[ There's a pretty clear air of contemplative energy rolling off of Nate that he can see even through the gentle cloud of being stoned. Aside from that, Ian's own brain starts turning over practical applications for this kind of power - monetary gain aside, Jesus, influencing luck has got to be one of the most insane and abstract ideas he could think of. Something like that could legitimately save your life, it could save other people's lives, and it could do it in a way that was effortless. He'd love to know what in the hell the limits are, what happens if Nate needs luck but doesn't have an intent in mind, the scope of it, the--
Nate yanks him back into the present, and his eyebrows shoot up. ]
...What happened at the casino?
[ Carefully, pointedly, because if movies taught him anything it's that fucked up things happen to people who screw with the house too much. Accidentally winning big consistently enough is bound to attract attention. ]
[ Nate grimaces, slowly slanting his gaze in Ian's direction. It's a valid, normal question that begs an equally valid, normal answer. It's also something he really should have expected given a.) he brought the damn subject up in the first place, thank you, lack of filters, and b.) Ian is about as hellishly curious as Nate is about everything, all the time. ]
I might've...won a significant amount of money. Got too lucky. Started feeling stuffy, undid the top buttons of my suit-
[ He does a little gesture here, at his collar. ]
Guess I was using it the whole time and didn't realize until then. They were not happy.
[ Ian starts groaning at the word undid, because he pieces it together almost instantly. God in heaven, of course he did, and then whoever was running the joint would've seen the glow, figured out he was a displaced, and assumed he was cheating the everloving fuck out of everything.
He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his facial hair while his lips twist up into something concerned. ]
Well you're still running around and not, like, in jail or-- I don't know, what in the fuck would a casino owner do to a magically cheating gambler? How'd you get out of it?
Besides have some goons drag me into a back room to beat the crap out of me?
[ Nate quips blithely, as though it were a hypothetical and not, in fact, the reality of the situation. He scratches idly at a cheekbone, the bruise only recently faded out into something that’s not noticeable. Nate also has no idea what was him and what was the power, because he’s generally very good at counting cards. ]
They want the notoriety, I think. Or...or the power. Or both. They got shafted when big companies cut them out of business deals. [ He wheedles around the subject before really getting to the point. ] They offered me a job.
[ Ian does not, in fact, take it as a hypothetical. He's learning from his mistakes and he's assuming the most dangerous eventuality is in fact the truest account of Nathan's history. He's leveled with an flat, patient stare throughout his circle-talking — right up until that big delivery, at which point his features shift into something more resembling distress. ]
A job? They- meaning, the owners of a casino, people who have goons, people who are interested in paying other people to magically cheat at high-stakes gambling — are they the fucking mafia? The mafia offered you a job?
[ But wait! There's more! The conclusions don't end there — ]
I didn’t think it would be a really great idea to refuse when they were holding me and my brother in a windowless room!
[ He could have taken them, he knows this. Could have easily twisted out of their grip, decked a couple, done a few easy take-downs with Sam there, and they could have left the casino relatively unscathed.
Except for the inevitable blowback when the fucking mob would undoubtedly put a hit out on them, endangering not only the people who came with them - Midge, Lance, Wade, Garak - but the Displaced as a whole. People who had never set foot in the casino and probably never would. People like- ]
Ian. There wasn’t a choice. [ Nate’s pleasant buzz is starting to feel compromised and he doesn’t shy away from eye contact now. ] And I figured the least I could do is make it useful, I’m- I can keep tabs on their issues with the corporations. Try and figure out if they know which mercenary groups work for which companies, narrow down the options on which one sent them to kidnap us a few months ago.
[ Does all of that make complete and total sense? Yes. Is he happy about any of it regardless? Resounding no.
His lips press together in a gentle unhappy line, though the soft cloud of pot in his mind keeps him from dipping to outright upset. His fingers card through his hair, catch about midway through as some of the curls lock together. He abandons the motion, and the tendrils sort of flop dejectedly over onto one side.
Nate doesn't shy from the eye contact, but Ian does a little - it's just a slight dip and sideways look wherein his eyes land on his glass as he settles heavily back into the couch. ]
I just don't want you to get hurt, man. It sounds fucking dangerous.
[ Nate watches the aborted gesture, the way Ian's hand loses interest halfway through and his hair falls over his face again. Loose, almost leisurely, tinged with the anxiety of someone who is feeling the sentiment through the thick curtain of recreational influence. It isn't a pleasant sensation to know that you're a problem, but neither is Nate unfamiliar with the expression, the concern, and though it would be easy to give the carefree and rote response Ian probably deserves something a little more sincere. ]
I know.
[ It's fine, I'll be okay, there's nothing to worry about, I've done stuff like this a thousand times.
Hollow, empty words. Things he can say, but won't. No matter how confident he is the stakes are still high. ]
I'm gonna be as careful as I can be, which...I know probably doesn't mean a lot to you, but. I mean it.
[ There's quiet for a second, words in his head that he turns over a few times to weigh them against the sober part of his brain and determine if it's a good idea to actually say them. Weed makes his filter drop a little, he forgets for a few seconds at a time to actually think before he speaks.
What he's thinking about saying feels a little too real-sounding, though, and responding to doesn't mean a lot to you the way he almost does... Yeah, he'd replay it later on without being stoned and probably agonize over it. Kick himself like a moron.
In the end, the sand sifts under the surface and it's smoothed back into glass with the absent motion of his tongue passing over his lips. ]
Alright, man, but if you get into trouble...
[ You have his number. Does it come across as that, or does it come across as if you get into trouble keep it away from me? Can't be sure it comes across the way it means it to, he's second guessing himself a little with that pot-based paranoia.
Just to be sure, he follows it up with a blithe, self-deprecating offer. ]
I can make some neat fucking... walls, or something.
Usually the implication is don't bring it back to my doorstep but the hesitation makes him feel like the meaning isn't the same. Like Ian is trying to choose his words deliberately, so as to not be misunderstood - or maybe that's wishful thinking, that Nate's poor decision making won't drive someone away. The follow-up summarily clears him of doubts but it's also such a devastatingly funny addendum that Nate snorts into his Sunny D. ]
Well, Hell. [ He says with a distinctive air of teasing, smile wry over the lip of his glass, brightened by the levity. ] I could go for some neat walls.
[ It drives a soft, amused scoff out of him. Yeah, yeah, shut up, maybe he's not the best at delivering the appropriate amount (but not too much) of sincerity while stoned.
Good to have the lightness back, and it's written in his expression somewhere even as he lifts his eyes to shoot Nate a look.
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Nate yanks him back into the present, and his eyebrows shoot up. ]
...What happened at the casino?
[ Carefully, pointedly, because if movies taught him anything it's that fucked up things happen to people who screw with the house too much. Accidentally winning big consistently enough is bound to attract attention. ]
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I might've...won a significant amount of money. Got too lucky. Started feeling stuffy, undid the top buttons of my suit-
[ He does a little gesture here, at his collar. ]
Guess I was using it the whole time and didn't realize until then. They were not happy.
no subject
He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his facial hair while his lips twist up into something concerned. ]
Well you're still running around and not, like, in jail or-- I don't know, what in the fuck would a casino owner do to a magically cheating gambler? How'd you get out of it?
no subject
[ Nate quips blithely, as though it were a hypothetical and not, in fact, the reality of the situation. He scratches idly at a cheekbone, the bruise only recently faded out into something that’s not noticeable. Nate also has no idea what was him and what was the power, because he’s generally very good at counting cards. ]
They want the notoriety, I think. Or...or the power. Or both. They got shafted when big companies cut them out of business deals. [ He wheedles around the subject before really getting to the point. ] They offered me a job.
no subject
A job? They- meaning, the owners of a casino, people who have goons, people who are interested in paying other people to magically cheat at high-stakes gambling — are they the fucking mafia? The mafia offered you a job?
[ But wait! There's more! The conclusions don't end there — ]
Oh fuck, you took it, didn't you?
no subject
[ He could have taken them, he knows this. Could have easily twisted out of their grip, decked a couple, done a few easy take-downs with Sam there, and they could have left the casino relatively unscathed.
Except for the inevitable blowback when the fucking mob would undoubtedly put a hit out on them, endangering not only the people who came with them - Midge, Lance, Wade, Garak - but the Displaced as a whole. People who had never set foot in the casino and probably never would. People like- ]
Ian. There wasn’t a choice. [ Nate’s pleasant buzz is starting to feel compromised and he doesn’t shy away from eye contact now. ] And I figured the least I could do is make it useful, I’m- I can keep tabs on their issues with the corporations. Try and figure out if they know which mercenary groups work for which companies, narrow down the options on which one sent them to kidnap us a few months ago.
no subject
His lips press together in a gentle unhappy line, though the soft cloud of pot in his mind keeps him from dipping to outright upset. His fingers card through his hair, catch about midway through as some of the curls lock together. He abandons the motion, and the tendrils sort of flop dejectedly over onto one side.
Nate doesn't shy from the eye contact, but Ian does a little - it's just a slight dip and sideways look wherein his eyes land on his glass as he settles heavily back into the couch. ]
I just don't want you to get hurt, man. It sounds fucking dangerous.
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I know.
[ It's fine, I'll be okay, there's nothing to worry about, I've done stuff like this a thousand times.
Hollow, empty words. Things he can say, but won't. No matter how confident he is the stakes are still high. ]
I'm gonna be as careful as I can be, which...I know probably doesn't mean a lot to you, but. I mean it.
no subject
What he's thinking about saying feels a little too real-sounding, though, and responding to doesn't mean a lot to you the way he almost does... Yeah, he'd replay it later on without being stoned and probably agonize over it. Kick himself like a moron.
In the end, the sand sifts under the surface and it's smoothed back into glass with the absent motion of his tongue passing over his lips. ]
Alright, man, but if you get into trouble...
[ You have his number. Does it come across as that, or does it come across as if you get into trouble keep it away from me? Can't be sure it comes across the way it means it to, he's second guessing himself a little with that pot-based paranoia.
Just to be sure, he follows it up with a blithe, self-deprecating offer. ]
I can make some neat fucking... walls, or something.
no subject
Usually the implication is don't bring it back to my doorstep but the hesitation makes him feel like the meaning isn't the same. Like Ian is trying to choose his words deliberately, so as to not be misunderstood - or maybe that's wishful thinking, that Nate's poor decision making won't drive someone away. The follow-up summarily clears him of doubts but it's also such a devastatingly funny addendum that Nate snorts into his Sunny D. ]
Well, Hell. [ He says with a distinctive air of teasing, smile wry over the lip of his glass, brightened by the levity. ] I could go for some neat walls.
no subject
Good to have the lightness back, and it's written in his expression somewhere even as he lifts his eyes to shoot Nate a look.
Half-mutters: ]
Better than your walls anyway, Winnesota.