Gabriel & Namor | Networking Drinking Games

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Gabriel and Namor meet at a networking mixer; one networking, one mixing drinks. A bet is made and won.

These kinds of gigs had been way more fun back when Gabriel was stealing.

Pouring old-school cocktails to rich folks wasn't particularly stimulating, and it provided little in the way of flirting opportunities or non-condescending conversation. Tonight had been no different. Wealthy businessmen who were trying to network (or make business synergy leverage deals or whatever the hell they did) were more inclined to ignore the help then acknowledge it.

Still, even without his usual spoils, the money was good. And so he tried to focus on that, as he handed an older woman a Rob Roy and got little more than a hand wave in return.

Namor was having an equally dull time. "Go network," his father had said. "It will be a good chance for you to mingle with the sharks," he had said. Namor had expected to be asked to match wits or barbs with young associates that had teeth. This, well, this made him want to show his canines only in a yawn.

The young men that circled him where smiling, but it was easy to see in the way that they shifted on their feet and glanced apprehensively at their phones that they did not know what they were doing. Namor had quickly made the most threatening one of them show their belly, and now he had an entourage. He loomed near the bar, imperious, as the three other young men waited for orders.

"I could use a drink," he commanded lazy. Echoes of "yes, good idea" and "this party could use more alcohol" rang up quickly until there was one underling left to do the dirty work. The blond haired boy stuck his hands in his pockets and dejectedly slinked toward Gabriel, accepting his fate.

"You," the blond stated without much force of will, "Two whiskeys neat, one on the rocks." Then his eyes sparkled, and a large bill was produced. "There's a little extra in it for you if you add something interesting for those assholes over there." The junior Republican nodded excitedly toward Namor's little group.

Gabriel took the bill with one hand and pocketed it. His eyes followed the man's gesture over to Namor and his three lapdogs. "Hoo boy." He shook his head before starting to scoop some ice. "Said with the practiced ease of a man who tries to use bartenders to help him get women."

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and flipped it, then started pouring. "Here's what you do." Gabriel watched Namor hold court and had to grin. The guy was a natural. "Tell that one," he nodded toward a redhead wearing madras pants and a bow tie, "it turns out you know his ex, and that she said to say she hopes his problem has cleared up. Use air quotes when you say it." He poured out the second whisky, then grabbed a nearby pitcher of iced tea.

"That other one has his fly unzipped, so you know, tell him in that fake-subtle way you do when you're actually trying to embarrass someone." He grabbed an orange twist out of a container. "But first, give this glass," he ran the twist along the rim and dropped it into the glass, "to the tall guy. Tell him the bartender made it special." Gabriel handed him the glasses. "Nope. Wipe that stupid look off your face. That won't do."

The blond wasn't impressed by the bartender's lip, but his parting sneer did little to mask that he was clearly enjoying whatever he was imagined may happen in the near future.

The fly comment was disregarded with a contemptuous frown.

The tall guy took his glass casually, only giving both it and the bar a second look as the other twenty something, now almost puffing out of his sweater vest in newfound confidence, received a punch as he delivered the line about the girlfriend. Redheads.

What did draw the tall one's attention to the bar, even as the minnows in his group started to turn and eat eachother, was when he took a sip of the drink. A slight frown played into the telltale signs of curiosity, and Namor exited the tumult as if immune to the bromedy unfolding.

Gabriel was accosted with a very flat "I have you to thank for this?" as Namor swirled the ice in his drink pointedly.

"I was bribed." The bartender threw his hands up in defense. "And unlike most of the people here, I'm not in a position to say no to a $20 tip. Besides," he grabbed the glass from Namor, "I'm bored, and I figured I'd save you from the fight over who gets to be your beta dog." He grabbed a bottle of Campari and some vermouth, glancing at the argument he'd helped unfold. "Who the hell are these people anyway?"

"Heirs with little capacity and a lot to prove."

Back in melee, the one with the bowtie was about as red as his hair. "Investment banker's son."

The blond was currently pressed against a wall on the receiving end of that temper. "His father owns a gas company."

The third, a brunette in a vest, was trying to run interference against the possibility of adults noticing. "Heir to a clothing retailer."

Namor shrugged noncommittally. "This is a party full of money looking to network with those of higher net worth." His flat tone indicated that this was common, like talking about the weather, but perhaps even more mundane.

"Aha." Gabriel scooped some ice into a cocktail shaker. "Respectfully, that sounds insufferable."

"Insufferable is relative. There are many insufferable things one must do."

Gabriel snorted. "That, my friend, is a nice way of saying yes." He shook the cocktail, watching as the fight grew more heated. One of the little-mentioned perks of bartending was occasionally feeling Machiavellian.

"So, what's the deal? Making business deals? Leveraging investment asset fluctuation? Cornering the global boat shoes market?" He grabbed a strainer and poured a Boulevardier into a rocks glass, dropped a twist in and handed it to Namor. "Here."

"Those things," he paused while trying the red-gold drink, "Happen in boardrooms. There is boozing and colluding, but all that happens in parties like these is mainly posturing and setting up future golf sessions. All of the song and dance that business entails in a forced casual setting."

"Gee." Gabriel planted his hands on the bar. "Must be exhausting being rich."

This comment was met by the flattest of flat looks. "Very." Then the well-dressed Attlani shrugged, disregarding a bit of the pretense. "It has perks, but it also means coming to social events like these and playing nice. It is not the type of hard work I favor."

"Mm, I'll bet." Gabriel glanced around the room. "It's also a giant sausage-fest, which can't be fun for you."

"It is always sons at these things. One of these men likely has a marginally brilliant daughter whose potential is being wasted."

"Oh, and you're the one to tap it? Ugh, sorry," he grimaced, "poor word choice. Point is, do you really have that much game?"

"Ugh," Namor rolled his eyes so hard he was dangerously close to spraining his face, "There are several important inaccuracies with that statement. One: of course I have that much game; two: dangerous, brilliant women may be irresistible, but that fact doesn't matter."

"Oh, come on." Gabriel shook his head, grinning. "All guys tell other guys they've got excellent game. It's that whole bravado macho thing. That's why that's happening." He gestured to the tense scene in the other corner. "Manhood." To prove his point, he added a caveman grunt.

"And even if you do have game, which, okay, fine," he raised a hand in concession, "you're a wealthy, handsome man, so you're probably starting at a higher level then most of us, how many of the women you meet at frat parties or pick up at Starbucks are really dangerous? Or anywhere close to brilliant? Hm?"

Namor sighed, deflating a little. "Too few. What I want is a challenge."

"Maybe that can be arranged." Gabriel scanned the room. "What kind of challenge?"

"I doubt we could find anything suitable here," and the machismo was back in full force; almost in challenge.

Gabriel eyed Namor, trying to decide if poking him with a pin would make him deflate. It probably wasn't worth the risk. "You might be right." He returned his attention to the crowd, trying to channel his inner Nathan Detroit. "Attractive, brilliant and dangerous women don't attend networking nights. Shame that it — oh, well, there's her," Gabriel jutted his chin toward a tall blonde in the corner who had icily ordered a Pinot Grigio earlier, "but I don't think you're her type."

The scoff in his reply had layers of scornful derision. "I am everyone's type."

"Please."

"This is not a chess game, Mr. Cohuelo. I see what you are doing."

"Oh, don't be like that." Gabriel rolled his eyes. "I'm expressing a healthy skepticism about the claims of others, like all us disaffected kids are supposed to do. Here, hand me that glass."

"I do prefer blondes," Namor stated matter of factly as the glass was exchanged. His eyes, despite the last comment, were still on the blonde. "But I do not see why I am not her type."

"First off, I've got her pegged as an 'shaggy-haired lacrosse boy I can clean up' type, and you're too..." Gabriel grabbed a bottle of whiskey. "Composed. Put-together. Which isn't entirely unattractive, just - oh, come on, I didn't mean it in a bad way." He handed the other man back his drink. "Anyway, she's an ice queen. Drink up."

"You assume that she hasn't been taught to expect the best. Not every queen craves a stableboy to fix."

"As a stableboy who has slept with quite a few queens, I can assure you that's not true."

Namor waved that off. "Of course there are exceptions. So. Lay out the ground rules and we'll proceed with your party game."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Okay, player." He grabbed a wine glass and a bottle of pinot grigio. "Go over there and get her number. For a date, not a business deal." He poured a healthy slug of wine. "No coffee, either. That's cheating. Drinks or dinner."

He accepted the wine casually, eyes locked on the blonde across the room. "Acceptable, but we declare a tie if she is either seeing someone or a lesbian. What are the terms of the bet if you win?"

"You want a bet? I thought this was one of those fancy, gentlemen's, better-than-that kind of things." Gabriel glanced at Namor, giving him a once-over. "I wouldn't mind a boat," he grinned. "Or, you know, dinner at Peter Luger or the Palm or one of those fancy steak places."

He shrugged, watching the blonde frown at her current conversation partner. This would be easy. "But here's the real question: what could I possible give you if you win? I'm poor."

"Stop playing with Clint. Either be in a relationship with him or let him be."

"I..." Gabriel stared at Namor, a little stupefied. Mostly because he wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. But he certainly wasn't about to explain the casual nature of his liaisons with Clint in the middle of a suit-and-tie function for which he was getting paid. "You're - whatever. Fine. But when I win, we're talking about that at dinner."

The blonde accepted the business card of the man standing next to her. She sniffed as she slid it into her purse without so much as glance. The wannabe hedge fund investor would not be getting a call in the near future. Glancing at her glass, her frown deepened.

"Better make a move before she leaves, buddy."

The aristocrat smiled thinly and raised the glass in mock toast before turning to approach their wager.

It took him a minute to navigate the room, which itself was an obstacle course of networking and shaking off unwanted attention. The tall blonde was still perched, however bored, in her corner. Only now she had out her phone.

Namor cleared his throat respectfully and held the glass of wine near his chest. "Miss?"

"Yes?" The young woman didn't bother to lift her eyes from a phone at first, her attention given to a set of texts instead. After a few moments - and a lack of response from this incoming stranger - she finally looked up. A quick visual sweep of Namor elicited a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

"Pardon my intrusion, but the bartender assured me this was your preferred drink -- if it isn't, then we should blame him entirely." He held up the glass gently, proffering a confident smile.

"He's right." She took the drink from Namor's hand, carefully avoiding any physical contact with his fingers, and turned to the bar. Gabriel was occupied with a cocktail shaker, but she raised the glass to him and smiled. He nodded back.

"So," she turned back to the man, any small hint of warmth fading as her expression returned closer to disdain, "do you always talk like you're in a Bronte novel?"

Namor wasn't one to be shut down that easily. "Words hold the essence of respect. One has to choose carefully to make the correct impression." He let his accent color the last sentence more than he strictly would.

"Although the real question is: which Brontë?"

She took a second to appraise him, marginally impressed with his willingness to engage. Though not impressed enough. "Maria."

This got a wry smile from the royal. He adjusted his position slightly, pivoting on one heel, to better place himself between the woman and view of the bar. "How dark. Is it the genre or the subject matter?"

Gabriel couldn't help but roll his eyes as Namor shifted position. The object of the young royal's pursuit noticed, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "Probably the stuffy vocabulary," she said, now focusing on Namor.

"Disappointing, but there's merit in preferring simplicity." Namor leaned a hair's breath closer, eyes intense. "Unless you prefer something else."

The woman's head leaned equally further away. "Excuse me?" Her eyes narrowed.

It was Namor's turn to frown dismissively.

"I can see this is a waste," he added as if she were the one disappointing him. "You see, insult to injury is that Gabriel will never let this go."

"What in the world are you even talking about?" Her frown deepened, and she scanned the room for an out. Had her wine glass not been mostly full, she might have beelined to the bar, where an amused Gabriel was watching.

Namor set his jaw. "I must apologize. I came as an envoy, not to banter. You see, Gabriel," and he made a microscopic gesture toward the bar, "Is too shy to come talk to you himself. You intimidate him."

Her eyes darted toward the bar, then back at Namor. "Really?" She raised her eyebrows. An amused smile played on her lips.

"He is also not allowed to be seen flirting with the guests. A downright shame."

"That is a downright shame." She glanced over at Gabriel and gave him a friendly smile. A little perplexed, he gave her a wave and went back to making a martini. Her smile widened as she returned her attention to Namor.

"Got a pen?"

Namor tried not to grit his teeth as he produced a pen and the back of a business card. He extended the other hand politely, offering to hold her drink as she wrote.

"Thanks." She handed him the glass wine rather summarily, switching it for a pen and a paper. "Tell him," she scrawled down her number, "I'm suggesting cocktails some place that requires he wear a tie." She underlined the number, writing her name above it.

He tried to not roll his eyes too hard while her attention was in the writing, but a man needs some indulgences. A look of polite difference was back when she resurfaced. "If he fails to own one, I will let borrow mine."

The comment was matched with an exaggerated bow, and he didn't even bother to give her her drink back. It was abandoned somewhere between the the girl, still making moon eyes over at Gabriel, and the bar.

"I win," Namor groaned as he set down the card with the number.

"No. Way." Gabriel plopped down what he'd thought would be a consolation whiskey and slid it toward Namor. He picked up the card and stared at it, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. "How did you—" He turned his head to look at the girl, who was staring at him in a way that was...

Oh.

"Oh," Gabriel said after a second, now grinning. "Oh, you didn't."

"I would advise you that she has horrible taste in English Literature."

"But great taste in men, apparently."

"Perhaps, but she got a little too excited over how shy and demure you were." He frowned, shaking his head. "I believe she wants to break you."

Gabriel snorted. "Too late. Joke's on her." He flipped the card around, then stuck it in his pocket. "How's your ego holding up?"

He gave Gabriel a flat look and promptly drained the whiskey in one long swig.

"Aw, come on." The bartender took the empty glass from Namor's hand. "If it makes you feel any better, I'd have given you my number." Actually, there wasn't a chance in hell. But it seemed like the right thing to say. "Plus, you won, so there's that."

"I took advantage of what I was given," Namor said with a level set gaze, "Because sometimes the prize is worth more than pride."

"Oh God, come on." Gabriel groaned. "I can't go into this now. I'm on the clock. I'm getting paid." He filled Namor's glass again, figuring he ought to look busy. "And I think you've got the wrong impression of that whole situation."

Namor's gaze shifted from flat to glacial. "What I think is of little consequence here. Clint isn't like us. He cares too much, too deeply, and cannot let go. Make up your mind what you want to do with him, but leave him in one piece."

He disregarded the drink and took out his wallet. "I do not need to know much more than that."

Gabriel was quiet. What was happening between him and Clint wasn't really any of Namor's business, and he didn't think Clint was as fragile as Namor imagined. Still, he had lost a bet, so he figured he owed the other man something. "I will take that under advisement." It was a small dig at Namor's usual formal way of speaking, but he meant it. "And keep your money. Friends drink free, or whatever."

"I see." Namor still did a double take between his wallet and the tip chair as if he were weighing his own urge to be polite. Or other things. "This was unexpected, Mr. Cohuelo, but I must go soothe a few bruised egos before I leave. Until next time."

So, there would be a next time, which was a pleasant surprise given how Gabriel expected an interaction with Namor to go. Maybe he hadn't said the wrong thing about Clint. "You got it, dude. See you around." He grabbed the abandoned glass, drained it at super-speed and went back to work.