Apponitments - [ IC ]

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[Robert finally turns his head, looking at the man.

They both needed a drink.

No, they both needed to start over. To shed at least some of their burdens. Luceti offered a kind of chance to move on, yes, but only from an artificial point, not what they both knew was the end.

A few moments later, with the quiet sound of rattling glass and liquid pouring, Robert sets a tumbler of neat whiskey down next to the other man, one in his hand as he slides into a chair of his own.]

Booker, then.

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[It feels familiar in a way that it shouldn't. That fucking shift that made him think he had a family here and that Robert and Rosalind were apart of it still sticks out in his mind sometimes. In moments like this, the fabricated memories come back. One in particular of Robert offering this same silent kind of comradery when his wife and Robert's then sister had died.

He doesn't like it. In many different ways he doesn't like it, particularly though, in that it makes him feel as if they're mourning Elizabeth. And she is not dead.]

Thanks.

[He mumbles curtly, too focused on the drink set in front of him to really be gracious and he doesn't waste his fucking time pouring it down his throat. He wants to be drunk he doesn't want to enjoy the slow burn. Not right now.]

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Her things are still here. That's... all I can offer.

[And he sounds, in his own way, miserable at that admission.

He is powerless. He doesn't even have his notebooks to begin to understand how this anomaly of a world works. To get back to where they were, he and Rosalind, so they can start unlocking this world's secrets.]

That means she's coming back.

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[Hearing the obvious fact of the matter stated from Robert calms him more than the whiskey could. He knows, logically knows that Robert is just as mortal and fallible as he is here. That he isn't the omnipresent pain in the ass he knew when they first met.

Well...when his memory told him they first met...before the artifice was all stripped away.]

Okay.

[He offers back, sounding a lost and sad shell of a man as he goes to the bottle Robert poured from and serves himself another glass...

and another...

and a final third before he sits down.

This one, he doesn't finish in a gulp. This one he watches, as if he's expecting it to get up and walk away. Perhaps, subconsciously, he wants it to.]

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[Robert watches him for a few moments, watches the final drink, and tilts his head.]

At least there's no price on anything here. That's very good whiskey you're not even bothering to taste.

[An... almost kind way of remarking on it.

Kind, especially, for Robert Lutece.]

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Shut up.

[He spits it and feels anger rise in him like bile; acidic and harsh. He chokes it down with the rest of his glass, mostly just to spite Robert and his goddamn sensibilities.]

It's drink. I'd take the worse moonshine ever created right now.

[If it got me drunk.]

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Which is precisely my point.

Treating it like you would any swill. It's a waste of good whiskey.

[Such a supportive not-brother.]