[ Yeah, he believes that. That Roche was born rolling in mud, that is. He knows it must be true because he himself recalls much the same thing. Being basically indistinguishable from the dirt and trash on the side of the road, his hair so dirty it looked black. His big, colorful eyes cut through the muck, though, or so they say, and he's inclined to believe that, too. He's starting to think these Junon folk have just got The Look. Roche has it. Roche has him by the throat with those eyes, sometimes, and it's got shit-all to do with the Mako.

Like right now, for example. He looks up as Roche beckons him closer, watching his face instead of looking at the menu for the longest moment. It isn't until the snort (so cute, so funny) that he finally takes a gander at what he's pointing out, and.

Wow.

Doucheburger.

Reno barks out a squawk of a laugh that makes all the heads around them turn in annoyance and has to bite his lip to stymie the giggles. ]

Are you fucking—yes, fuck yes. I've never wanted anything more in my life than how much I want to share a d-doucheburger with you.

[ Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Here comes the guy who brought the drinks, now with their bottle of Dalmore 62, and he looks Proper Snooty at the commotion they're raising over here already. Your whiskey, sirs, he says. ]

Yo, we're ready to order. Can I get, uh—

[ You'll place your order with your waiter, sir, says Mr. Only Serves Drinks Apparently, and Reno clicks his tongue, sitting back in his seat and shooting a sardonic grin across the table. ]

Oh, scuze me. That's fine. We'll just get tanked in the meantime. Thanks. Hey, what's your name again, pal?

[ Maurice, sir. ]

Maurice. [ Reno taps his temple. His smile is positively carnivorous. Predatory. A wild, hungry dog. ] I'll remember that.