sixwordstories | (no subject)

Need someone to drink that with?

Long as you don't mind spitting.

Spitting? *looks him over and smiles* Something about you feels like...like my grandfather.

's what happens when you're not allowed to imbibe. Best I can manage is to taste the stuff.

Who's your granddad, then?

*nods slowly*

God.

*coughs*

I'm sorry, come again?

*sighs softly*

God. Their royal on highness.

My grandfather.

*holds out a hand to him*

I'm Hope...Hope by name, Hope by nature.

I'm sorry, Hope. It's just that I, er, don't remember seeing you at the last company picnic. I am the Metatron.

I was probably a little too young for the family picnic.

It must blow not being able to drink.

Back to drinking, hmm?

It's my downtime. I'm allowed a nip. Sort of.

Too bad for you that you can't... swallow. *smirk*

A sex joke. How droll. Is this where I'm supposed to get offended?

I wasn't trying to offend. Why? Are you offended? Tsk, tsk.

Well, sex itself kind of offends me, ridiculous endeavor that it is.

Considering you can't have all the fun that others can... trust me. Lust? One of the best sins, baby.

Psh. Keep it. Gluttony, I at least understand.

You would.

*takes one glass*

Yoink.

Hey, I need that.

Why do you need both? I have one, you have one.

*wiggles glass at him* C'mon, splish-splash.

Whatever you say.

*pours a shot into one glass, tips it back, swishes it in his mouth, then spits it into the other cup from across the table*

Bad day?

Oh, 'bout a million of 'em.

Drown your sorrows. Works for me. Ever want a drink let me know.

Can't drink, can't get drunk, but all right.

Sounds like the ingredients for a serious session...

Just another weekday night.

So do you want company, or do you prefer to just chat with Jose there?

Sit if you like. Long as you can stand a guy not drinking while he's drinking.

*shrugs, pulls out chair and sits*

I've put up with worse.

...Double fisting or expecting company?

*pours a shot into one glass, tips it back, swishes it in his mouth, then spits it into the other cup*

Neither... officer... just keeping things tidy.

That's a strange habit.

For the taste alone, people usually go a little lighter than tequila.

It's a necessity when you're not allowed to actually drink it down. *shrugs* And I like tequila. Definitely one of the better traits of humanity, the ability to make things like that.

You must have been a heavy drinker before you became a Mormon.

And, technically, tequila makes itself.

Not Mormon. Angel.

Yeah, but some brilliant human once said, "hey, I wanna drink that!"

He opens his mouth to say something, but can't.

His head swivels left quizzically. He raises an index finger, trying to say something again; once again can't form his thought. Recoils the finger and looks forward again.

Settles for a Morse code message in blinks.

"I'm sorry, my Morse code's a bit rusty ever since I last talked to Mr. Morse. Did you just call me a fuschia teakettle?"

...How did you escape the institution?

Yeah, about that, sorry.

And suddenly, my day is complete. So where's Ethel? Or are you Ethel?

Bartleby is... actually, I don't know. I'm not his keeper.

And yet, the two of you keep poppin' up together like a bad sitcom.

Used to. Not quite so fuckin' much anymore.