The Glass Ball Balancing

"Let's just call it hospitality." Gemina admitted with a small, polite laugh. "I've ran inns, brothels, and speakeasies. If it dealt with a physical need or a vice there's a chance I had my hand in the honeypot. Retired a few decades back and got into antiques and art." She waved her left hand out towards the store that surrounded them.

Aisles upon winding aisles of book cases, glass displays, shelves, and décor covered the expansive salesfloor. There was hardly an empty space in the entire building.

"Come with me. You can rest in my guest room and I've some things that might help you recover a bit faster from your mishap."

Her heels tapped the wooden floor as she started walking towards an archway that was nestled near the sales counter. A keen eye would pick up on the fact the floor was worn in that exact path; decades of walking the same path over and over. Evidence that Gemina had somehow remained as she was in that exact spot for quite some time.

"Before we get up to my apartment," she paused at the bottom of the steps to look back at Remmick with a stern expression, "there are some rules I ask you follow. Most won't apply since you aren't staying very long, but most importantly you may not turn on any of the lights. If for some reason you must I ask you warn me ahead of time. Secondly, you do not enter my bedroom under any circumstances. Third and final is that if you are going to pull something from the walls you just.. Put it back."

Ilyas huffed. It was a sound he often made, but after the amount of booze he'd had now, it was much louder, and perhaps even more charming than usual. "I'm not throwing anything up. I don't waste." Spending money on booze and then literally spilling it down the drain? Oh no. It wasn't an option.

He looked at his glass. Empty again. That couldn't be healthy. Then again, driving yourself batshit insane by going over events that you couldn't change inside your head wasn't exactly the definition of productive behavior either. And under these circumstances, Ilyas wasn't doing that. He thought that was good. That was a win.

"Food is overrated." He scowled, considering his own words, because was that even true? He faintly shook his head. "Some people call some things food that are sometimes not food--shouldn't be food." That sentence made sense, in a weird way. "Food should be.. food. You know? And not grease and sugar packed into a--" His gaze fell on his glass and he looked surprised. "Hey. Where's my drink?"

If he intended on protesting she certainly didn't give him enough time to react before she spun the lid back off and knocked it back, downing the golden liquid in several painful swallows before unceremoniously wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. For a moment she could feel that pleasant warmth in her chest and the light spin in her head. The alcohol was finally starting to hit her. "There we are. Now all I need is a midnight snack.."

She pointed towards her drinking companion and then wiggled her fingers. "Got anyone you don't particularly like? We can really help each other out here." Her smile was warm and lopsided, her grey eyes half lidded as she teased him.