It sounds like something she'd chide him with - maybe she'd even done it. He can't remember every petty little offense in exact detail. Takasugi recalls better the frustration that weighed on his brow, or the heat rising in his throat.
He doesn't answer, not directly. Instead he settles, his arm not subtly draped over her shoulders as they're approached by one of the bar's waitstaff.
Two glasses, and a bottle of fine dark liquor.
Takasugi moves one glass in front of his company, and raises the other to his lips.] Drink, Ms. Bookworm.
[She uses his name with purpose, he knows - to balk against him and the lies he's woven. And he avoids hers, resistance of his own to acknowledge any victory she's taken.]
no subject
It sounds like something she'd chide him with - maybe she'd even done it. He can't remember every petty little offense in exact detail. Takasugi recalls better the frustration that weighed on his brow, or the heat rising in his throat.
He doesn't answer, not directly. Instead he settles, his arm not subtly draped over her shoulders as they're approached by one of the bar's waitstaff.
Two glasses, and a bottle of fine dark liquor.
Takasugi moves one glass in front of his company, and raises the other to his lips.] Drink, Ms. Bookworm.
[She uses his name with purpose, he knows - to balk against him and the lies he's woven. And he avoids hers, resistance of his own to acknowledge any victory she's taken.]