Part of him knows this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Because who knows where they could end up in their current state. It's that teeny tiny voice that gets drowned out by another gulp of whiskey as he first finishes the shot that was sitting out for longer.

"Mm, now you're speakin' my language," he hums, grinning what he thinks is a devious smirk but he's too far gone. Because bacon sounds really, really good right about now. And it's OK Ignis, he wants to lean his head against something, too. Which is likely why he suddenly starts nuzzling instead of just clinging.

And tonight, all of those at the bar learn that he's an affectionate drunk.

"Les go after we finish these." He means the water. Mostly. The whiskey's also tempting.