Taako picks himself up from the bed and crosses into his kitchenette, swinging the fridge open in search of a bottle of wine the person he supposedly was had stored away. The fridge is mostly alcohol, honestly, and ingredients for overly-fancy meals for one; he's never stopped cooking in this universe, not for himself or others, and it's honestly been kind of a dream to be able to enjoy that luxury again, free from his guilt over the past or his own fear of himself. No one died because of him, or his former partner, here. He's done nothing wrong in this place.
Well, not by way of his cooking, at least.
He uncorks the bottle of wine, and he searches for a glass for only a moment before he shrugs it off and takes a sip directly from the bottle; and then he goes to his living room and drapes himself over the arm of the couch, curling his long body around the chilled bottle of wine and holding his phone close to his face, and then he begins to type.
no subject
fair enoughTaako picks himself up from the bed and crosses into his kitchenette, swinging the fridge open in search of a bottle of wine the person he supposedly was had stored away. The fridge is mostly alcohol, honestly, and ingredients for overly-fancy meals for one; he's never stopped cooking in this universe, not for himself or others, and it's honestly been kind of a dream to be able to enjoy that luxury again, free from his guilt over the past or his own fear of himself. No one died because of him, or his former partner, here. He's done nothing wrong in this place.
Well, not by way of his cooking, at least.
He uncorks the bottle of wine, and he searches for a glass for only a moment before he shrugs it off and takes a sip directly from the bottle; and then he goes to his living room and drapes himself over the arm of the couch, curling his long body around the chilled bottle of wine and holding his phone close to his face, and then he begins to type.
listen can i just call typing is for the birds