[She just has time to crack a bright, pleased laugh - her nausea and that ugly sense of intrusion briefly forgotten - before he drifts away toward the bar without giving her a chance for a follow-up. No matter. Seeing her corrupting influence in action is enough for her. The deadpan delivery only makes it all the more entertaining.

When he returns moments later and sets a glass down in front of her, she's swift to lift it, to sniff it for herself and-- it smells of alcohol. There's something warm about the scent, and she wouldn't call it unpleasant. But beyond that, 'complex' is a fucking mystery to her. So she just nods as though she knows what he's talking about and lifts the glass to her lips--

--it licks a burning path down her throat, almost leaves her choking. It's good.]

Good shit.

[She says, and keeps her eyes on the dark liquid in her glass rather than on him as she answers. Just in case.]

I saw baby Al. You were a cute kid, by the way. Granted, my only real experience with kids was Harrow and she looked like a scrawny collection of sticks with a head. But um, it was just you as a kid. With your parents. It seemed like a good memory.

[She says the last part cautiously, finally lifts her eyes to watch his face.]