[ He starts to measure out another while the that first one still sits on the counter. Vanitas wonders if left there long enough, if the hand on the back of his neck would move to that and knock it on the floor, spilling it's contents with the same sort of carelessness that Vanitas moves around Beacon with.
Maybe that's all those grasping fingers are, then. Darkness manifesting. He wouldn't really be surprised. Maybe that's what he's feeling, as much as the desperation and fear and anxiety from all the citizens. When enough of that negative emotion coalesces, after all, it can be hard to start picking it apart to it's baser aspects.
As if responding to his thoughts, another hand takes him by the bicep and gives him a firm yank. The scant inches between Vanitas and the bartop close and he feels it clip his hip and his waist. Another bruise to add to the rest.
Vanitas looks down at the shot. Some things are meant to go together. It's not that he trusts Bruce— he doesn't trust him any more or less than any other idiot in this light forsaken town&mdah; but he recognizes a challenge when he sees one. And besides, if this is some kind of prank, it isn't like Vanitas can't just take him out at the knees right this second.
He's never done this before, but that does nothing to dissuade his determination. Caving, Vanitas picks up the shot and tips it back in one relatively smooth gesture. He's expecting a similar experience from before: tang and citrus, salt and lime and the sharp after-effect of tequila. What he gets, instead, is the smooth silk of chocolate and cream. It's sweet, like a candy bar, and there's a burn that lingers afterward on the edges of his tongue and the back of his throat.
The surprise is all over his face, and he directs it at Bruce like he's been slapped, utterly bewildered. ]
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Maybe that's all those grasping fingers are, then. Darkness manifesting. He wouldn't really be surprised. Maybe that's what he's feeling, as much as the desperation and fear and anxiety from all the citizens. When enough of that negative emotion coalesces, after all, it can be hard to start picking it apart to it's baser aspects.
As if responding to his thoughts, another hand takes him by the bicep and gives him a firm yank. The scant inches between Vanitas and the bartop close and he feels it clip his hip and his waist. Another bruise to add to the rest.
Vanitas looks down at the shot. Some things are meant to go together. It's not that he trusts Bruce— he doesn't trust him any more or less than any other idiot in this light forsaken town&mdah; but he recognizes a challenge when he sees one. And besides, if this is some kind of prank, it isn't like Vanitas can't just take him out at the knees right this second.
He's never done this before, but that does nothing to dissuade his determination. Caving, Vanitas picks up the shot and tips it back in one relatively smooth gesture. He's expecting a similar experience from before: tang and citrus, salt and lime and the sharp after-effect of tequila. What he gets, instead, is the smooth silk of chocolate and cream. It's sweet, like a candy bar, and there's a burn that lingers afterward on the edges of his tongue and the back of his throat.
The surprise is all over his face, and he directs it at Bruce like he's been slapped, utterly bewildered. ]