"I wonder if there is a way to rectify that. Maybe mainline some alcohol and see how that works."

There was an ease in the companionship that Damon provided. He required no explanations, sought no answers. If only there were other individuals readily available that followed suit, I'm sure I would be a far more amiable person. Most conversations were rife with boring lulls, urging you to lean on your hand while your elbow propped your arm up on a bar as you listened to the boring life story of whoever it was you were in the company of. There was very little of that sort of discussion with the vampire, and for that I was grateful. He seemed more interested in the acquisition of his drink than anything else, which was fitting considering the tales I'd heard of vampires drinking to dull a primal ache for blood. Was blood thirst that strong? I had wondered before what it might feel like to have fangs sharper than the high-end steak knives that were sold on advertising shows at about three in the morning. Did you ever accidentally bite yourself? And what would happen if you did; were the fangs sharp enough to cut through your tongue? Part of me debated asking these things, wondering what kind of half-assed answer I'd get. But really, though... Aside from the tremendous pain in the ass that vampires often provided me, they were sort of badass.

Something I would never, ever admit.

Damon's drink was strong, and I smirked in response. At least this wasn't your average human drink-off. I wonder who would win in that state... Granted, the vampire couldn't get drunk and I had a difficult time of doing the same, but the end result? There would be causalities in the bar from the side effects of alcohol, you can be sure of that. Maybe darts was the way to go. Throw a few, miss the target a few times and the sharp points of the darts themselves would just so happen to make their way into the lumps of lard flesh that were intoxicated and sitting by the boards already. Or maybe it was all in the game of pool; the cues could find their way into the stomachs or temples of not-so-innocent bystanders. The thought of it brought an impish glint to my eyes, but I turned them away from the rest of the scene in the bar to focus on the bartender that Damon had caused to blush.

"That's not very polite, man. She's all infatuated and hurrying off for your drink before she can attend to the rest of the patient, courteous patrons like myself."

Merely amused, I drummed my fingers on the counter as if making it plain that I was indeed patient, when I was seriously the opposite. Lazily, I slid onto the bar stool in order to get the attention of a different bartender who siddled right up as if she'd been preparing to deal with the two of us from the moment she walked in. "What can I get you boys?" She all but purred, her gaze moving between Damon and myself. It was enough to bring a wicked, slow, and almost smug smile to my lips.

"Penicillin with the, "I looked up, noting their scotch variety, "With the glenlevit scotch, please." The drink was returned to me quickly, and I raised a brow at his invitation for a toast. "And in honor of your choice to change routes. I didn't think there was someone else I could be bothered working with, but I was wrong."

The drink was strong and tasted of ginger, honey, and lemon clouding the smoky taste of the scotch that I loved. I had half a mind to relate the entire night to the scene from a movie I could hardly remember where they discussed their favorite things such as night vision goggles and bunk beds, but the men more or less instantaneously became friends. Fortunately for me, there wasn't enough alcohol in my system, let alone the entire building to make that happen.