[Pietro watches him from when he enters the bar, unfocused at first and not truly paying attention until Wash is directly in front of the table. His eyes follow Wash's hand as he picks up the bottle, snorting to himself because it registers as another assessment. How drunk is he, does it matter? No. He continues to lean on his arm, no resistance as Wash grabs his chin, presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth. Pietro's stomach twists with the visceral knowledge of where he wants those fingers instead and he swallows thickly. His voice is quiet and acerbic, a tinge of something raw to it, and he never answers the question.]
no subject
You are late, old man. Did you get lost?