[The hooch hound is successful yet again-- he really figured he wouldn't stop leaning on alcohol straight after being shipped home, anyway. And anyway, he isn't even home so it isn't like he's breaking some unspoken promise to Human Decency. He takes the plate and cup with all the grace of a vagabond, on the brink of thin and gaunt to counter the cook's sturdy solid build, and
he lights up. His eyes light up, the miserable slouch is straightened just enough, and an old, warm, familiar smile wants to break out on his face.
This stuff could all very easily be poison or whatnot but watch as he can't care to... care. The smile's morphed into a smirk (Hawk is a hell of a transparent jackass when the mood's just right) and before he takes a step back after accepting the gifts he'll do what's culturally appropriate: roll his shoulders back, cock his hips with a remnant of subtlety, and blow the fella a kiss.
no subject
he lights up. His eyes light up, the miserable slouch is straightened just enough, and an old, warm, familiar smile wants to break out on his face.
This stuff could all very easily be poison or whatnot but watch as he can't care to... care. The smile's morphed into a smirk (Hawk is a hell of a transparent jackass when the mood's just right) and before he takes a step back after accepting the gifts he'll do what's culturally appropriate: roll his shoulders back, cock his hips with a remnant of subtlety, and blow the fella a kiss.
Guy, you're missing the apron but that's okay.]