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It hadn't occurred to her that she would have a choice.

On the verge of saying something which she'll decide to keep to herself.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- his reactions will be better than last time.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- minimal reaction delay.

Tracing the shapes his mouth makes, you manage to make out the words 'I was', 'people', and 'land'.

Worse, they both know it.

He's calling him a masturbator.

A dithering, anxious desperation to be liked. Are you this pathetic?

He grins with the maniacal intensity of a man who thinks he's found a weakness in god's armour.

She desperately wants this.

As if an equation is forming in which you are subtracted.

For a moment, the character disintegrates.

His stare is packing all the sympathy of a mass-produced medical device.

Watching is what he does, it is what he is.

Now. Turn the Sympathetic Stare on him. Look into whatever he has that you have also.

No attempt to deflect or deny. He takes it all into himself like a landslide, generous and remorseless.

He keeps his hands loose, but he's coiled within, like a mauled animal.

A fresh appraisal. Impressed.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

That's a 'would'.

21 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual