( She takes a long drink, and nearily drains the contents — so he makes her a fresh drink while she talks. Something that might taste good, since the alcohol content itself doesn't seem to do much for her. Some tequila, some orange juice, some grenadine — a very pretty color gradient that ought to taste sweet, with just a little bit of bite. He garnishes it with an orange slice, and a fresh red drink umbrella. For pizzazz.

His love language is acts of service, shut up. )

I, uh... I get what you mean. Believe it or not. For a long time, that's- that's all I was. Daddy's blunt instrument.

( Those last three words he rattles off dryly, just a little toneless — it's clear he's quoting somebody else.

The smile he offers is small, and sad, and slightly pained. )

It's hard. Figuring out you get to be more than that. Realizing you get to choose who you are.