[Prior could swear his whole life in this city involves people thinking he's spun sugar just because he hasn't had reason to cut them down where they stand. It's a sad reflection, really. He's not the type to take pot shots with nothing to aim at, no, and if that wins him the prize of America's Sweetheart, well he'll look pretty in the ribbon.

He's not flirting, either, although the glasses and the curls aren't a bad thing, and the blush has him narrowing his lips to avoid too satisfied a grin.]

Oh you don't need to list your reasons to me. I love Byerly dearly but he's hardly the first inveterate ass I've loved. My commiserations to your mutual faults. It probably means I'll like you.

[It means, at least, that he'll open the chance to find out. God, as if he wouldn't. Someone in this podunk truck stop who might know both what and where he means by there's no place like home.]

And I'll take you up on the offer, at least. Though - mint condition. You mean I shouldn't plan to use them as plate holders between plays?