#yomp

Wolfwood knows some of the words coming out of Vash's mouth. A couple. Maybe. Somehow he does not think that if Vash were sober he'd be any more comprehensible, and at the moment he is a little too pickled to consider if it would be better or worse.

He's distracted.

Color high on fair cheeks, the animate insistence of movement, and then - of course - a gesture jabbed in his direction, tantalizingly near. The rowdiness of the bar around them seems ever more distant now, even if the bustling-jostling crowd demanding space and liquor and changes to the jukebox occasionally brushes in with the unavoidable crush of humanity.

He should be more on edge but he isn't.

"Hmm... pretty sure you're bullshittin' me there. Sounds fake," he drawls as the weight of the needle-noggin becomes too much to carry. Mischief, amusement, affection, it all gleams in narrowing eyes. Might've been a mistake to go without the sunglasses, to keep them tucked arm-first into his unbuttoned shirt given the glint at the backs of his pupils, but that thought isn't at the forefront.

His eyes cross briefly as the hand - and its pointing finger - remain lofted.

It's an invitation at this juncture.

Nicholas cranes his neck, leans closer.

Parts his lips, and folds them around the digit, sealing it in without a whit of hesitation (and with a scuff of teeth and tongue).

“Jakk’s Floating Castle”

Sometimes u just gotta.