Fergie blinked at Honey, genuinely affronted by the sudden attack on him. He tried to ignore the not-at-all-subtle look directed at them from the men on the next table over. He scowled back at his sister and opened his mouth to point out that he was just concerned--
“Am no blaming you,†he said, even as she stood to leave -- but he sort of was, and did. “Honey,†he said, scooting forward in his seat and looking up at her pleadingly -- he’d much rather they leave together, calmly, and have this conversation in private, if they had to have it at all--
He blinked again, more confused this time. He was embarrassing himself? What had he done? He wasn’t the one shagging a divorced, disgraced idiot. He didn’t have the opportunity to point this--or anything else--out as he was promptly left alone at their table. He was desperately avoiding making eye contact with the other patrons of the bar and in doing so found himself staring at the sliver of whisky left in his glass. Scowling, he picked it up and downed it, then set the glass back on the table and got up, striding towards the fireplace but with a different destination in mind to his sister (hopefully).
[ end ]
