[He made a good call resisting that punch, he knows that. Tempting as it would have been. He's not so sure he made a good call showing up to Vegas in the first place, but how else was he meant to find his partner, especially when his only clue was an address and a name. No, he's where he should be, getting the information he needs to get, however unpleasant the environment around him might be. Maybe Fraser could stroll in here and make friends with both sides like he's some fucking saint, but that's Fraser, Ray just can't do it no matter how much he turns on the charm. No surprises Fraser's managing to make a fuckery of all of this, he supposes.
That tie at his wrist is knotted into the arm of the chair, Armando looping around the back to slip another- probably his own judging by the feel of silk- at Ray's other wrist. And that's that, he's stuck to a chair by two bits of fabric that will undoubtedly make his life a living hell for the next few hours. Maybe he'd get away early, or get away with some sort of warning, but he wouldn't count on that. No point in getting ones hopes up before it's even begun.
He shifts back into the chair, getting himself a little more comfortable rather than perched and arched and killing his back for no reason. He briefly wonders how many others have sat here and how many have come out alive, but that's probably not a great mind set to get himself into either.
Instead he keeps his focus on the mob guy, squinting as he retreats away to a view that Ray can't quite focus on. Maybe he should have brought his glasses. Totally useful in this situation, obviously. He catches the general gist of shapes though, even from his spot, and yeah okay sex dungeon seems like another use for this place because he's pretty sure those are paddles, and he doesn't even know what the fuck those blob shapes are and it's probably best he doesn't even ask. He feels like he should be glad that Armando chooses something as normal as a knife, and then he realises he must be funky in the head right now if he's glad to see a mafioso holding a knife, especially a mafioso looking like that towards him.
His breath hitches as he sees the glint of the blade approach, leaning back and up against the chair as he feels the coolness of the blade touch against his too-hot skin. He's doing his best to keep the rest of his body away from it, although his chin tucks in to try and protect his neck, even as he tries to keep his breath under control and his voice level.]
I'll be in and out, no problem. I don't like the Feds any more than you do. Anythin' to make them look like morons and get my buddy back.
[Confident, if not just slightly apprehensive, but how else should he sound when he's got a knife held against him?]
So uh, we're good, right? We can skip the red room stuff.
no subject
That tie at his wrist is knotted into the arm of the chair, Armando looping around the back to slip another- probably his own judging by the feel of silk- at Ray's other wrist. And that's that, he's stuck to a chair by two bits of fabric that will undoubtedly make his life a living hell for the next few hours. Maybe he'd get away early, or get away with some sort of warning, but he wouldn't count on that. No point in getting ones hopes up before it's even begun.
He shifts back into the chair, getting himself a little more comfortable rather than perched and arched and killing his back for no reason. He briefly wonders how many others have sat here and how many have come out alive, but that's probably not a great mind set to get himself into either.
Instead he keeps his focus on the mob guy, squinting as he retreats away to a view that Ray can't quite focus on. Maybe he should have brought his glasses. Totally useful in this situation, obviously. He catches the general gist of shapes though, even from his spot, and yeah okay sex dungeon seems like another use for this place because he's pretty sure those are paddles, and he doesn't even know what the fuck those blob shapes are and it's probably best he doesn't even ask. He feels like he should be glad that Armando chooses something as normal as a knife, and then he realises he must be funky in the head right now if he's glad to see a mafioso holding a knife, especially a mafioso looking like that towards him.
His breath hitches as he sees the glint of the blade approach, leaning back and up against the chair as he feels the coolness of the blade touch against his too-hot skin. He's doing his best to keep the rest of his body away from it, although his chin tucks in to try and protect his neck, even as he tries to keep his breath under control and his voice level.]
I'll be in and out, no problem. I don't like the Feds any more than you do. Anythin' to make them look like morons and get my buddy back.
[Confident, if not just slightly apprehensive, but how else should he sound when he's got a knife held against him?]
So uh, we're good, right? We can skip the red room stuff.