Lotte rubbed her thumb over the curve of the glass bottle. She had little real concept of holding her liquor well - she certainly felt drunk, like the world was warm and fuzzy and a little less hard than usual, but she didn't feel as slow as Alastor looked to her, despite the fact that she'd gone through as much physical exhaustion as he had. Or nearly. Drunk felt to her like being curled up on something soft near a fire, like the pleasant burn of the sun when walking along the black asphalt on a warm day, prickling just underneath her skin.

Even back then, when she'd summoned him after having a few drinks of the whiskey, she'd managed to keep her wits about her and her feet planted under her firmly. They'd made a whole deal, like that, hadn't they? The idea of being better at this rather mundane thing than him was funny somehow, and a snicker slipped out from her as she passed the bottle back to him.

"Planning a career as a murderer doesn't seem very silly if you discover you're very good at it," she pointed out.

Lotte leaned back against the dress, curling her palm around her neck and rubbing a bit of soreness out of it.

"Speaking of, I think I'm better at drinking than you." She didn't bother hiding the grin that accompanied that assertion.