#0hcaptn

--- ↪ prompt. ( please please please. )

" wha -- seriously ? we're gonna do this now ? " ryouta looks at his current ' partner ' with an incredulously disgruntled expression, almost appalled she'd even be joking around when they were in the middle of a pretty serious case. ( he and the police already didn't get along in the best of ways, but they were nonetheless rational to deduce his skills were VITAL in certain investigations. ) it's why the last thing he wants to do is slip up or make a mistake during a crucial case that puts any more unnecessary weight on him when some were eager to doubt ryouta's skills if not for his ability to prove them wrong time and time again.

it's why he needed the evidence currently held in her hand. ( a usb drive. ) predominantly, and stereotypically, a crucial clue into expanding a case with more insight as it was in the suspect's belongings containing recordings and sensitive information. he sighs, rubbing his temple with a shake of his head. he forgets ... she was a bit of the lax sort. with a resigning sigh, he extends his hand out with his palm out and open, beckoning for her to give him the usb drive. " ... may i have the evidence ? please ? " a firmer ' please ' that was less pleading and more strict.

people asked him silly questions everywhere he went. didn’t matter who they were — an x-man, an avenger, an evil scientist, some world-ender too stupid t’ quit, maybe even his own mama the day he was born. prolly asked him somethin’ like why his eyes looked like that, and he like: hell if he knew — she the one who birthed him. ask the genes. ask the sky why it can’t stop bein’ blue. ask an elephant why it can’t jump. the foolishness never stopped rollin' on in through his world. monica would've been better off askin’ why he was the one that won the race out his daddy’s dick. sometimes, he asked that too.

    ❝ grow out of it? non, monica. ❞

the louisiana maverick let the words melt off his tongue, smooth as warm cane syrup. he lifted his steaming cup of louisiana prairie coffee, let that lafayette roast slide down his throat with all its familiar bitterness. as always, it hit him like home.

her asking him to grow out of somethin' as natural water was jus' crazy talk. but the fact she was her being hot and bothered enough t' ask? now that entertained him plenty. so he indulged her.

    ❝ you know full well what folks say ’bout the company you keep, podnah — ❞ he said, his voice dipped into a lazy purr, wicked in the small ways, and let out a rich chuckle. ❝ an’ since you still lettin’ me hang ’round, i reckon dat make you jus' as guilty as gambit, you. ❞

he let her chew on that for a second.

the cheshire-esque grin that curled onto his face next was a slow-bloomin' thing. it was soft enough t' disarm the most guarded folks and striking enough t' set off fair warnings. with gambit, there was always a gamble: sometimes he was just a man smilin’ at the good the world still offered. other times? well. he was the fox circlin' a henhouse, seein' what doors weren't latched, what trenches could be dug in a soft patch o' soil.

folks didn't call him a bad influence for nothin'.

and he'd break into pieces of the man he was if he ever stopped leanin' into that reputation. now that did earn him some rather unkind opinions. but that was fine. gambit wasn't built t' break easy.

    ❝ besides... why you fussin' on a good lundi mornin', anyway, hmm? ❞ a teasing croon, warm as chicory on his tongue.

    ❝ you gon' get used t' mah influence sooner or later. folks who know me know it ages like a good rum — it gets smoother, stronger... an' just dangerous enough t’ keep life ahead o’ everyone ’round me real interestin’. never know what card comin’ next. ❞

his eyes cut toward her then, ember-warm, satanically-bright, mischief glintin' like a spark from off of his charges. ❝ but nothin’ a star-fire like you can’t handle. cher, you built for weather hotter’n me. you know dis already… don’t you, you? ❞

t’challa’s golden eyes lifted from the cookbook—jubilee: recipes from two centuries of african american cooking. he bookmarked the page with his thumb for a moment, his gaze fixing on her. he studied her face for a cue—was it playfulness, or was there an undercurrent of genuine uneasiness there?

    ❝ either or works—though it sounds a bit too formal for two friends in the same room. t’challa will do. unless you enjoy the attention it draws. ❞ his voice carried traces of of amusement, the teasing warmth beneath it moving so effortlessly it blurred the line between the king’s composure and the man’s charm.

he set the book down on the counter and folded his arms, the royal folds of his ceremonial robes gathering close around him as he leaned back.

    ❝ and i doubt the opinions of nobodies could bruise your spirit, captain. you’ve never struck me as a woman who dishonors herself just to soothe the egos of peons. and i’d like to believe you think better of me than to imagine i’d allow disrespect go unaddressed while i’m present. ❞