"Bring it," she says pleasantly, reclaiming the bottle for another pull. "Sabotage is my middle name."

She is feeling better, she thinks, than she has in a while, not counting the time spent curled up with Greta - which wasn't so much good as it was complicated. This is fun, and it's far from emotional honesty which is uncomfortable and difficult, and she thinks if she could just drink herself into oblivion and exchange sassy banter with Rush every day for the rest of her miserable one-armed existence she'd be okay.

Oh, no, wait, that got depressing.

Fuck.

She slumps a little, just a little, looking at the table, her free hand drawing abstract, invisible patterns into the surface.