I'm paying for it. What, you want a delivery boy tax of kindness? You should've spat in my food instead of holding your breath for that. [all with that quick, mumbling ease, harshness on a platter always ready to be served. grabs his own spot, burrowed out amongst cushions and well-read books, like a throne of softness and spines]

Tch. I know. She uses it against me when she thinks I'm being too 'testy'. [grumbles...]

[and he reaches for the books well before the food, leaning up with a knee tucked against his chest, flipping through a few titles]

...hohhh. Our fat cat has a taste for 18th century satire. [tosses at least three books into another pile, decidedly an 'already read' one... and then picks up a copy of Beer Street and Gin Lane. hm.]

Maybe you shouldn't murder her after all. [apparently your to-do list for this house in my head is rape, murder, and pillage]