He just stares at her. Like honestly flat out stares. He's got exactly zero idea what her problem is, but severe constipation is what immediately leaps to mind.
He goes through all the effort to offer her a drink in spite of how she's been deliberately obtuse about it the whole time. And now finally, he's managed it--and she's seen exactly how much trouble he's gone through--and instead of a thank you she acts like he's personally pissed in her cornflakes. Wow, well you're very fucking welcome!!
Oh, sure, some plastic cups rolling around on the floor of a creepy shopping mall is definitely a top tier concern when there's people dying outside, sliced in half by some unseen thing lurking in that thick mist, oh and also he can't talk without risking a brain aneurysm, and they've all been kidnapped and thrown into this horror show for the entertainment of some perverse unseen audience, and they might all still fucking die because they have no weapons, no magic, no way to actually secure the giant glass doors that are all that stands between them and whatever certain death is lurking is out there.
But yeah. Absolutely. Clean, dry, never been used, plastic fucking cups on the floor. That sure is a crisis point right there.
You know what? If she's so worried about patrolling the mall for a spit and polish white glove inspection, she can go knock herself out.
He lifts the bottle of booze he's still got in his hand to tap it lightly against her cup with a false smile. Cheers! Bottoms up! And then he flops back defiantly into his massage chair, resting his bottle atop one knee. He's not cleaning a damn thing.
no subject
He just stares at her. Like honestly flat out stares. He's got exactly zero idea what her problem is, but severe constipation is what immediately leaps to mind.
He goes through all the effort to offer her a drink in spite of how she's been deliberately obtuse about it the whole time. And now finally, he's managed it--and she's seen exactly how much trouble he's gone through--and instead of a thank you she acts like he's personally pissed in her cornflakes. Wow, well you're very fucking welcome!!
Oh, sure, some plastic cups rolling around on the floor of a creepy shopping mall is definitely a top tier concern when there's people dying outside, sliced in half by some unseen thing lurking in that thick mist, oh and also he can't talk without risking a brain aneurysm, and they've all been kidnapped and thrown into this horror show for the entertainment of some perverse unseen audience, and they might all still fucking die because they have no weapons, no magic, no way to actually secure the giant glass doors that are all that stands between them and whatever certain death is lurking is out there.
But yeah. Absolutely. Clean, dry, never been used, plastic fucking cups on the floor. That sure is a crisis point right there.
You know what? If she's so worried about patrolling the mall for a spit and polish white glove inspection, she can go knock herself out.
He lifts the bottle of booze he's still got in his hand to tap it lightly against her cup with a false smile. Cheers! Bottoms up! And then he flops back defiantly into his massage chair, resting his bottle atop one knee. He's not cleaning a damn thing.