"If I actually do catch something, I'll beat your face into your own shitter after you tell me whose asshole you sucked to get it," Jessica deadpanned. Colorful words uttered so plainly, like she was reading off a boring grocery list. Maybe it was the shitty liquor, but her liver was made of iron and she was only barely tipsy - Clint wasn't a fuzzy silhouette in her line of sight, which meant in her eyes, she was still perfectly sober.
As for the invitation to exfoliate, her response was - you guessed it - the middle finger. There was that one time they'd gotten so obliterated she legitimately thought slathering her face with that goop was a fantastic idea, and while her skin was remarkably smooth (like a baby's bare bottom), she chose to pass that offer. You're a kind fucking soul, Barton, really.
Bottle trapped between her knees to keep it stationary and still, she took the phone as a loud sigh fluttered her lips. "Still gonna pick the cheapest thing," she warned. "Secret's safe with me. Not about to lose my drunken half because people insist on preaching the wonders of sobriety."
Overrated shit. But Jessica eventually made her selection - the most inexpensive, nastiest thing on the menu as promised - and chucked the phone at his face.