EIGHTH SHOT

[dog_eat_dog]

[Dictated quite cheerfully:]

Wish me happy birthday, people, I'm 40 years old today and therefore officially old.

Comments

[focusrighthere]

Insulting.

[happy birthday, babe]

[dog_eat_dog]

Any advice for me, Big Guy? This is new territory for me.

[focusrighthere]

It all goes down from here.

[So business as usual.]

[dog_eat_dog]

[She wouldn't want business to change, now, would she?]

You gonna console me when I find my first greys?

[focusrighthere]

More like I'll be huntin' for them so I can point them out.

[dog_eat_dog]

I think that's a fair trade off if it means never hearing you moan about my being young.

[focusrighthere]

Not anymore. You made it official and everything.

[dog_eat_dog]

Beautiful. But stay outta my hair, Texas, or I'll have to dye 'em to hide 'em from you.

[focusrighthere]

Age with grace, Tess.

[dog_eat_dog]

When am I ever graceful?

[focusrighthere]

Point.

[Tess is off at her birthday outing right about now and Joel, after frustrating himself over whether or not he should wish her up a gift, has decided that he can't think of anything that was both subtle for appearances sake and appropriate to-- well, to them.

It's irritating him that he feels outdone by some of the other Paradisa residents. This was his partner, but everything that was special to them back home (days off, smuggled product too good to let go of) was practically meaningless here, a place where everything was already provided for you. Add in the problem of Tess' infection and he was stumped.

He's given up and he's gone to bed, to stew on it some more in the morning.]

[dog_eat_dog]

[Tess is back sometime just before one o'clock; later than she'd liked, but still earlier than she suspected she would have been if the conversation hadn't turned to demonic threesomes. Not her scene, really, but that's why she is getting home now. Joel and Ellie will already be in bed, no doubt, so she keeps quiet as she lets herself in.

As quiet as she can be in heels, anyway. Each footstep is a click against the tile, and she sets her clutch on the kitchen counter. Christ, her feet hurt, but she isn't about to fumble with the little buckles in the damn dark. She'll wait until she gets to her room, where she can shut the door and turn the light on without disturbing the two.

First, though, to rifle through the refrigerator to grab a snack to eat. Food always comes first. She bends over to reach an apple from the crisper, squinting against the light from the fridge, her free hand on the back of her skirt to keep it from riding up too far. Fucking short skirts.

Fun night, though.]