"Donnae fash yersel'," he says vaguely. "I'm sure we c'n do much worse."

He sets the phone atop the table surface and leans back, eyes shut as he tries to evaluate his current ratio of alcohol to alcohol dehydrogenase.

He has significant difficulty pursuing that line of thought.

One eye cracks open as he watches Asadi move with a certain level of imbalance befitting one as obviously intoxicated as she.

"You," he murmurs, diction becoming progressively more slurred, "'re pure dead fucking brilliant. Not sure if anyone's told you. I'm telling you now." His eyes close again. "Don' say I said it."