Black and Midnight Blue

"And we can't forget the cousins. They were such an integral part of the family's shift into the present economy and political landscape. Besides, Marcus was close with them - until that very public argument at one of his father's rallies."

Give me a fucking break.

Dex's extreme amount of research and effort toward your assignment was much appreciated and certainly helpful. Unfortunately, the way he talked about what he knew made him seem like a total dick. Even Ray and Murph were practically rolling their eyes from across the boardroom table.

You had the room to yourselves to work out the final kinks in your research. Also on the table was an upcoming investigative mission where you'd be infiltrating the family home of Marcus Velluchi's cousin Hector and the headquarters for a political foundation the family ran.

Various papers lay strewn about the table, each of your four case files sitting open and exposed in disarray. It would take a few minutes to reorganize, but the four of you were almost finished with this meeting - and, thankfully, it'd likely be only one last brief meeting until your next field mission. The time was 6:47pm, and you were hopeful that you could be out of the boardroom by 7:00pm and out of the building by 7:15pm.

Beneath the table, your knee bounced up and down in a quick frenzy. Not only were you getting close to another field mission - which you tended to excel at, surprisingly so to some coworkers based on your cyber background - but today was the day.

Ray's clearance.

Level One access to Level One files.

Files on Leland Owlsley, on Fisk, on Hell's Kitchen.

You'd approached Ray a few days before, reminding him of his promise, and although he was initially reluctant, he agreed that this was a better time than any. No one would question a Level One, such as Ray, accessing classified files when the entire division was run off their feet with work on this case. Besides, if anyone happened to look your way, they'd probably be internally thanking you, assuming you were doing extra work to help manage their burden of a workload. Plus, Janelle wasn't exactly one to stay after hours if she wasn't explicitly needed, so her eyes weren't much of a concern.

Ray would take you to his computer, sign himself in, get past all encryptions and clearances, and from there, he'd let you search the Level One database for whatever you needed. Since sending such files to yourself would be risky, you'd locate the hard copies of the files you needed in your division's archives - a dusky, dim room in the basement. Bypassing that section of security would be relatively easy. It would take nothing but a swipe of Ray's keycard and a fingerprint - and he'd offered to come with you to provide it, as long as you were willing to hack into the security cameras and get them on an empty-hallway loop for his safety and yours. You weren't exactly excited about that part, but you had to do what you had to do.

"That's true," Murph added to Dex's point, scratching his scruffy jaw. "What we need to consider, though, is how much Hector plays into his protector role. That could really stop us from getting to Marcus' sister before they try to lawyer up."

"Believe me, they've already lawyered up by now," Ray chimed in. "They're the Velluchis - there's no way they don't know they're being investigated at this point. And Hector can't stop us from getting to Nina."

"Okay, sure, maybe Nina knows the truth-" you added, shaking your head, "-but how do we know she'll be convinced? The data shows that the family member closest to her, other than Marcus, is Hector. No way she'd betray him."

"She might, for the right price," Ray offered. You scoffed.

"For all we know, Nina could have done it," you proposed, leaning clasped hands atop the table. "Hell, she's Marcus' little sister, and they never seemed to even like each other - of course she'd want to get out of that shadow. And Hector's big on the power play, but he's too calculated for a Hudson River murder. I've traced him to drug production and trafficking, and that's it. If Hector's gonna kill someone, he's gonna dissolve the body, burn it, do something more calculated - especially if he's killing someone as high-profile as his own cousin."

The men each nodded - even Dex, on his high horse, and Murph, in his own little world of abhorrence. You continued.

"Hector might have been capable of killing Marcus, but he wouldn't have killed Marcus like that. We can't rule out the other cousin."

"Hector's brother?" Dex asked. You shook your head.

“No, not Alex. Cruz.”

Carlos "Cruz" Velluchi, the wildcard of the family. Got his nickname years ago as a 19-year-old college student, speeding from cops over the Brooklyn Bridge with a stripper in a stolen Santa Cruz. Lasted about half an hour before they caught his entitled ass.

"I don't know about Cruz," Murph interjected, his empty, chasing eyes landing on yours. You wanted so badly to break the eye contact, but you weren't about to back down. "He was a crazy kid, sure, but the only evidence we have on him is his entanglement with Marcus' wife."

You shrugged. "That could be enough for some to kill. Say Cruz fell in love with the woman - maybe he wanted Marcus out of the picture, so he was willing to do whatever Hector wanted. With Marcus dead, no one else is hearing inside info about the family's crimes, and Cruz gets to move in on his cousin's wife, once and for all."

Ray nodded. "Good point."

Even Dex nodded his head at your hypothesis. Murph only kept staring, not so much as shifting his expression as he leaned back into his seat. You tried your best not to shudder. 

The meeting ended soon after that. You stayed close to Ray, the two of you packing up your files with a quick goodbye to Murph and Dex. Dex walked out swiftly, but Murph seemed to be trying to hang around for an extra minute. After some time of you staying close to Ray, conversing small talk with him in hushed tones, Murph finally heaved a louder-than-necessary sigh and left.

Thank God.

“I don’t know how you do this, Selena. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with helping - but I know what sort of skills you’ve got under your belt, and surely-” Ray whispered, lowering his voice as the two of you turned the corner, coats on, briefcases in hand. “-Surely you could have gotten in here on your own.”

“I can’t risk my job, Ray,” you explained lightly, your shoes clacking in the long, empty hallway as you approached the next corridor - the home of the archives. “Getting into the system on my own is too risky.”

Again, it was something you could reasonably do, absolutely. You’d hacked into similar databases, and thwarted the interests of various companies while entirely concealing your real identity, only the Nightingale moniker left tied to your actions - and only when you wanted it to be. 

Still - this was too close to home for you.

The two of you turned another corner - starkly lit, with blue walls and gray linoleum flooring - to run into a set of tall, translucent sliding doors, white in their thin colouring but nearly impossible to see through. They were flanked on either side by thick white panels, one of which held the keycard and fingerprint readers.

You glanced at the corners above the doors to see the security cameras blink blankly down at you. Hacking into their video feeds was simple, to say the least, and you’d put them on a one-hour loop of this hallway being empty just to be safe. You even got into the cameras inside the archive room, giving them their own loop of empty rows, nothing but shelving and documents to be seen.

Ray slid his card through and checked one thumb, then the next. You held your breath as a brief moment passed - and when the readers let out a series of three high-pitched beeps, you released that breath. The doors shifted slightly before sliding slowly open, and you watched with parted lips and wide eyes as the lights in this archive room flipped on, one by one, from this door all the way back to the opposite wall.

I did it.

I’m in.

“There you go,” Ray shrugged, tucking his key back into his pocket. “Now, I gotta run - but just don’t take too long, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” you assured him, shaking your head. “I won’t be long at all.”

He nodded, his lips tight. You sighed.

“I’m onto something big here, Ray. I promise it’s worth it.”

“I know, I know,” Ray nodded, flipping his hands up. He met your eyes, his gaze so overflowing with concern that you nearly had to gulp - nearly would have reconsidered your decisions if you were any less set on this. “I just need you to promise me you’ll be careful, Sel.”

You smiled. “I will. I promise.”

“You better.”

After a quick pat of encouragement - and a bit of warning - on your shoulder, Ray turned to head back down the way you’d come. 

You stepped forward into the archives, the room’s air conditioning hitting you in a wave of dry, well-kept cool. As if by magic, the doors slid shut behind you the second you set both feet into the room. 

Okay.

First order of business:

Leland Owlsley.

In a note on your phone, you’d typed down the sections for which there was information on Owlsley, Wesley, and Fisk. There wasn’t much on Wesley and Fisk, but the files you’d found on Confed Global would have to do. 

Owlsley: Section 2-11-13, third shelf from the top. Access code: 1456.

The shelving units in this room seemed advanced, as far as shelving units go - and yet, they seemed ancient by FBI standards. Each one ran from the floor up to the ceiling, the length of them stretching back by nearly ten feet before the next section of shelving began. Access codes were a nice touch, albeit a touch that added a bit more extra work than you thought necessary or necessarily helpful.

Not difficult to bypass an access code.

Amateurs.

You reached Owlsley’s file and retrieved the whole stack. Glancing through, you noticed all kinds of little facts - educational history, resume - but primarily caught the name of a fancy New York accounting firm that you had only loosely tied to Confed Global: Silver and Brent.

Fantastic.

Wesley’s file was sparse, carrying little information besides his university degree and his work with Confed Global.

Worth it to grab, just in case.

Getting to Fisk’s file, you held your breath as you punched in the access code. A small metal door slid open, and there it lay - thin and nearly empty in its gray metal box. You reached a hand in and gingerly withdrew the file. Flipping it open showed you a small article from years and years ago about some Bill Fisk, running for office in Hell’s Kitchen with his wife Marlene and son Wilson at his side.

Bill Fisk.

The father.

Interesting.

Other than that, the file was, unfortunately, empty. You shut the door and moved on to the Confed Global locker - which contained a file so thick that if you dropped it, it’d take you years to get all those papers reorganized.

You checked the time - 7:11pm.

That’s enough.

Time to go.

As you strode back through the shelves you’d passed, you double-checked that everything was in order. Not a single sheet of paper could be out of place, a single file locker left ajar - or else, if anything was found out, both you and Ray would be paying for it.

But you knew what you were doing.

With a shift of your jaw and a deep breath, you walked swiftly back to those sliding doors, carefully stuffing the files into your briefcase. According to Ray, a button on the side would open the doors for you, and you found it on your left, pressing knuckles against the material - just in case they checked for fingerprints. The moment those doors slid open, you slunk through them and soared back down that hallway, your heels clicking once more over the floor as you fled the scene.

Almost too easy.

The chicken pad thai you’d ordered sat on your kitchen island, swirling mouth-watering scent up through your nose. Your stomach growled in hunger at the sight of the tempting meal waiting before you. You could help but place a hand over your belly, needing to eat but also finding it extremely difficult to simply break your brain off from the heat of your win today.

Finally.

Didn’t even need my own clearance.

Past the meal, though, were the files you’d retrieved, placed in an unnaturally neat row of piles - one which you had organized way too many times for it to be reasonable. Once you’d gotten to a point where you physically could not reorganize the files for any longer, you began to pace, and had done so around your kitchen for about ten minutes already, eyes flitting between the files, to the meal, to your phone. At this point, you were surprised your food was still steaming.

To be honest with yourself, you knew you had to call Matt - but you had no idea how to make yourself do it.

He said he’d contact me if he got any new information, and I said the same.

And this is new information.

Very relevant information, at that.

You’d hardly looked through the files, nothing really sticking out in your mind apart from Silver and Brent and Bill Fisk. Still, though - maybe Matt would find something useful in them.

Or, at the very least, he could help you decipher what was relevant and valuable, differentiating them from the slippery red herrings that would just lead you in some underwater chase, further than ever away from your objectives.

So why can’t I fucking call him?

Friends or not - whatever you were - it really shouldn’t matter. You had been allies first, above all - well, competitors first, and then allies, technically  - and you both had related goals, missions that required extreme commitments and high amounts of risk. Mutually beneficial evidence had to come before whatever emotional problems you might be having.

Besides - it had only been a week.

Fuck it.

In a moment of pure adrenaline, you picked up your phone from the counter and dialed Matt’s number.

Pick up, pick up, pick up.

After about three rings, the sound paused, and you held your breath.

“Hello?”

God.

His voice.

It struck you how shaken you were just at the sound of Matt’s voice: warm, gritty, soft - and all that, compounded into one simple word. A word from him, directed at you, once again.

You hadn’t heard Matt’s voice in real life for a week, his voice over the phone for multiple days - and, compared to how often you’d been hearing it before that, even a few days felt like a long time.

You cleared your throat. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hey,” he paused. You wondered if he was trying to decide whether it was safe or not to say your real name over the phone. In any case, he simply sighed and continued. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got - I’ve come across some information that might help our case,” you began, trying to speak as carefully as you could manage while maintaining a steady, calm tone. “Maybe I’ll drop it off to you - or I can bring it by, and we can go over it together?”

A pause fell over the two of you, and you bit your lip, clicking your nails along the countertop. Your pad thai was doubtlessly cold by now. As you opened your mouth to break the silence, Matt spoke.

“You can just drop it off, no problem.”

Oh.

Okay.

You paused for a beat, your eyes feeling unnaturally dry. Then, with a forced smile, you pulled yourself back together.

“Uh - sure!” You nodded to yourself in the empty, cold kitchen, as if convincing yourself that this is fine, this is normal, this is how friends handle these things, this is fine. “Sure, Matt, that’s fine.” And then, a thoughtful, confused pause, and another point: "But- I mean, they're documents, so I could probably find a braille printer or something and-"

"I'll be fine."

You wrapped your free arm around your waist in a tight hug, tucking your fingers flush against your back. That touch only brought your mind back to Matt’s arms around you in the underground, beneath emergency lighting, in the heat and comfort of new secrets shared, new bridges crossed - old masks tossed aside in favor of the light of one’s entire, intimate, true and vulnerable self. Your arm flew back to your side and, after some nervous twiddling, landed on the cold granite countertop.

That, though, just reminded you of the last time you’d seen Matt, of your hot coffee he joked about but sipped all the same. That heat was notably missing from this countertop.

You finally settled on stuffing your hand in a pocket, but Matt’s voice broke you from this weird emotional stupor before you could actually do so.

“When would work for you?”

“Um…” you began. Karen’s sort-of-double-date thing was tomorrow night at 7:00pm, so… maybe 10:00pm would work?

“How about 10:00 tomorrow night?”

“That works,” Matt affirmed. “You can just drop them at the office.”

The office.

Wow.

Doesn’t get less personal than that.

But it shouldn’t matter. You and Matt were friends - you’d been the one to establish that yourself, anyway.

So why did this aloofness, this distance, seem to bother you so much?

“Okay,” you replied, your voice quiet and trailing. Another pause came, light and quiet, and you were this close to saying goodnight and ending the call-

“Look, I- Selena, I just need you to know…” Matt began, his voice something between a resigned sigh and a carefully articulated plea. You bit your lip, hanging on his words, wondering what he might be thinking, wondering if this would be about your friendship or allyship or whatever it really was because God knows you didn’t fucking know and-

“I’ll leave the door open for you,” Matt sighed, clearing his throat with a quick pause, his voice sounding significantly stronger. “If I’m not there right then, you can leave it on my desk. Feel free to put it in one of the drawers if you want to be really careful.”

You swallowed, staring blankly at the wall.

“Sure, Matt. Thanks- thanks for letting me know.”

He sighed again from the other side of the phone. “I hope you’re safe, okay?”

“You too, Matt. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Selena.”

Selena.

Sure, he was being safe, trying to protect the two of you, and maybe there was someone else there with him, maybe Foggy or Karen - but calling you Selena just felt so impersonal, after everything.

After you'd given him one of the most personal things you could give - your real name. And now it just sat dusty and unspoken in the back of his brain.

Maybe that was a mistake.

You pulled the phone down from your ear to end the call but saw that Matt had already hung up. Your blood felt cold in your veins, and you set the phone on the countertop.

Fine.

Whatever.

Works for me.

A job is a job, and a friend is a friend.

Nothing less and nothing more.

Whether it was something or nothing at all, though, you left the files atop your counter, perfectly aligned alongside a cold, untouched dinner. The floorboards felt weak beneath your feet as you stepped past the kitchen and into your living room, as if they might open up at any moment, letting you fall in a flailing mess back down to earth.

With heavy limbs and a heart heavier than you thought was reasonable, you curled into the safe comfort of your bed. It felt cold, despite your thick comforter and soft sheets. In the dark of your bedroom, you wrapped your arms around yourself - striking hunger from your body and Matt from your mind as you pursued the deep solitude of sleep.

When you’re alone, you can’t hurt anyone, and no one can hurt you.

The pang in your chest begged to differ with that statement, but that little sensation wasn’t relevant. It wasn’t useful, protective, or safe for anyone. You couldn’t just let your conviction go.

Maybe I’m not protecting either of us from our emotions, but it’s better to be a little sad than blown up or shot or lying dead in a gutter somewhere.

Besides - we’re still friends.

This is just a reasonable distance, nothing but boundaries.

It’s for the best.

That last statement rang out in your mind over and over in your fight toward sleep, your restless soul tossing and turning through your body until the flame of your waking mind finally went out.

Getting your second earring in was more difficult than you'd expected. It had been a while since you last wore earrings, but you didn't think the holes would close over quite this quickly.

With a grit of your teeth and a shove, you finally got it through - and you were ready.

Your hair was loose and prettily done, your makeup perfect, a few dots of perfume placed strategically over your neck. The earrings were silver studs, holding little crystals at their center, which sparkled when the light hit them just right. You wore black jeans - high-waisted and tight, but still comfortable. Your royal blue top, low-cut and silky, was tucked into the waistband of your jeans, and upon your chest lay a tiny silver pendant, sparkling and matching your earrings.

Although you'd been stressed, you were excited. A night out would be fun - a night out with Karen, with Foggy, and with a cute guy, no less. This would be good for you. Good emotionally, of course, and ultimately good for your focus, as well.

Can't hurt.

Besides, you wanted to get your mind off things, draw your thoughts away from a certain black-masked, red-glasses-wearing man, who - though you hadn't seen him in over a week now - seemed to be taking up an unreasonable amount of space in your mind.

You couldn't seem to stop thinking of how he was doing, whether he was okay, whether past injuries were healing well or new injuries needed tending to. You tried each time to snap yourself out of it - and each time, your concern for Matt came back tenfold.

But- I tried calling him. Twice.

Wasn't exactly a win. 

Maybe he just agrees that distance is the smart choice.

Whatever will keep him safe.

I have to do whatever it takes to keep him safe.

Stepping out of your cab, the restaurant's lights greeted you in a bright and lively glow. You could see through the windows that the seats were rustic and wooden, the tables of a similar make, and vines crept up some of the beige walls, chasing strings of white lights as they ran up the wall toward the ceiling.

You pushed open the door to the restaurant and were greeted with the sound of chatter from patrons and the scents of good food, fresh from the kitchen. The host greeted you with a bright smile, and you couldn't help but return the expression.

"Reservation for four, under Page?"

The lady looked back down at her book, flipping a page - and nodded. "Right this way." 

The dark hardwood beneath you was smooth and shiny in its finish, and you almost felt bad for walking along it in your heels. Nevertheless, you followed the host as she led you through the restaurant. You saw all sorts of smiling faces, chattering groups of friends, glasses of wine, and plates of food - from pasta to tacos, it seemed that this restaurant offered a wide range of options. Scents of sauces and spices graced your nose, flavoring the very air. You looked up, and your eyes widened in shining awe at the small chandeliers which graced the ceiling, their crystalline glow sparkling in a similar fashion to your jewelry.

It wasn't the fanciest or most expensive restaurant in Manhattan - hardly - but the decor gave many other places a run for their money.

As the host led you through the restaurant, you felt your tension begin to release. The place was beautiful, it smelled beautiful, the food looked fantastic - and you couldn't help but feel that this night might be one to remember.

And even if it wasn't the best night of your life, it'd still be a lovely dinner and a well-deserved break.

"Selena!" 

Karen stood up from the table as you reached it. You thanked the host and stepped up to Karen, who wrapped her arms around you in a big hug.

"Great to see you," you hummed into her hair. She said something in response, but you didn't quite catch it.

Your eyes had fallen lower, to the seat beside her.

And, unless Foggy had dyed his hair dark and taken up wearing red-lensed glasses, that man could not possibly be him.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

All that tension that had released in you on your stroll through the restaurant came back in full force, coiling through your muscles, focusing in on all the spots Matt had once touched you.

And here he was, sitting across from where you would be sitting. He wore a black suit jacket and a black tie, each seeming freshly pressed and clean, almost reflective under the ambient light of the restaurant. Like all of his clothes seemed to, this outfit fit him quite well - and it was all you could do to pull your eyes off of him and his broad shoulders and sharp, stubbled jaw and turn your focus back to Karen.

But it was all just platonic.

It was always platonic.

Come on.

Focus.

Karen pulled away from you expectantly, her blue eyes wide and smiling.

"What was that, sorry?" you smiled, shaking your head.

"Foggy had some family thing he'd forgotten about, so he sent Matt instead."

You nodded, your tight-lipped smile subtly sarcastic as you let your eyes drift back down to Matt. "I noticed."

"Hey, Selena," Matt hummed with a polite grin. You returned a smile, biting back the urge to scowl.

"And this," Karen began, placing a hand on your back to turn you around, "This is Tristan."

Tristan looked up at you from his seat, and your breath hitched.

God, he's good-looking.  

His grin was light and wide, the tone of his voice silky in a flowing manner - a new opposition to the rasp Matt's sometimes had.

New opposition?

Stop that.

Matt and I are just friends.

We've only ever been just friends.

"Hi," Tristan said, getting to his feet. He towered over you in his navy blue pants and open suit jacket - and he was tall, taller than Matt. You gulped silently as your lips twisted. "Selena, right?"

You glanced down at his outstretched hand and, looking back up into his dark eyes, shook it, your voice lilting and light. "That's right. Nice to meet you."

Despite the glint of light from chandeliers and white lights lining the walls, those eyes didn't sparkle in the same way Matt's did.

Tristan grinned. His hand was soft but firm, his grip harder than you'd expected - but you didn't mind. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out your seat for you as you stepped around the table to it. With Tristan at your side, you took your seat - and as you did so, you couldn't help but notice Matt's jaw clench. Your nose curled up in an involuntary sneer, and you were quick to stifle it.

What?

Barely talk to me for a week, and now you're mad that other people still want to?

"How was work?" Karen asked you kindly. You smiled with a deep breath.

"Slower today, but still pretty busy," you started. You turned to Tristan - whose body was already angled toward yours, his right elbow resting on the back of his chair. His position let his jacket open wider, stretching his dress shirt across his chest so that you could just make out the lines of his pecs - well-carved and broad.

You remembered yourself and spoke once more.

"I'm a federal agent. Most of my background is cybersecurity-based, but I get other case assignments, of course. We're tackling a pretty major one right now - and although I technically can't talk about it," you joked, leaning your head slightly closer to Tristan with the last word - whose eyes flashed with interest as you did so, "I can safely say we're on track for a pretty big success." You paused, glancing back to Karen and holding up crossed fingers on each hand. "Hopefully."

"Wow," Tristan cooed. "That's pretty badass."

"It really is," Matt chimed in. Your eyes flitted to him, not totally expecting his participation in this conversation. Your brow flickered through a slight furrow, but Matt's expression remained stoic.

"No kidding," Karen laughed. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Matt beat her to it - and seemed to be directing his words at Tristan.

"She's told me all about her missions. Some of them - well, I hate to say it, but they got pretty dangerous. Got her ass beat more than a few times, for lack of a better phrase."

Your jaw dropped, and you quickly shut it.

Excuse me?

"Matt!" Karen interjected, her mouth smiling, her eyes surprised. Matt shrugged.

"No, no, I don't mean anything by it," he insisted. You chewed the inside of your cheek as Matt turned back to you, his earnest smile driving through your skull. "Just saying, it is badass, the sort of things she's had to recover from." Matt reached for his water glass, lifting it to his lips - but getting one more word in edgewise before he took a sip. "Thank God you've got such kind coworkers. Stitching you up all the time, I'm sure."

Wow.

Someone's got a billy club up his ass tonight.

As Matt swallowed his sip of that water, you ran your tongue along the inside of your cheek, scorned and calculating what to say next, your cheeks flushing red. Tristan, though, interrupted your train of thought - his voice a cool balm against your heated skin.

"That makes a lot of sense. It'd be so important to have people you can depend on, right?" He turned to you again, and his smile sent a softer, rosier blush over your cheeks. Tristan's teeth were nearly perfect, his lips a gorgeous shape, and his lashes and brows were thick, and his skin so soft and cleanly shaven and-

"That's for sure," Matt interjected again. You turned back to face him, your eyes narrowing. He only kept on. "So important to have people you can trust."

You tilted your head to the side, feeling your brows link together as if out of your control. Then, with a breath, you forced your expression to relax, plastering a polite smile over your wanting-to-frown lips.

"You're right, Matt," you nodded. "So important to have friends." 

You reached for your water glass, turning back to Karen and Tristan. "At work, of course - but outside work doesn't hurt, either."

The three of them laughed, though Matt's laugh was stifled. You looked back at Matt to see him shift his jaw from across the table and, pulling your glass to your lips, took a sip of your water.

You wanna play games?

I can play games.

At that moment, a waiter approached your table.

"Evening, ladies and gentlemen. Can I offer you folks anything to drink?"

You spoke up first.

"Just a glass of your best Chardonnay, please."

Karen smiled. "You know what - I'll get the same."

Looking back at Matt as he ordered his drink, you considered asking for a second glass right away.

This is going to be a long night.