2022-04-20 - Pour One Out

Moving is awful.

What's worse is moving into a house that is already full of things.

Moving things out while simultaneously moving things in. It's chaos. A few different times the two moving in have agreed on a way to organize this all, to do it a better way. They would start and then... They've mostly resorted to brute forcing it. But progress is happening. The master goes to Nicasia. He insisted. Though the way he did it may have implied it was less about being chivalrous and more that he just didn't want to be in that room. After a deep cleaning the master is starting to look habitable for the woman. The entire place is starting to look habitable.

But there are boxes everywhere. It's still in those in between stages. Where maybe you have a fork to eat with or maybe you just have to improvise.

The hour is late. They've been at it all day, and in the last few hours of the day, Myles has been working on something upstairs. In what was his father's office. A single light is on and occasionally if Nicasia is in the house she may hear quiet curses or grunts. Should she be so curious as to check in on Myles' personal side project she will find him on the floor. Several tools are laid out and currently his ear is pressed to a small safe, his hand on the dial as he shifts carefully. He's wearing just a pair of basketball shorts at this point, everything else has been abandoned throughout the day.

This move is a three-way disaster. How do you fit two other households full of stuff into one that is, indeed, already full of things? And not even good things, or nice things, but old ones, and sad ones, and even if the old man approached being neat or organized he was still an old man and it's just all sorts of awkward and uncomfortable.

It's the sort of thing that is going to take months to really get right.

On the plus side, Nicasia doesn't own much. Most of it is indeed in boxes, and some of it is going to replace existing stuff. Like the bed, which she's obviously got mixed feelings about sleeping on but has mostly kept them to herself. Just like she's mostly kept to herself, on whichever floor Myles isn't, trying to sort, trying to make sense, trying to grit her teeth and not just throw in the towel on Day One. There's been a lot of colorful swearing, once when she picked up a box to move it and the tape on the bottom gave out and its contents spilled across the floor like the rotten guts of some dead animal; once when she didn't realize the back door doesn't actually close all the way and Lady bolted through it ahead of her; once when she went to see what they could do for dinner and realized her phone battery was completely and inexplicably dead.

It's late. She's tired. Sweaty, dirty. Unlike him she's still dressed in jeans and a black tank top, matching the socks on her feet. Inevitably she appears in the doorway to the office, leaning against the frame, arms folding over her chest. There's no inquiry, just that sharpened sense of interest when she figures out what he's doing.

"Come on, bitch." Myles growls to the safe. Dark eyes go to the feet in the door, flick up to the woman they belong to. There's a slight change in his eyes in recognition though he mostly is too busy fully focusing to react more than that to her. His eyes flick back down. Does he even know how to crack a safe by listening to it like that?

Probably not.

But he seems to think he can. After a moment his eyes close, and his hand rests against the door of the safe. His hand flattens against it, he closes his eyes. Fully focusing. He isn't really doing anything. His hand is no longer turning the knob. He's just feeling the safe. And then apparently fails-- because his eyes flash open and his brow sharpens on her as if her very presence messed him up! But it only lasts for a second, his eyes closing again. He raises his hand in a forestalling gesture as if to stop any sass to his brief brow furrow. And then he's listening again. Focusing. Quiet.

His fingers rest on the dial. Does he turn it? Unclear.

But there is a click and his lips curl up lightly, triumphantly, eyes opening to flick up to her.

"You sweet-talk everything you're trying to get into like that?" Nicasia maybe shouldn't distract him while he's busy concentrating but she never could help herself, can't help that curl of her mouth, the little show of white teeth.

It's all she says for a bit, though. There might be something about the way he focuses, that intensity, doubled down on the safe, on the mechanism inside, invisible and inaudible and inscrutable, as secret as the thing's contents. She could comment some more. Instead she slouches, letting the wall take her weight, lips still parted like tasting the air gives her a better sense of what's going on. Without interruption he's free to continue, even after the failure: there's no jab from her, only some patience buoyed along by whatever curiosity this find might harbor, and where that falters she has the study to study.

Do forgive her for the roving look, the way that amber-green gaze flits around at the boxes left behind, the metal filing cabinet stuffed so full that the drawers don't close properly, the cork board papered with clippings of things that ceased being news a lifetime ago. What draws it back is the click, winning him the arch of an eyebrow, a tiny lift of her chin, mute bidding to go right on and open it up.

Her words only have him narrowing his eyes, but he mostly ignores her. But that click changes his entire demeanor.

The door to the safe opens up. There are documents. Those are probably important. He tosses them to the side. There's an old Smith and Wesson revolver which he much more carefully sets on top of the safe after sending her a look. A box of bullets. A small rosewood box with another lock on it. This earns a curious look from Myles, clearly not what he was looking for. He sets it to the side. Then. His prize.

From the safe he removes a Gordon and MacPhail Private Collection bottle of single malt scotch whisky. Just looking at the bottle alone it looks expensive. Myles twirls the bottle in his hand once, likely the most carelessly the bottle has ever been handled in its entire existence. The bottle is over half full. Leonard Webber wasn't necessarily a poor man. But he wasn't a man who should own a bottle like this. Clearly this was a prized possession. Perhaps his most prized possession.

Myles looks down at the bottle for a few moments letting out a slow breath. "He told me we'd drink this together. After every big step in my life. Everything worth celebrating." His brows furrow, narrowing as he looks down at it. "Said 'it didn't really count' when we got married. Said it 'wasn't for that kind of thing' when I came back from Iraq. Said 'maybe when you meet her' when I found out I had a daughter." His jaw tenses as he holds up the bottle for her to see. "Motherfucker probably drank whats missin' cause he didn't want to walk down the street."

Under ordinary circumstances this might be the kind of moment that she'd let him have alone. This delve into Leonard's most private, personal things, the stuff he cared about enough to lock away and hide from the world, meaningful in some ways. Valuable in others. But Nicki knows better - after all this time she's learned to pick up those subtle cues, the warning signs. It's in his expression, in his eyes, something she's read so many times that it's metaphysically dog-eared.

There's a puff of breath when the bottle appears. Not a sigh, not a slow exhale. "Didn't take him for the type," she says, banter still easy, though there's a trace of something else there now. A coil of tension threading its way in, starting to wind her up already. Already. But they've only been here a day and she's not about to let that get under her skin, yet. Instead, as he explains all those big steps in his life that weren't worth celebrating she pads over, silent on the wooden floor. Comes to sit down beside him, reaches out to try and take the bottle away, though she tries more gently than seriously.

"Hey," she murmurs now, tone softer. The razor's gone out of her voice, traded in for something else: the silken ropes that have tied them together so tightly for so long. "He was an asshole." There's no defense for the recently departed, only that steady, serious look and the faint petulant turn of her mouth. "Maybe he went and drank it without you, because he couldn't bear the shame of his fuck-ups. His wife left him; you got married. He never made the cut; you got deployed. He..." She can't finish the thought, can't actually implicate any of them in what happened to their daughter, so she bites her lip and looks away.

He likely notices the tension. He would likely notice it even if she gave no sign of it. Or if it wasn't there. He can feel those coils in the back of his head. She goes to take to the bottle. He lets her. Though his eyes follow it. Myles frowns at it for a few moments. "Or maybe he never got it for me. Just used me as an excuse to justify a stupid ass purchase. Shit's gotta be like ten? twenty grand?" He looks back down at the bottle. His shoulders rise up and he glares a little down at it. "You don't have to handle me, Nico." Myles near-mutters. "I'm not gonna get drunk." There's a lilting pause before he clarifies. "Not tonight."

He looks over to her. To her words. To her pause. Then his eyes cut back sharply to the bottle. He lets out a low grunt. "My wife left me too, didn't she?" He doesn't really give her time to answer, instead he pushes himself to his feet, all that muscle quickly on the rise. Though lest she start to get up he raises his hand to forestall her. "Hold up." Wait here. He's moving past her, out into the hall. She can soon hear his huge frame thundering down the stairs, creaking all the way. She can hear the scrabbling footsteps of Lady likely excitedly seeing what all the fuss is about.

"Hey baby." It's used with such affection that Nicasia hasn't heard used for herself in quite some time. Almost romantic in its application. He really loves that dog. There's some poking and prodding around, some light cursing under his breath all the while accompanied by Lady's curious gait. "Got em. Good girl. You wanna come? You can come. That's my girl." There's then thundering right back up the stairs. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. Though this time she can hear Lady on his heels.

Before he's even back in the room, he's protesting. "Just two fingers. For both of us." His argument made clear when he appears back in the office with two squat scotch glasses. "That's it." His eyes flick to the bottle. Back to her. There's a slow tilt of his head, his eyes widening just slightly. Pretty please?

"We're all real good at justifying shit. It's not your fault." The bottle is passed to her other hand, moved away with perfunctory grace. Not out of sight, not out of mind, not like he'd have trouble going through her to get at it, but she holds it there and inspects the label, shaking her head at it. "Maybe he had good intentions when he bought it; maybe you were the excuse, maybe he meant to do all those things; and maybe he was just shit at keeping his act together. At least he didn't blame you for everything that went sour." No. That trophy goes to her own father, though she doesn't otherwise invoke him yet. Only slides another slightly wary gaze back to Myles when he clarifies the timing of his next binge.

There's no flinch for his next words. No attempt made to get up to go after him. But her eyes close and her head bows, like she's going to work on meditating away her own emotions, not going to make this about her, or even about them. She just listens. The house doesn't hide much, no. She can hear every step, every tick of dog nails, can calculate where he is at any given moment by the thumps and the creaks and the groans.

By the time he gets back she's found something else to do, though. Reached for the papers that came out of the safe, started to give them a once-over, a lazy investigation of whatever other secrets the old man kept in his vault. The scotch is still there, bottle on the floor by her leg, still halfway guarded like she hasn't made up her mind about what to do with it. But that reckoning is coming soon, comes back with Myles when he returns, when he makes this request.

And it's a hard one.

There's so much in the bottle. Not just expensive single malt, but expectation, time, loss, experiences that should've happened, memories that should've been made, misery, absence, sorrow. It's not almost half-empty, it's full to overflowing with meaning. Not just for Leonard and Myles, but for Myles and Nicasia.

Who never did learn to tell him no.

"Fine, but I'm gonna pour."

The glasses are placed on the ground next to her. Near the bottle. "Just two fingers." Myles repeats, Lady happily trots in after him, taking advantage of Nicasia's seated position to give her cheek a little sniff before seeing if she can sneak a lick in. Myles is moving around to inspect the safe once more. He goes down to one knee, peering in it before taking out another little box. "Cigars." He grunts. "Probably Cubans or.. I don't know shit about cigars. Something expensive." Looking down at the cigars he looks back at her.

"Pour em and we can go out back and light these up." Myles suggests in a voice that falls quieter than his dull grumble. There's moment given to looking over her as she guards that bottle, when she goes to pour the glasses.

She didn't invoke him, but he will. "You went to see him yet?" Though he's unclear there aren't a whole lot of people he could be talking about. He certainly isn't asking about Leonard.

Nicasia's fingers are quite a bit smaller. Not like she's gonna measure anyway, but she inevitably opens up the bottle and pours a little of that golden liquid into each glass and then carefully seals it back up. In doing so she offers her cheek to Lady, accepting the lick, and then letting out the softest of sighs that almost gets lost in shaggy fur. "Lay down," is almost instantly obeyed, the dog stretching out right there beside her, opposite the bottle.

"Smoking and drinking. Wow, you're going all in on this, huh?" There's a bit of needling, but eventually she holds up one of the glasses, only to falter when that next question gets asked. "No. Gonna have to, before he decides to come see me."

The tumbler's held until he takes it and then her grip tightens on her own glass, but she doesn't drink, yet. "Haven't been anywhere, haven't seen anything. Gonna have to face it all one of these days real soon, though."

The tumbler is accepted, her needling noted. He doesn't drink either. The glass is set down next to her knee as he casts a wary glance at Lady. But she's laying down. Though. He is careful when it comes to Lady. "It's next to your knee." He calls out attention to the glass, even though she likely noticed, something he wouldn't ordinarily do if it weren't for risk of Lady MAYBE hurting herself. Then he's out of the room again. He's gone for just a second before he reappears in the doorway now with a zip up hoodie covering that broad torso of his.

"He won't come here." Comes Myles' deep voice as he steps back into the office. He seems sure of it. "Maybe I should go see him." There's a playful note in his voice though it's likely overwhelmed by the menace that goes along side it. Myles was always a big boy, but now he's downright scary. A much different situation from the kid who got hassled by the cop on a regular occurrence. The role reversal seems to amuse Myles as he swoops down to reclaim his glass. The cigar box is plucked up and handed to her, apparently he intends her to carry it. "Come on. We're celebrating. New opportunity. One glass, one cigar." The glass is held down at his side, not drinking it, apparently very intent on this plan to go enjoy both whisky and cigar in the back yard.

The overgrown, unkempt back yard.

Lady is well-trained, well-behaved. Originally slated for a K9 team, she didn't quite make the cut as a puppy. Nicasia tugged a couple of heartstrings and brought the little bundle home, but has on more than one occasion insisted the girls were a better team, better partners, than Myles could ever hope for. Her petty rebellion to the fact that he does love the dog more. Who the dog likes better is a mystery, as she picks her head up, ears pricking when he leaves, position held until he reappears.

"I wouldn't poke that beehive. You know he tried, twice, to get me to come back? When you enlisted. When you came back. Both times..." They're uncomfortable memories and she can't quite look at him as she shares them. "You really want to go see him? Try and settle things, once and for all? He's miserable and insufferable and deserves every bit of isolation he's earned himself." Which isn't at all what Myles intends but maybe there is, under there somewhere, still a scrap of loyalty to one or both of them.

It is with a soft sigh that she pushes herself back to her feet and takes the cigar box, leaves the bottle to be dealt with later, boxed up and put away until there's some other milestone to celebrate. Another quiet command is murmured to the dog, who bolts up and prepares to follow them. There's not much conversation until they're down and out. She's along for this ride, down to follow his plan, to celebrate. "You got a lighter?"

Filling the door, his lips curl up. "Nah. I'm fuckin' around. If we got alone time I'd be too tempted." He doesn't go into what he'd be tempted to do. Beat him up? Just menace him a little? Make him feel how Myles felt so often. Myles doesn't bother with explaining. Just grunting when she refers to Hank's isolation he's earned. She agrees, even if reluctantly and they head down. Myles pauses at the question, "Shit. I'll meet you up there."

And there he goes pounding back up the stairs. THUMP THUMP THUMP.

When the storming back down the stairs ends Myles has his glass still. He has a little torch. And he also has the bottle. Casually holding it at his side.

Out into the backyard they go. There is furniture out here. Though most of it is pretty gross. Some chairs covered in leaves, a dilapidated hammock they used to roll around in together. A table that has seen much better days. There's an annoyed grunt as Myles goes to set his things on the ground. The glass. The torch. The bottle he doesn't put down. Perhaps knowing that she'd take it back into custody, and whatever his reasons, he's not letting her do that right at this moment. He's back through the slider, moving out one chair from the dining room. Then another.

So many memories, here. A high fence surrounds the yard, both blocking out some of the looming nearness of the neighbors and fostering some sense of privacy, but also adding to the dilapidation: the wood is weathered, grey and mossy, attempts at landscaping now just skiffs of gravel where weeds have grown up, knee-high. There's a shed out back, still padlocked shut, likely full of more shit to be sorted and disposed of. Lady, however, is a fan, has already toured the perimeter about a hundred times and still finds new things to sniff at every time - like now, when she's given liberty to go out and patrol.

Nicasia is still there, by the edge of the patio, cracked cinderblocks underfoot also sprouting vegetation up through the cracks and the gaps, though rather less so because this space saw some activity. She hasn't sat down yet, hasn't tried the winterworn chairs, the rickty table. Just stands, watching the last of the sunlight fade in the west.

She can't help the tiny sigh when she spots the bottle, but maybe a part of her knew it was coming. Her tumbler and the cigar box are set down on the tabletop, finally, the latter flipped open so that she can inspect the contents. "Gotta say, I'm amazed at the old man's self control. I would've figured he would have been through this whole stash. I wonder what else he has squirreled away in there."

The chairs are set out. One right behind Nicasia before Myles heads over to the one large oak tree in the yard. He ducks under the hammock and circles the side of it, looking down at something. His eyes flick over to her and then back to the tree. "He could be disciplined when he wanted to." He narrows his brows. "On certain things." Soon it likely becomes clear what Myles is looking at. When they were kids he carved their initials into the tree. Deep. MW inside a heart with NA. One of the times they broke up, and Myles was visiting home he tried to burn it off. Scorch it from the tree. The wood is blackened still, the scorch marks remaining a testament to his attempt. But the carving is still there, deep in the wood. Burnt over, but still there.

Myles looks at it for a moment before padding through the grass back to her. He goes to sit next to her, setting the bottle down on the far side of her. So he has access to it but she would have to go through him. He allows her to get the cigars ready, looking at the beautiful liquid in the rather cheap tumbler. He's quiet for a moment.

"To our marriage." That's over. "Me comin' back from war." Ancient history. "And..." He draws in a deep breath. "Our little girl." She's gone. He holds his glass out to her for a good clink.

The chair set for her is taken; she doesn't sit so much as perches, pulling her feet up onto the seat, knees bent so that they're almost under her chin, can be held there with one arm curled around. From here she watches him circle over to the tree, past the hammock: she knows just as well as anybody what was carved there, but maybe hasn't seen the scorch marks, that attempt to kill that childish carving, high school sweetheart scars that the tree at least is unwilling to surrender. His whole tour is followed from afar, from behind a careful mask of neutrality. There're so many memories here, ghosts around every corner, behind every bush. Right in that tree, just out of sight.

He comes back and sits and she uncurls a little, far enough to fold her legs under her instead. For balance. So she can pass him a cigar, and can pick up her glass.

What she's not ready for is this toast. Those milestones, mill stones, dropped into the meager pour of scotch, weighty enough that she feels them. That she flinches at the last: that knife still goes pretty deep. Their glasses join in one merry little sound and she brings hers to her mouth for a sip: if it weren't likely the single most expensive thing she's ever drunk, it'd all go down in one quick swallow, but maybe this time she intends to set a good example. Or aims to enjoy what's going to be glass. Right? Right.

He lapses into silence after the clink. He drinks deep. Likely feeling the urge as well to take it all down in one. He smacks his lips and lets out a puff of a sigh. "Fuck. It's good." He looks down at it with a shake of his head. "It's not twenty thousand dollars good, but it's good." He rumbles as he swishes it around a little. The glass is set on the table. The cigar taken as he lights up with a slow steady inhale. After clipping her cigar he offers it to her lips, leaning over to light her up when she inhales on it.

When he leans back he's looking over her for a moment. An expanded moment. Before letting out a quiet, "Fuck." Then he's back to looking back at the back yard. The overgrown untamed back yard that he grew up in. Ghosts everywhere. The haunting of old men both alive and dead threatening behind every corner. He puffs the cigar and lets out a single smoke ring, looking a little proud of himself when he does.

"Doubt he bought it," she muses. "Probably took it off some miserable SOB he hauled in. Spoils of the hunt. But yeah. It's not twenty grand good..." But it's good enough for the moment. Maybe too good. Like the cigar, both things strangely out of place in the rundown, ramshackle tatters of a life poorly spent. She has another sip and holds the smokey liquid on her tongue, swallowing it down only to take the cigar instead, chasing the scotch with real smoke, the two pairing together in some way that inevitably mellows her out, opening the door for all manner of trouble.

The appearance of the smoke ring is what finally makes her laugh. Just a little. "Fuck, indeed." Then, "D'you think he had a lawnmower?"

"He told me he did." But it occurs to him now, just now, that it's very likely he could have been lying. It took her to point it out for him to realize the very real possibility. Even though he'd realized so many lies of his father on so many other occasions. Seems there are still things he has yet to even consider could have been lies. He frowns down at the glass for a few moments and takes another sip.

At her laugh he gives a little smile. "Shit. You know you look sexy as fuck when you smoke those things. I told you that in Vegas every god damn time." He takes a moment considering her sidelong still as if soaking in the sight, before he realizes that statement was awful familial. "If you wanna pull in some dude, just walk around with one of those." There. A little distance created.

Lawnmower. "Probably busted." He grunts, frowning lightly. "Maybe I can fix it." For all his skills, Myles has never been handy at repairing things. Just breaking them. But he still doesn't seem to realize that.

It's all Nicki's going to say about it. About that expensive bottle; about the very expensive cigars. She could make a case for it, could maybe ferret out the truth if she really put her mind to it, but it's a coin flip now about whether it's kinder to let him believe Leonard bought the bottle with his son in mind, or just made it out that way, a fine, opportunistic lie that should've not cut so deep a wound. But it is a very real possibility: that particular old man was never her blind spot.

He, on the other hand... when he calls attention to how she looks with the cigar in her mouth she gives him a particular narrow-eyed look. "You're incredibly biased." As if to demonstrate she takes it between her fingers and thumb and tilts her head, breathing in deep lungfuls of the smoke with its tip aimed up at the sky, and when she pulls it free, blows the same out like some sort of miniature dragon. It really is a look, the tobacco brown of the cigar, the burgundy of her mouth, the ivory of her fingers. Vice-born Snow White, a creature of indulgence who still hasn't learned how to say no, maybe just to moderate. The statement is awful familiar though; so is the way he looks at her, but so is the way she doesn't look at him.

"Maybe," she agrees then, concerning the lawnmower. "Maybe I can go down to the pawn shop in the morning and trade that in for a used model, maybe get us a weedwacker and a lightly used sofa to make up the difference." That, of course, being the bottle. As if.

"If anything I'm biased the other way." Perhaps an unintended dig. Or maybe he's overcompensating with giving that compliment some space. There's a shake of his head. "You know you look hot as hell with that, just pretendin like you don't." He rolls his eyes and takes another puff from the cigar. Another gulp of the glass. This time, he finishes it off. Slamming the glass down on the table he lets out a long floating sigh. He flicks his eyes over to her words. Down to the bottle. "Nah. I got plans for this." Which she expected, likely. But she likely didn't expect what the plans actually were.

And now seems to be the time to put those plans into action. He goes to stand up, placing the cigar in his lips as he picks up the bottle. Taking a few steps forward, Myles is taking off the topper. There's a glance back to her, and he offers a little topping off. Just a little more. For her. If she wants it. If she does he pours a little more, if she declines, the plan continues, either way. He steps out to the middle of the yard and reaches up to pull out the cigar as he lets out another smoke ring.

The bottle is lifted up, so the last few motes of fading light reflect through the beautiful stylized glass, shining through the lovely amber liquid. Myles holds it there for a moment before placing the cigar into the side of his mouth. He tips the bottle to the side. More. A little more.

Then he starts to pour out what remains of all that expensive ass whisky into the dunkempt weeds and dirt of the backyard. His middle finger slowly raises up towards the sky, before thinking better of it and lowering his finger to point at the ground.

Compensation. Overcompensation. So many things here to feel out, so many sharp edges and broken pieces, so many thin covers over deep pits and landmines. "Biased," she reminds him despite it, because she does know. She's known for a long time, tailored that look, those gestures, to cater to his particular tastes. She's slower to drink her scotch though. A little more inclined to savor the experience.

Her one and only chance, apparently. She pushes her glass over when he offers that little bit more - maybe unfairly, since he's on that strict two-finger limit and so she ends up less tightly controlled about how much she drinks. Maybe would be more inclined to ask for more if she had any idea, but for now there's only roused curiosity, her languid little lean to savor rare luxuries, experience heightened by their surroundings. But he's walking and she watches those few steps, until he's out in the grass. Among the weeds. Lifting up the bottle...

Nicki starts to speak, like she might stop him when she realizes what he's going to do, but she stops herself instead, just as the first trickle makes it to the mouth of the bottle. The side of her mouth twists, a malformed smile, bitter and wry in equal parts, bittersweet and sad and hopeful and hurt, all caught in the same glimmer of fading light. Then he's giving that salute to the ground rather than the sky and she looks away, committing that one last memory to things that were: her ex, his dead father, like maybe this once the past can be poured away and forgotten just as easily as the contents of that bottle.

It’s like setting fire to a pile of cash. Watching the amber liquid pour out and splash into the dirt. No difference than water in that moment. It’s price tag doesn’t keep it from being squandered all over the patches of weeds and dirt.

There’s only one moment he looks away from the steady stream. That’s to make sure Lady isn’t running up on him to lap up the waste. Then it’s back to the liquid gold falling useless and worthless to the poor soil.

It’s empowering. Pouring all that out. It’s maddening. His shoulders rise and fall faster for a moment, as if getting worked up. Then they stop.

The bottles value drops significantly without the liquid in it. But it’s still fancy. It stops being that way when it crashes into the fence, falling in a million beautiful chunks down to the dirt.

It’ll be hell to clean later and Myles will be watching Lady like a hawk to make sure she doesn’t cut herself. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

He makes his way back to the chair taking a seat letting out another puff of smoke. “Fuck em both.” Comes the low bass. “It’s our town now.” There’s a slow glance over to her a challenge in his gaze , or perhaps just expectation.

He is good at breaking things. Not so good at cleaning them up afterward.

Nicasia flinches hard when the bottle hits the fence, when it explodes into fragments with that particular noise, one she's not a stranger to but hasn't heard in a while. It's almost enough to flip the switch, makes her take a longer drink from her glass, half of it disappearing in one swallow in a way that could suggest she's developed a certain intimacy with the stuff over time, but alcohol has never been her personal demon. Not directly. Lady doesn't flinch but she does look confused; she's sitting on the edge of the patio, head canted inquisitively, as if she can't figure out whether she was supposed to chase that and bring it back.

It wins her ear a little scratch as Nicki reaches out, but whether she's soothing herself or the dog is hard to say. "Fuck 'em both," she agrees. "Fuck 'em all." This time it will work. Right?

Settling heavy back into his chair, he puffs silently on his cigar. He does spare another glance over to her to see how she attends to hers. But mostly he remains silent. He makes no external agreement to her extrapolation on who all deserves a Fuck Em.

His hand goes down to Lady’s head, scratching her gently while Nicasia does the same. Every now and then their fingers accidentally collide only to retreat before it eventually happens again.

This time will be different.

Right?