#oh...wait...

Oh Tim. I love it when you hold dangerous goats in the faces of people you want to sleep with.

"Let's see...ah, there it is." Voice devoid of emotion, he casually finds what he is seeking.

Reaching into the cupboards below the counter, the butler procures a slender bottle, labelled in clear black font: 'Arsenic'. Without a second thought, he rises to his feet, unscrewing the cap and filling a nearby shot glass to the brim. A steadying inhale before a lengthy exhale, he takes the glass in hand and quickly knocks it back, feeling the burn down his throat in an instant.

Of course, the label is just a falsehood. Merely misdirection, to keep Vance's personal alcohol stash from being haphazardly quaffed by a certain shade who frequented the shadow's apartment. The liquid in the bottle is vodka, the butler's favorite drink.

It does nothing to stabilize his trembling hand, he finds. Filling the glass again, he pulls it back to his lips, drinking it back in scarce seconds. The burn renews down his esophagus, and he holds up his digits, eyes peering at them and narrowing.

Nothing.

This is all spurred on by the meeting with Zack. The fact that the other man does not have a single memory of the butler.

At one time, they called each other comrades and nearly brothers.

Now...They are but acquaintances.

The hand clenching the bottle starts to hold tighter, small particles of frost starting to spread from his fingertips.

In frustration, he tosses the shot glass behind him, hearing it shatter on the hardwood floor. He shuts his eyes and brings the bottle to his lips, slowly draining it. When it is empty, he tosses it against a wall, raising his hand back into his field of vision.

The haze has started to take hold.

Good.

Better he forget how to feel. For what he feels now...