[ That particular turn of phrase punches a laugh out of Tim. It's mostly fine and not unhinged. ]
Yeeeaahhh-ha-ha-haaaa, you got that right, pumpkin. Do you ever.
[ Give him this much: Rhys seems to have this real talent for surprising him, knocking him juuuust enough off-balance that it diverts him from whatever awful trajectory his thoughts might be starting to take at any given point in time. Like trauma jai alai or something.
In this case, Tim's whole posture slowly unfurls until he's leaning back on his palms, like he's half-exasperated at a joke he's telling himself. He feels the heavy glass in his pocket shift on his stomach with the movement, threatening to topple out one side or the other. ]
Yeah, but, ummm, n-no, it's–s'complicated. Friggin' hate the thing, don't get me wrong, but I kkkkkinda need it, so... uh... guess it... wasn't actually that complicated, in the end. But hey check this out!
[ With a little too much eagerness and a lot of smug pleasure, Tim produces the bottle of madhu he'd purchased and then kindasorta snuck back onto the ship without really meaning to thanks to. You know. The aforementioned freakout. The bottle itself, stout with a slender neck ending in a cork the size of a Jakobs shotgun slug, is made of a rich, glossy clay in a color that matches Tim's memory of Miss Moxxi's hair. The label that surrounds its body appears handmade and in a language Tim can't read. ]
Yah-huh, it's... exactly what you think. [ A beat. ] Nnnnot sure I'm supposed to have this, now that I'm thinking about it.
no subject
Yeeeaahhh-ha-ha-haaaa, you got that right, pumpkin. Do you ever.
[ Give him this much: Rhys seems to have this real talent for surprising him, knocking him juuuust enough off-balance that it diverts him from whatever awful trajectory his thoughts might be starting to take at any given point in time. Like trauma jai alai or something.
In this case, Tim's whole posture slowly unfurls until he's leaning back on his palms, like he's half-exasperated at a joke he's telling himself. He feels the heavy glass in his pocket shift on his stomach with the movement, threatening to topple out one side or the other. ]
Yeah, but, ummm, n-no, it's–s'complicated. Friggin' hate the thing, don't get me wrong, but I kkkkkinda need it, so... uh... guess it... wasn't actually that complicated, in the end. But hey check this out!
[ With a little too much eagerness and a lot of smug pleasure, Tim produces the bottle of madhu he'd purchased and then kindasorta snuck back onto the ship without really meaning to thanks to. You know. The aforementioned freakout. The bottle itself, stout with a slender neck ending in a cork the size of a Jakobs shotgun slug, is made of a rich, glossy clay in a color that matches Tim's memory of Miss Moxxi's hair. The label that surrounds its body appears handmade and in a language Tim can't read. ]
Yah-huh, it's... exactly what you think. [ A beat. ] Nnnnot sure I'm supposed to have this, now that I'm thinking about it.