[Incomplete/Closed]

[whiskeykillshot]

[ WHO ] : Rubi Malone (whiskeykillshot) and Reno (untucking)
[ WHERE ]: Third floor and Apartment 302.
[ WHEN ]: After waking up in her own room with only one revolver and no booze, Rubi goes scavenging for her remaining belongings as well as hopefully some alcohol. Lulz insues.
[ RATING ]: PG-13
[ WARNINGS ]: Potential violence and Rubi/Reno's badmouthing.
[ NOTES ]: Let the

Comments

[untucking]

"Rubi. Then it's a pleasure, yo," he replied, his words damp with sarcasm as he lifted his other knee and wedged the bottle in between them. Hey, anyone would think that he was used to opening bottles of whiskey with one hand! He twisted the cap off easily before taking a swig of the aromatic amber liquid, enjoying the deep burn as it worked it's way down into his chest to warm him from the inside out. Fuck ghosts. Fuck guns. Fuck popped noses. He was going to take a few seconds to enjoy himself.

"A 'thing', huh? Gee, that's real explanative," he grumbled, squinting at the label wrapped around the bottle of whiskey before taking another swig. "Che. Guess I'm not one to talk, though ... 'thing' is the only way to describe that shit I thought I saw under the bed." He jerked a thumb towards the shoddy wrought-iron frame, before adding; "It's gone now, though."

Yeah. As if that weren't painfully obvious.

Capping the bottle again, he haphazardly rolled it back across the floor to the woman sitting across the room, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to lick the sweet residue from his lips as he inspected his wounded arm again.

"Gotta hand it to you though, babe, you almost got me good. Bleedin' my own blood is always fun." Reno offered her a lopsided grin as he reached into a pocket lining his jacket, and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes along with an old, battered looking silver lighter. Raising the box to his lips, the redhead pulled out one of the little white sticks with his teeth before flicking open the Zippo and tilting his head to light it.

"Smoke?" He held the pack up between two fingers and cocked an eyebrow at her from behind the blue-gray stream of smoke that coiled from the glowing tip; there was a break as he sucked in a delicious lungful of tar and other perfectly noxious chemicals, before letting it snake from the corner of his lips with a pleasured sigh. The combination of whiskey and nicotine was managing to dull the pain in his arm ever so slightly ... but the bleeding hadn't stopped.

"By the way, looks like I'mma have to go get a doctor to put a band-aid on my boo-boo," he began, pulling the cigarette away from his lips and letting it dangle between two fingers. "You're comin' with me."