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"More or less, but we're all dead, and we're all...pretty for being alive. At least, for the moment. And then we form attachments, and realize how much the others will suffer if you don't stick around- for one reason or another."

She sighed, ignoring the chittering for now. "Maybe that's why you have to live. You've got shit you still have to do."

Sokie sipped her drink. "My guess is that you want to go back in time, and fix things?"

Varker stares at her, long and hard, eyes narrowing as his jaw sets.

"No." He sets his glass on the desk as calmly as he can, though there is a growling that is starting to fill the room, "If I'm doing anything, It's dragging Birkov to hell with me, and killing him myself. That's it. That's the end, and there is nothing else. Now if you would please change the subject before I lose my temper and this fucking thing decides it needs to attempt to strangle you, that would be appreciated. It has far less patience than I do."

"All right. I apologize for crossing the line there. I've given thought of what I would do if I was given a deal, and it's very personal."

She glanced to the other mouth. "Id seems to be rather frisky. Anyway- what kind of food do you like to have? I'm currently assigned to the lunch duty in the kitchen, and the wardens there like all sorts of meal ideas. We're kind of limited, but you'd be surprised what people can come up with."

Very personal indeed. Varker might know what he did, how it got them to where they all ended up, but he isnt sure going back would change anything. What would he even do differently? Was he going to beg Birkov to give up? Send him to jail for embezzlement before the bodies stacked to high?

No...he doesn't think so.

"It is a feral fucking monster, frisky is too kind," he huffs, glancing away from her to glare at the wall. "And I'm not quite so picky, even if i enjoy the finer things. Not ever meal can be five courses. I am rather partial to Mexican, though we're rather spoiled in California for it. If someone doesnt know what they're doing its kind of a waste."

She glanced away too. She hadn't meant to step on his foot, so to speak. She was trying to behave, more or less.

Hearing about Simon might have been even been too much, with all of his bitterness.

"That's why I think Id- like as in id, ego, superego- is a good name for it." She told him. "And...hm. I do like Mexican, but my latest touch stone on Earth was New York but- they aren't known for good Mexican food."

She leaned back in her seat, thinking. "Corn tortillas, freshly made? I think I could at least manage a good breakfast burrito, and Tex Mex. At least everything here is pretty fresh."

"Im not going to name it, it shouldn't even exist." He hisses, though shuts his mouth immediately when it sounds just like the mouth above his eyes. He would pinch the bridge of his nose, but that part of his face no longer exists. His mood dips further, slumping in the chair and taking a long pull from his glass.

"Fresh corn tortillas sound delicious." He managed to grumble out after a stretch of silence.

Oh, hiss from the bottom mouth now. She sighs, and takes a small sip of her drink. Well, this was going down badly.

She wasn't going to say she named her boobs. Tempting to, but he didn't need that sass. Or mention tongue tacos, even if they were delicious.

"I think I could manage them. What do you like in your tacos?"

"Cant go wrong with a street taco. Pick a protein, cilantro, white onion and lime. Maybe some crema if the protein has a kick to it." He finished his second glass, setting it on the desk in front of him, considers another but hes burning through it quickly.

"Or birria tacos...god those are good."

"You know your tacos. That's not unexpected, but it's still lovely to know. I've met a few people who...don't even know birria tacos exist."

She glanced at the bottle, before glancing up at Varker, before offering a hand.

"If you don't mind me using magic, I can refill your bottle."

"I existed off the taco truck that sat on the edge of campus in college. I think everyone has their favorite spot in the bay. No wrong answers, usually." And now he really wants a birria taco. God dammit.

He follows her gaze to the bottle, back to her and raises an eyebrow, "will it taste the same?"

"I mean, sometimes? Sober or drunk? I'd just get a big variety of tacos. It's just really nice to have. But I'll look up some recipes, check my memory, see if John and I can come up with some decent birria tacos."

She liked a challenge, and she thought John would enjoy it too.

Though hearing that, she snorted.

"Yes? Otherwise there wouldn't be much point of making more. Same temperature as well. Can't screw up a good thing, especially when I want more."

He might be temperamental, and incredibly frustrated, but there is a smile that crosses his lips, leaning in and resting his chin on his folded hands, "of course its fucking good, that's $1200 whiskey."

He makes a waving gesture towards it, "so if you can make sure it never runs dry, I think maybe we can be friends."

"Oh shit, no wonder it hits so well."

She gave the bottle a look of respect. Well, now she wanted her own bottle of this back at the cabin. She loved a good whiskey.

"Well sure I can. I can do the refill right now." She squinted at the bottle and- well. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but then the liquid rose, in the same color as before, before she offered it back.

"Try it, so you know I'm not full of it." She advised. "If you want it to work without me, I'll have to do some inscription on the bottles. Or at least have some stuff over paper, sealed onto the bottle for it to work."

All she'd ask was a glass now and then.

"2019 George T. Stagg. I'm allowed to treat myself to a case when they release every year." With this being his office rather than his condo his stash was rather paired down, unfortunately.

He, perhaps a bit gleefully watches as the rich amber liquid rises back to the top, knocking the bottle back to take a taste test straight. "I think I love magic." Says the alcoholic as he sets the bottle down and stands, walking over to the wet bar to grab a different bottle.

The one he produces from inside the cabinet has a bit more of an understated look, less rich, but he sets it in front of her, half empty as it is, "you do that with this one and I'll give you the Stagg. Engrave away."

Because what she has in front of her is a 30 year Macallan scotch thats worth four times as much.

Edited 2025-06-06 05:58 (UTC)

"A case."

She said it to confirm, not to question. George T. Stagg didn't release that many bottles per year- no wonder it was so smooth. And so good.

Arthur might explode if he tasted it. Though- seeing the bottle she was offered, her eyes widened. A Macallan.

She just about whimpered. No wonder he was willing to part with the Stagg.

"Not...exactly. I mean- technically? Technically. It is teachable. I uh- sorry, I'm a little-" She cleared her throat, before touching the bottle.

Again, it was not in an instant, but she started to refill it.

"If you have some paper, I can write the formula for you right now." Because she did not want to accidentally crack the bottle in any way.

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