Aidan peers down at the glass, a puzzled frown on his face, and taps his finger against it just in case it might help the process of leg development.
"I'd need a lot more alcohol for that, I think," he assesses, and looks up at Scotty. "Even I got my limits. It's my whiskey now, and I like to keep what's mine to myself. You know one o' your pretty singers came and sat at my table the other night?" He makes it sound like it's a major crime. And well. He's not usually bothered at the Fury. Isabella sure as hell bothered him.