"Your level of delusionment is fascinating," he said dryly, giving her a flat, half-lidded stare. He shoved the rest of the fruitcake in his mouth and set the tin on the small coffee table near the tv, the same one hosting the sad remains of his last two containers of eggnog. The rum and bourbon had sent warm relaxation through his limbs, if his lounging posture was any indication, but it had done nothing to curb the sharpness of his sarcasm. "We are not doing anything. And besides, it's almost ten o'clock. Where the hell are you even going to go?"
He was no longer unaccustomed to these strange flights of fancy from her, but he found them no less flabbergasting when they happened.