A laugh bursts out of him, short-lived and surprising. "I forgive you," he says, too dry to be properly indignant, too bewildered to be afraid. Reaching the bar, he drops unceremoniously onto a seat and asks for whiskey.

Zagreus is still there, tracking him, shadowing. Johnny gives him a shifty, sidelong stare, trying to gauge his unpredictability. Where is this headed? Is he in danger, or is this really going to be them having a fucking drink?

He's not sure which would be worse.

He sits at a slight angle, braced, like he might need to make a break for it at any moment. His posture betrays the affected nonchalance in his tone when he says, "So what's your poison? Something legitimately fucking fatal, I hope."