#catherine 003

She has lined up an as-of-yet-to-be-paid-for row of vodka shots on the booth table and is nursing a slightly warm beer in one hand when Catherine arrives. Grace watches her move through the bar, notes the lack of spring in her step which would usually make her want to throw something at Catherine’s head, and can’t help but crack a grin. There was something distinctly sweet in seeing the mighty fall, particularly when they had been sat on such an impossibly high horse, looking down on anyone who dared to indulge themselves in darker pursuits of life. “Kitty-Cat,” she chimes, pinching her little sister’s chin between finger and thumb to press a blood-red kiss to her cheek, continuing to stare at her in cruel awe. Wicked wonder. Pride. She passes the blonde a shot and follows by downing one herself, revelling in the burn.

“I always knew you had it in you, despite the whole--” Grace gestures vaguely with her bottle, liquid sloshing inside, and remembers to lower her voice despite having chosen their table strategically, “--religious, hurting-people-is-bad thing you have going on. I’m just pissed because that prancing pony Rusty-Cellar got to be the one to witness it. Which, you know, it really would have been fucking funnier if you’d shot her instead.” A smirk pulls at one corner of her mouth as she takes a swig of beer, curious as to where Catherine’s loyalty now lay with regards to Rafaella. Surely what had happened had caused a wound; a growing bitterness? “So you’ve got one on the kill count at last, you’re Captain-less, and you’re drinking with a Montague. Looks like you’re finally learning how to live, piccolina. How does it feel?”