@superiordna isn't going to write Jill up. A lone finger sat atop the brim of his highball glass, tapping in steady staccato. The smell of her words sting at him first, carrying burning fumes from the cocktail of liquors she’d been ingesting for the last hour. Petite woman like her should not have had that many empty long islands already, but there the glasses stand, drained of all but their ice. A graveyard of Collins with lemon wedges, looming behind her indignant expression.
“Count yourself lucky, Valentine. I’m in no mood to do paperwork, or I might report you for that.” The atmosphere was entirely informal, yet her captain speaks with the same no nonsense as ever.
He reaches past her, never did the bar’s seedy light shift along on the brim of his sunglasses, fixed on her alone. In his fingers he reveals the garnish of lemon stolen from one of her drinks. “Bite into this, would you? Your breath is flammable.” Then again, maybe this was his way of teasing.
Jill actually laughs at that, something genuine and not the polite laughs she gives that are so dry it could catch fire. This one actually crinkles the skin around her eyes, makes her lips pull up a smidge more on the right than the left with how she leans.
The idea he would write her up for something like that- even if technically correct. "Then you would have to write all of us up for all the things we say! Like- when I call Chris a dork." She can only imagine how many stupid write ups there would be and how often they'd have to rewrite them, a little laugh at the thought.
Jill leans in without a second thought and bites the lemon, her face scrunches up, a little stomp of her foot. "Oh!" She breathes again, looks up at him. "Better?" She goes for a sip of her drink, stabs the straw around a few times to only get ice. That lemon is disposed of in the same manner, before she's trying to raise her hand up high enough to get the bartenders attention. "You want another Wesker?"