Blame milkmoon for this!
This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands and have spoken too much about this stuff to Amanda.Dante wasn't sure how he always got caught up in these situations, but yet again, there he was, sitting in a bar, at a table, across from Claire Redfield. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you. A few beers into the night for the both of them, and stalker (her) and asshole (him) were united in friendly chatter. Okay, mostly chatter of killing monsters and getting laid, but it was friendly! Really.
When Claire ordered for Vodka, Dante quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was good about it, as he wouldd swear on Trish's life that he held his alcohol like a pureblood Irishman--spinning room and slurred speech aside. But when Claire began to wobble in her stool and sloshed Vodka over the sides of her glass as she poured it, Dante had to ask, "Should you be drinking so much?" Sure, his S's sounded like Th's, but he was not drunk.
"It's okay," she insisted through gurglish giggles. The Redfield coughed and forced herself to sit painfully straight. "I'm Native American!" Dante was honestly proud with how clear she said that.
"Are you?" he mused over the rim of his glass. It was followed by incessant blinking to get his vision to straighten.
"Yep!" Claire bobbed her head dramatically--to a degree that it even hurt Dante. "Fiftyyyy pershent English! Fiftyyyy perchent... Twatatache! I c'n handle mah firewater, shanks much."
She went to down her glass as Dante pondered aloud. "Waiiiit, didn't 'firewater' contribute to the fall of the Native American culture?"
So perfect, there should have been a camera, did Claire topple from her stool to the floor. The glass clattered nearby, but by some miracle remained intact. Ever the help, Dante reached over and took hold of her half-empty Vodka bottle--after checking to make sure Claire was out for the count. Or at least not getting up anytime soon.
"Daddy's borrowing your firewater, babe," he said with a hiccup and a snicker, before stuffing the bottle opening against his lips and swigging. When he released the then quarter-full bottle, he let out a happy, half-stifled burp. "You injuns sure have good taste."
"I'm... suing... you... you... discriminating... cheap bastard..." Claire panted, unable to heft herself off the floor.
Bwah. Nope, no LJ cut either!
When Claire ordered for Vodka, Dante quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was good about it, as he wouldd swear on Trish's life that he held his alcohol like a pureblood Irishman--spinning room and slurred speech aside. But when Claire began to wobble in her stool and sloshed Vodka over the sides of her glass as she poured it, Dante had to ask, "Should you be drinking so much?" Sure, his S's sounded like Th's, but he was not drunk.
"It's okay," she insisted through gurglish giggles. The Redfield coughed and forced herself to sit painfully straight. "I'm Native American!" Dante was honestly proud with how clear she said that.
"Are you?" he mused over the rim of his glass. It was followed by incessant blinking to get his vision to straighten.
"Yep!" Claire bobbed her head dramatically--to a degree that it even hurt Dante. "Fiftyyyy pershent English! Fiftyyyy perchent... Twatatache! I c'n handle mah firewater, shanks much."
She went to down her glass as Dante pondered aloud. "Waiiiit, didn't 'firewater' contribute to the fall of the Native American culture?"
So perfect, there should have been a camera, did Claire topple from her stool to the floor. The glass clattered nearby, but by some miracle remained intact. Ever the help, Dante reached over and took hold of her half-empty Vodka bottle--after checking to make sure Claire was out for the count. Or at least not getting up anytime soon.
"Daddy's borrowing your firewater, babe," he said with a hiccup and a snicker, before stuffing the bottle opening against his lips and swigging. When he released the then quarter-full bottle, he let out a happy, half-stifled burp. "You injuns sure have good taste."
"I'm... suing... you... you... discriminating... cheap bastard..." Claire panted, unable to heft herself off the floor.
Bwah. Nope, no LJ cut either!