[ He does. He’s fully aware of the unnecessary energy level he’s bringing to foisting his basket into Byerly’s hands, with, ]
I’ll buy it. My treat—sort of. Can we call it a treat? Don’t peek.
[ In the basket, because he’s leaving it behind to dive into the small crowd attempting to obtain their Medieval Fantasy Starbucks—which btw how DARE you hahahaha. He manages to go right to the front of the disorganized little line without seeming to cut at all.
(The basket, if peeked into, really doesn’t contain anything more exciting than pastries. Only Whiskey’s promised link of sausage and his other morning market buys: two books, good ink, the kind of oil he puts in his hair and the kind of oil he keeps in his bedside table.)
He returns promptly with a wooden cup. Bows low to hold it out. ]
no subject
[ He does. He’s fully aware of the unnecessary energy level he’s bringing to foisting his basket into Byerly’s hands, with, ]
I’ll buy it. My treat—sort of. Can we call it a treat? Don’t peek.
[ In the basket, because he’s leaving it behind to dive into the small crowd attempting to obtain their Medieval Fantasy Starbucks—which btw how DARE you hahahaha. He manages to go right to the front of the disorganized little line without seeming to cut at all.
(The basket, if peeked into, really doesn’t contain anything more exciting than pastries. Only Whiskey’s promised link of sausage and his other morning market buys: two books, good ink, the kind of oil he puts in his hair and the kind of oil he keeps in his bedside table.)
He returns promptly with a wooden cup. Bows low to hold it out. ]
Your shit.