It's not easy to get under his skin. Not easy to get a reaction. He's cool. He's calm. He is collected. His voice doesn't raise, his hair doesn't muss, and as far as appearances go, his clothes are too busy being scared stiff to even think about wrinkling.
Scott likes it that way: saves trouble, saves questions, and saves him having to get his hands dirty.
Not that he won't get his hands dirty, when it comes right down to it. Just ask Tim -- or John. Not that they'll tell you anything, but they're less likely to cut your tongue out for asking.
It's been that kind of month, and Scott's in that kind of mood.
He settles into a chair in the back corner of the club, before the place is open for business. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. His elbow's on the table, deft fingers spinning a half-empty glass of something amber against the polished surface. When he hears someone getting close he finishes his drink and looks to them.