[ He pulls the glass away from her as she finishes it off, as much to prove a point as it is to keep her away from temptation. Rich, coming from a man like Faraday, but he was nothing if not a man of contradictions.
At her invitation, Faraday regards the open, mostly full bottle. Most of his life was spent half-corned, to be sure, chasing away his own demons with the haze of spirits. He drank for pleasure, sometimes, but rarely for taste. Threw back the drinks too fast for his palate to appreciate it, though the taste still lingered on the back of his tongue thanks to sheer volume.
These days, he has few nightmares to chase away – being that without sleep, those dreams no longer come. A small benefit to being dead, he supposes. If nothing else should come of it, at least he need no longer suffer his own ghosts of his past. Faraday would never consider himself to be at peace – his uncertain existence was testament to that – but that desperate need to wash away the grating edge of sobriety no longer clawed as strongly at him.
Just as well, he supposes, considering the drink no longer impairs him as it once did.
He throws back the remainder of his glass, just for old time's sake, feels the familiar burning numbness wash through him, but after that, he puts the stopper back in place on the bottle. ]
Was always more of a social drinker, myself.
[ Which is bullshit, but he spouts it off easy enough, anyway. ]
no subject
At her invitation, Faraday regards the open, mostly full bottle. Most of his life was spent half-corned, to be sure, chasing away his own demons with the haze of spirits. He drank for pleasure, sometimes, but rarely for taste. Threw back the drinks too fast for his palate to appreciate it, though the taste still lingered on the back of his tongue thanks to sheer volume.
These days, he has few nightmares to chase away – being that without sleep, those dreams no longer come. A small benefit to being dead, he supposes. If nothing else should come of it, at least he need no longer suffer his own ghosts of his past. Faraday would never consider himself to be at peace – his uncertain existence was testament to that – but that desperate need to wash away the grating edge of sobriety no longer clawed as strongly at him.
Just as well, he supposes, considering the drink no longer impairs him as it once did.
He throws back the remainder of his glass, just for old time's sake, feels the familiar burning numbness wash through him, but after that, he puts the stopper back in place on the bottle. ]
Was always more of a social drinker, myself.
[ Which is bullshit, but he spouts it off easy enough, anyway. ]
Save it for a rainy day.