The bottle's thunk pulls him right out of his reverie and dark eyes slide from it to the hand to the face belonging to the hand, and then back to the bottle again.
"You haven't called me that in years." It's dead flat, a little levity levied as part of the truce. Anyway he can pretend he's a real comedian if he wants. He supposes he can play any part of himself or no part of himself if it means that he isn't suffering the churning neasea. Maybe that's part of the point. Or maybe he's just grasping at straws while he tries to figure things out. It does seem a bit like low hanging fruit to just sit back and think of England through all of this instead of actively trying to decipher the puzzle.
He sighs and folds his hands on the tabletop. It feels like there's nowhere to go from here except to the truth or to the rum. But then, whose truth is the real truth anyway?
no subject
"You haven't called me that in years." It's dead flat, a little levity levied as part of the truce. Anyway he can pretend he's a real comedian if he wants. He supposes he can play any part of himself or no part of himself if it means that he isn't suffering the churning neasea. Maybe that's part of the point. Or maybe he's just grasping at straws while he tries to figure things out. It does seem a bit like low hanging fruit to just sit back and think of England through all of this instead of actively trying to decipher the puzzle.
He sighs and folds his hands on the tabletop. It feels like there's nowhere to go from here except to the truth or to the rum. But then, whose truth is the real truth anyway?