"Alright." Never fear, Marc 'epitome of self-restraint' Spector is here. He'll just burn their throats raw with a too-big first gulp, and then try to pace himself through the rest of that one ration. He's actually quite tired after spending the day doing up the fish tank, but he won't let his guard down enough to flop down and relax.

So he will just perch on the edge of the dining table, whiskey glass in hand, watching the prawns... do this Bollywood dance around the log thing. Maybe it's part of their mating ritual.

Steven's probably quietly still there watching so he can't just start knocking multiple glasses back. He eyes the bottle and chews on his bottom lip a bit before tearing his gaze away, taking another small sip. Marc taps his fingers against the bottom of the glass, keeping his gaze downcast.

"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" Marc asks without lifting his gaze, swallowing the lump in his throat. You know, apart from the dissociative identities. The PTSD. A bit depressed from time to time, sure. Why not. And the sometimes uncontrolled drinking.

Okay, you know. He's dealing with a few things. So's everyone else. But Marc's thinking back about Khonshu, in particular. Thinking if they'd made the right choice. Thinking if anyone else treated him like that. Talked to him like that. Would he still come crawling back to them? It's really hard to call it quits.

"I didn't-- always hate it. Not at first. Not all the time."