"I didn't think you cared enough to notice." Vasco wasn't as dumb as he looked. Or acted, most of the time. He knew it wasn't so much that she cared, it was more that she always had to make sure that she had the absolute best ammunition to use against him. That was its own kind of caring, he guessed; as long as she still considered it worth her time to come and poke her finger into his latest wound, it meant that he mattered to her, somehow.
God. Was he really so desperate that he was taking comfort in the fact that Daisy still bothered to pick a fight with him?
It was funny how she thought bringing Clara up—and he didn't bother wondering how she knew about her, because of course she did—was going to get any further under his skin. Vasco was always picking that scab off and letting her absence bleed again.
Imagining Clara's reaction if she could see him now, though, that hurt. That would always hurt.
Vasco looked mournfully at his empty glass. The next one wasn't coming nearly fast enough for this. "You don't have to get petty just because you're jealous that I can out drink you. You can't be the best at everything."
Yes, he was trying to taunt his pyromaniac sister into a drinking contest. And, in general, trying to taunt his pyromaniac sister around extremely flammable alcohol. Vasco wasn't drunk enough that he couldn't function, but it was completely possible that he was drunk enough that his judgement was a little impaired. Or maybe he didn't have any in the first place. Or, third possibility, he had a very well hidden death wish that he'd been too busy drinking to explore.