[ Ray knows he's balanced on a knife edge, and frankly he knows he's going to end up thrown over it one way or another. The real question is when and how. He keeps his eyes on the muzzle of the gun as Stanley trains it on him, circling around to the coffee table with enough care that Ray doesn't remotely consider going for the door behind him.
Knife edge.
Classical music. Made sense, really. Of course it did so happen that Ray left those sorts of things queued up in the machine. He'd grown to like them--he had Armando to blame for that. Still, he licked his lips nervously as Kowalski ramped the music up louder. Louder and louder. It wasn't good. He knew where it led. Then again he'd known it was leading here from the beginning.
Stanley turned to face him, and now the training wheels came off. Now he was ready. He wasn't going to shoot him, which meant they were leading toward some kind of physical violence. He grit his teeth together, waiting, watching him turn slowly red, watching the anger and resentment boil to the surface. Any second now. Ready, Vecchio? Wait for it.
Maybe there's something. Maybe there's a twitch of eyes in toward an expression of anger. Maybe there's nothing. But even if there is nothing, that nothing is Kowalski lunging toward him all of a sudden, drawing his gun up, using it like an extension of his fist and slamming it into his jaw.
His teeth crunch together, tendons in his neck overreaching as his head is snapped to the left, and backward. The gun doesn't go off - that's good - but the edge of the grip tears a gash across his jaw regardless, and knocks him back.
For a second he almost keeps his balance, but his heel catches against the toe of his other foot, and he goes down hard on his left hip. Fuck-- Fucking hell. Ow. Pressing his hand to his jaw, scooting back. ]
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Knife edge.
Classical music. Made sense, really. Of course it did so happen that Ray left those sorts of things queued up in the machine. He'd grown to like them--he had Armando to blame for that. Still, he licked his lips nervously as Kowalski ramped the music up louder. Louder and louder. It wasn't good. He knew where it led. Then again he'd known it was leading here from the beginning.
Stanley turned to face him, and now the training wheels came off. Now he was ready. He wasn't going to shoot him, which meant they were leading toward some kind of physical violence. He grit his teeth together, waiting, watching him turn slowly red, watching the anger and resentment boil to the surface. Any second now. Ready, Vecchio? Wait for it.
Maybe there's something. Maybe there's a twitch of eyes in toward an expression of anger. Maybe there's nothing. But even if there is nothing, that nothing is Kowalski lunging toward him all of a sudden, drawing his gun up, using it like an extension of his fist and slamming it into his jaw.
His teeth crunch together, tendons in his neck overreaching as his head is snapped to the left, and backward. The gun doesn't go off - that's good - but the edge of the grip tears a gash across his jaw regardless, and knocks him back.
For a second he almost keeps his balance, but his heel catches against the toe of his other foot, and he goes down hard on his left hip. Fuck-- Fucking hell. Ow. Pressing his hand to his jaw, scooting back. ]
Sure. Sure, I deserved that.