Happy Birthday was made for you

The cue ball goes shooting across the table again to slam another striped ball into a side pocket and then Reno's on the move again. He hunts around the table, his eyes locked on the green expanse as he picks out his next target. He lines up with the white cue ball from a few different angles, each time looking down the length of his stick to see if the shot is achievable before moving on to the next.

Finally, he decides on a ball that looks appetizing, again a striped one, and he lines the cue up again. The white ball snaps across the table, bounces off a side wall, and then connects with the ball he'd been aiming at. The strike isn't quite hard enough though and the striped ball comes to a stop just at the edge of the hole.

"Well, shit," he grumbles, stepping back from the table. Reno gestures to it with one hand in open invitation to Rude. "Alrigh', it's your turn. I got stripes cause thas' the first thing I sank. You get solids. Ya gotta use the white ball to knock the solid color ones in the holes. Iffn' ya don't hit nothin', hit a striped one inta a hole, or don't sink a solid all the way, ya lose yer turn and I go again. Ya hit in a solid ball, then ya just keep sinkin' 'em till ya get all of 'em in or miss."

Reno rattles off the simple rules to the game. He'd heard Rude's answer but hadn't done much to acknowledge it yet in favor of making sure he got in some good shots first. Reno saunters over to the chair with the bottles on it and he picks up the sake only to realize he didn't grab a shot glass before he headed over.

He glances around, notices their table is now clean in the corner, and decides that he can't exactly make the night more awkward by drinking from the bottle at this point. He chugs a good swig off the bottle and leans against the wall. It takes him a second to realize that Rude has already finished one beer and is all but done with the second.

Damn, he was drinking a lot more than Reno had ever seen him do before and it strikes him as odd but he keeps his mouth shut, concentrating on watching the other man for now to see if anything else feels out of place about his partner. There's a twinge of guilt over Rude taking him out tonight and he worries a little that he's imposing on the other man, maybe Rude was drinking so much because hanging out after work with Reno was grating to him, but the sake numbs that worry down quite a bit.

He's pretty sure Rude will tell him or at least make it known if he's not enjoying himself. Rude's never had a problem before with telling Reno it's time to leave.


Rude follows the action, finally, from the safety of his shades. With mental thanks to Reno for explaining the madness to his methods, Rude finishes his beer, graciously receives the third fro the tender, and steps to the table. So his goal is solids. He merely stands in place for several seconds, eyes darting around the table.

It's easy enough to figure out that he has to measure a path for the white ball to take; the question is that of the correct path. Without looking at Reno, to keep his concentration in place, rude furrows his brow. "...what do the colors and numbers signify? Is there a score or other goal beyond stripes or solids?"

Reno takes another swig and shakes his head as he swallows. "Nah. Juss get th' balls inna hole." Reno pauses for a second and then sniggers at the joke, his sake saturated brain finding it strangely funnier than it should be. "Th' numbers is just so ya can say which ball ya's shootin' at iffn ya wanna be a real prick and start callin' shots n' shit. Don't normally do that though."

He kicks one foot up on the wall and leans his pool cue up beside him so he can shove a hand into one pants pocket. "Jus' don' hit the 8 ball. That one gets saved till th' end. Ya gotta sink all the rest first. Iffn ya sink the 8, then I win by default."


Rude quirks a brow at the snicker from his partner, wondering what exactly is so funny. He nods at the further explanation, pushing the laughter out of his mind, and studies the table again. he doesn't need to walk around it to consider the angles, calling on his experience with explosives and ballistics to make his guesses.

A full four minutes later, he finally stalks to one edge and leans over it, steadying his cue in the position he visualized while calculating. One finger comes up to hop in the air as he hypothesizes the impact and its consequence, and he lowers himself to facilitate the position of the cue.

He lets fly, fully expecting to land the purple and the maroon one into two different pockets. The maroon one, at least, makes it to a hole, but a green striped one gets knocked off kilter a little further than he expected, and goes bouncing off the table. Rude stands and scowls at it before stalking off into the lounge after it, reddening in the face.

Reno watches the intense concentration that furrows his partner's brow. He's never seen anyone take pool so seriously but this is Rude after all, and the man never does anything half assed. As Rude stands immobile, Reno shifts on the wall and takes another swig. He has never been able to stay still very long and as the seconds pass into minutes he becomes a little antsier.

Nothing is said and the only sound is the singer from the next room still crooning in her tired voice and the slurp of liquor as Reno presses the bottle to his lips. He sighs and lets the bottle hang down by his leg, checks the time and watches the bartender clean another glass before looking back at Rude again.

He's about to make a snarky comment about the fact that he's yet to see anyone play pool by willing the balls into the holes through sheer intimidation but he stops himself by biting his tongue. His eyes lock onto the dark shades and he half wonders if they're like his goggles in that they never come off.

A curiosity awakens in him to see what's underneath and he stares hard at them, trying to see the outline of Rude's eyes through the thick smoked glass, but his efforts are thwarted by the overhead light glaring back at him from that impenetrable shield. He finds his eye wandering farther down Rude's face to take in those strangely interesting lips again, that strong jaw line with the immaculately trimmed goatee, and the multitude of piercings in each ear.

The light catches on the claw Rude wears in his left ear and Reno licks his lips subconsciously. He suddenly wants to taste it. He wants to feel the metal pressed against his tongue and wonders if it will have the salt tang of Rude's skin on it. The thought makes his skin feel flushed and feverish and Reno catches himself fingering over the bottle in his grip as if it were an extension of Rude's skin.

His eyes snap wide and he suddenly sets the bottle down, looking at it as if the thing had somehow betrayed him before turning back in time to watch Rude's shot. He watches the man lean over and the hand in his pocket twitches. Why the hell does he want to grab the man's tie and wrap it around his fingers so badly?

He takes a deep steadying breath and watches Rude line up the shot. As the ball goes sailing past, Reno draws back instinctively and then swallows down a bark of laughter. Rude surely isn't going to appreciate that. He tries to stifle the nervous laughter that erupts from him as Rude goes to get the ball but he's silently glad for the distraction that pulls his mind off the strange fantasies he's been working over.

When Rude returns, Reno smiles sympathetically and gestures to the table. "Ya got one of 'em in. We'll say this'n don't count. Means it's yer turn again." Reno stands up from the wall and snags his own cue, holding out his hand for Rude's and offering an exchange. "Here, take mine. Looks straighter than yours. An' yer hittin' too hard if it sends one of 'em flyin'. Want me ta show ya how?"