[attr="class","spiral"]"Hm?" He looks her in the eye as if she's crazy. "Management," is the only conceivable answer that crosses his mind, and like his stature, it fits all his hat into one. The way it comes out in a matter-of-factly tone only cements his thoughts on the subject. The other titles everyone gives him are of no concern; he knows who he is.

"I'm good at telling people what to do and getting the right people to do it." A roll of his wrist presents his palm and Fernando goes through the motion to emphasize his point. His physical gestures carry through with his speech and he peer at her from behind it. "What I actually end up doing is just making decisions for those who act on my behalf."

[attr="class","spiral"]In many ways, Fernando has been demoted. Having to deal with the squabbles of those around him certainly don't encapsulate the presumed prestige that comes with being a part of Hoenn's council. Unfortunately, it's a necessary evil under the umbrella of bureaucratic incompetence.

His own umbrella curls as he enters the bar. He says nothing as he puts the parasol away, pulling up a seat right in front of the television. For a brief amount of time, Fernando says nothing, just idly watching the screen shift before letting out a deep weighted sigh. Only then does he wave at the bartender— Hartigan had taken off tonight.

"Whatever shots you have on special tonight."

The cheap shit always tastes better when it rains.

[attr="class","spiral"]Too caught up in his own mood, Fernando doesn’t pay her any mind. The obvious signs of being bruised and battered go amiss as his eyes remain forward. “Depends.” A single shot of clear liquor is present before him and Fernando waves for another. He raises three fingers to start himself off.

“You trying to get smashed?”

[attr="class","spiral"]“Hmph.” Fernando can only answer her rise to the challenge with a scoff. It’s one of approval but his expression doesn’t match. Not when he’s caught shaking his head in disapproval, inwardly surprised that she would entertain his offer and therefore enable his self-destructive decision making.

Oh well, too late to back out now.

“Do you need to have a reason?” His own challenge stacks atop itself as the bad decisions sit in a neat line in front of them. Fernando goes for the first one without remorse, more concerned with disappearing them from his sight, grimacing at each swallow but hammering his way through with audible disgust.

“Stress, work,” it’s not the liquor loosening him up—he intended to answer her one way or another. He just had a different set of priorities. One that request another filler as he shuffles the empty shot glasses to the side. “I like being drunk?”

A built liar has a multitude of excuses. He opens them up like a well notated guidebook, determined to show her that the answer is inconsequential. It’s the action, the willingness to indulge, that brings them together.

[attr="class","spiral"]It doesn’t take a lot to piss Fernando off but it still requires effort. The line between apathy and outrage is in constant tiptoe by those around him. Like a circus, they trample and spin themselves dizzy, all in an elaborate act to fine the secret punchline to set off his temper. When their balance is thrown off by one careless act too many, they plunge without a safety net, eviscerated by the splat of his yelling and scowl.

“I don’t care,” comes out gruffer than it should. Lulu finds her first step onto that line when she slips one detail too much. It’s by no means her own fault, impossible for her to know the day-to-day Silph deals with, but it does remind him of the squabbles of Hoenn’s finest.

If only they had half the mind to worry about making a fool out of themselves in front of people of importance, much less the general public.

“Straight-laced, dumb drunk, I’m not going to judge you for drinking at a bar.” He elaborates to kill the earlier tension of his words. They come out lacking the same eloquence he holds, well aware of how tone and pitch can convey a message that words fail to deliver—hurried to rectify the possibility that he may come off more hostile than he means.

“Hmph.” Another shot another grunt to kick it down. He stares at her after this one, mouth open, gagging at the lack of chaser. This time he orders a beer—Pinnap, the tried and true—and a straight bottle. Having them go back and forth for more shots is better for their pacing but it’s a killjoy to wait.

“Depends what you’re fishing for. What’re you trying to get at, Lulu.”

The way he slurs her name is fixed with a sense of accusation. A glint at his eyes looks for more, devious, testy.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Guarded? Hardly.”

Fernando slides the characterizations off the table along with the cap of the half empty botle. With a jerk, he pours his empty glasses, splashing enough to constitute a ‘party foul’ by all account’s of the phrase. Despite her own drink, he slides her one over.

He’s not here for sipping.

“You say that,” with conscious effort, he expels a stream of MISTY TERRAIN from his nostrils. “But throw some pixie dust and you won’t stop asking.”

One, two. The more he pours the more of it ends up the counter. He almost has half the mind to drink straight from the bottle itself.

“We can do one for one, tit for tat.” Strumming them back to back, all in quick succession, starts to take its effect. His face grows pink with flush, staring at her profile. “Like what happened to your face?”

Ignorance only lasts because he doesn’t give her the time of day. Now that he’s coaxed himself into giving her his attention, glaring details like her cuts and bruises are impossible to miss.