Foot, meet mouth. As soon as his unflappable calm was finally breached, then Aidan's calculated, clinical speech always failed him in situations like this -- he could offer dry witticisms, he could rip someone apart verbally, he could lapse into academic-speak, he could be a ferocious and supportive friend when needed. But touchy situations requiring more delicacy and emotional tact? Goodness, he fumbled. His words ran aground. Without a convenient procedure to hand, he floundered for the right way to phrase his thoughts.
Ways to tell someone you think they're hot and wouldn't mind testing the waters to see if any chemistry you're feeling is all in your head or an actual tangible thing. In one fell swoop, she'd elegantly summarised the situation at hand, fishing his intended meaning out of his mouth and rearranging it in a more palatable order. So while Aria was off getting their seconds (third round's on me, then), he had time to smooth down his metaphorical feathers and get himself back in order.
When she returned, the drinks slid across the sleek black tabletop towards him.
"'Not one hundred percent adverse' was a terrible way of phrasing it," Aidan said first thing, still mentally kicking himself a little. "Tried to pad my statement but went a bit too far, I think. But you hit the nail on its head. So -- to put it bluntly: you're hot and I like you, so I wouldn't dream of slamming the metaphorical door in your face." But there's someone else. But I--
No. There wasn't someone else, was the problem. "So I'm more than open to seeing if there's chemistry. I think it'd be nice if there was. Can't guarantee that I'll show up at your workplace with a grand romantic gesture clarifying everything, plus or minus Justin Bieber serenades, or that I won't make you want to heave things at me, ultimately -- but then again, I don't exactly believe in assured guarantees. It doesn't exist in law, as much as we'd like it to." He took a generous sip of his cocktail. Was he even making sense anymore? Christ.