No harm in looking presentable, Hal. You’d think you’d been hauled through a bush coming in here.”
Every now and again, a man found himself faced with an age old choice: to mischief, or not to mischief. Hal considered himself a man with a great immunity to the urge of the former, but every now and again the temptation was so fucking heady he just could not restrain himself.
“You never tell me I’m pretty though, so how’s a man to know?” He asked, not giving a fucking hint to the man whether or not this was a jest or a genuine criticism. Flint struggled at the best of times to read a room, and games like these were almost mean in a way because of it – but at the end of the day, Hal was only human.
Sometimes, he had to have a little bit of fun.
“In case you missed it,” He gestured to the interior around them, “We’re surrounded by bush. I kept to the path, thank you. Not my fault I got a bit rustled up on the way in.”
Ocean Archive 