"They just don't let you drink for free there," March agrees, echoing her words with a forlorn sort of sadness that only comes out when he's fully taking the piss.
He downs the second one, too, and the hand he places on the counter reflexively curls as the alcohol slides down his throat, smooth and perfect and, shit, his cheeks are warm, it's that stage now, huh? He turns around to face Wynonna.
No. That's the slot machine. He corrects his over correction, and turns around to actually face Wynonna. There we go.
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He downs the second one, too, and the hand he places on the counter reflexively curls as the alcohol slides down his throat, smooth and perfect and, shit, his cheeks are warm, it's that stage now, huh? He turns around to face Wynonna.
No. That's the slot machine. He corrects his over correction, and turns around to actually face Wynonna. There we go.
"I think I might be drunk."