wrong way home

james

smoking kills

James is tragically naked, save for the sunglasses skewed over his eyes and the shoes on his feet. If you ask he'll tell you he doesn't want tanlines, but of course, that's an easy lie to spot given the clear lines he'll develop from the two things he is wearing. The real truth is probably that he either 1. was too drunk to remember to put on clothes, 2. doesn't care 3. is worried about tanlines but is just being a dumbass about it, or 4. something to do with a big burly man, a knife, and an armadillo.

So anyways, there's James, sprawled on a rock.

"Do I know you?" He wonders sleepily, rolling onto his side and cuddling a bottle of whiskey. "Yeah I do, don't I? Yer that ascended guy who nearly got killed at that meetin' a few days ago." James follows up, the irish lilt of his accent making all of this sound wildly upbeat. "Shitty deal, that. Drink?" Holding out the bottle knowing full well the ascended couldn't partake, the thief still waggles it enticingly between his fingers because he's a godsdamn gentleman, that's why.

but so does love.