[The boxes of so-called "wedding gifts" prove to be — well. Later, once he's taken the measure of this resort a little more thoroughly, they won't come as any sort of surprise in retrospect; as it is in the here and now, pawing through the boxes turns up an assortment of lingerie that's presumably (hopefully) intended for Aerith's consumption, a handful of brightly-colored sex toys that he doesn't even deign to take out of the boxes before discarding them, and — aha. Black label scotch, bound up in a red ribbon, for the discerning husband already wishing for a divorce.
She keeps calling him by name, though, and it's...strange. Few people do; it's usually boss or sir or mister vice-president (well, president, now), and when he does hear it it's usually his full name, like a trademark, like a brand. People call him Rufus when they're talking about him, not to him. When was the last time someone...
Family, he thinks, right as that wave of terrible sadness washes over him. It's stretching the very bounds of the joke, to pretend that she's entitled to it because of this sham of a predicament they're in. Somehow, he doubts she'd stop even if he told her to, and he's not about to subject himself to having to explain why he might want her to.]
I can't claim to know all the details. Certainly not with the clarity you do.
[He thinks about getting up from the floor, then decides to fuck it and just leans up against the foot of the bed instead — his clothes are a disaster anyway, and they're a little past caring about appearances at this point — unsealing the scotch and just drinking straight out of the bottle, in lieu of bothering with finding another glass.
It's good alcohol. Even just the first drink of it sends a pleasant heat blossoming in his stomach, a light buzzing of the nerves that makes the room feel comfortably warm.]
I know enough to be aware that we ought to be talking about reparations, rather than wedding gifts.
then prepare for death i guess!!!!!
She keeps calling him by name, though, and it's...strange. Few people do; it's usually boss or sir or mister vice-president (well, president, now), and when he does hear it it's usually his full name, like a trademark, like a brand. People call him Rufus when they're talking about him, not to him. When was the last time someone...
Family, he thinks, right as that wave of terrible sadness washes over him. It's stretching the very bounds of the joke, to pretend that she's entitled to it because of this sham of a predicament they're in. Somehow, he doubts she'd stop even if he told her to, and he's not about to subject himself to having to explain why he might want her to.]
I can't claim to know all the details. Certainly not with the clarity you do.
[He thinks about getting up from the floor, then decides to fuck it and just leans up against the foot of the bed instead — his clothes are a disaster anyway, and they're a little past caring about appearances at this point — unsealing the scotch and just drinking straight out of the bottle, in lieu of bothering with finding another glass.
It's good alcohol. Even just the first drink of it sends a pleasant heat blossoming in his stomach, a light buzzing of the nerves that makes the room feel comfortably warm.]
I know enough to be aware that we ought to be talking about reparations, rather than wedding gifts.