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Whiskey Sour

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"Perhaps I should've been a bartender," he says as he prepares. He's graceful, even thoughtful as he pours out the mixture.

"A bartender?" she says, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, you are already a drunken fool, so I suppose you'd get along with your clientele quiet well," she says.

"As far as I can see, my dear lady, you are my only client," he says in that infuriatingly calm way.

She can't think of anything to add to that, so she settles for throwing her drink in his face. Though, she was merciful enough to spare him the actual glass. He'd probably just vaporize it with a ward and remain amused as ever.

She isn't one to waste alcohol, but it wasn't that good of alcohol, anyways.

He smiles and wipes off his glasses, licks his lips. He has let her get this shot for some reason.
She lifts up her glass for seconds. A whiskey sour, her fourth tonight. For once, the whiskey isn't that good of quality—she thinks Clow must have been drunk when he bought it–but Clow still manages to make it good enough.

She drinks it down, seeing him through the hazy amber reflection of the bottom of her glass and the alcohol he's made for her. He's dripping wet, not saying a word.

For once she's scored a hit on him and she doesn't even get the satisfaction of having won.


"I thought you didn't like whiskey sours, Yuuko-san," Watanuki says.

Has he really been here long enough to know her tastes? When she looks in his eyes, she feels vestiges of Clow. He is certainly a Li somewhere, somehow. Did you send me him as a joke? she thinks.

"I don't," she says. "But bring more, and step on it, or I'll dock your pay~"

Watanuki shrieks and stomps out. Quite a little firebrand, that one.

For a moment, it crosses her mind that Watanuki is what a child of theirs might resemble. She chokes on her whiskey sour, sure that this is some joke of the universe. Correction: joke of the world's most impossible, insufferable wizard.

Just the odd thoughts alcohol brings, she thinks to herself. Nothing more.

Whiskey sours make her moody, but sometimes she likes to brood, closing her eyes to watch the break of the waves in a long gone memory of the world's they discovered and created together. She remembers him even if she doesn't want to. Perhaps it's the same for him–but then, he actually likes her. She can't always say the same for herself.

And she thinks that's why you let me hit you that time, wasn't it, Clow?

He could've let the whiskey sour fall to the floor, splashing into a great mess as he smugly considered her. But no, he'd let her have the best of him.

She doesn't wonder why anymore.

It's a grey, misty day. She doesn't think of him every moment or every day, but on certain days, with certain alcohols, it all comes rushing back.