We're Not Drunks, We're Multimillionaires
A shake of Peter's head as he watched the day's shooting. "Poor Uncle Monty. Wonder what he'd think of his portrayal."
"Bugger's dead and in no position to be complaining."
"Oh, so you did give consideration to him then."
Withnail glared.
"Is this really how you want it to end? You, walking off into the rain?"
A snort as dignified as a pig's, kings of mud that they were. "You're one to talk, with your original screenplay having me commit suicide."
"That's because you tried to, and it nearly killed me."
"No, it nearly killed me. That was kind of the point behind it." There is no apology, and there never will be. Still, changes were made to get here, and maybe that's apology enough.
"You're only lucky I got back in time," he mutters, an unspoken 'bastard' hanging off his sentence.
"No, you just came back to me. As you always do." His grin isn't as smug as it could have been.
A little bell tinkled above the door as the two entered the familiar cafe, twilight soon to be approaching.
Donalbain said there were daggers in men's smiles - Withnail's was an entire fucking armory of them. "Closing, are we?"
"N-no sir."
"Good. We want cakes and fine wines. The finest available to humanity."
"Right away, sirs."
Wine of a purplish red is poured into little old ladies' teacups, all that the cafe had on hand. The chinas were clinked together in a toast. "To success, and with it the need to remain indecently sober."
Withnail almost turns the down the opportunity for an interview from the local paper, insisting he'll settle for nothing less than national coverage. A look from him is enough to prompt him to reconsider, and with a melodramatic sigh reserved for dying martyrs he agrees to it.
The reporter arrives promptly at three, a mouse-ish little thing still clearly making her way in the world. She smiles at them, all nervousness. "Shall we do this over on the couch then?" she titters, blushing as her innuendo sinks in.
Withnail deliberately puts an arm around her as he guides her to said couch, smirking lecherously. "Oh yes, let's!"
With a quiet sigh reserved for put-upon saints, Peter follows.
No one can be completely comfortable around Withnail but the reporter is doing an admirable job of acting as if she is, dazzling him with the overly wide grins reserved for bulls in china shops. "It's been said that this film is based upon the early part of your careers. May I ask what inspired you to focus upon that particular part?"
Marwood's smile is windows thrown open, light filtering into the room. "Simple. It's when we realized we couldn't live without each other."
An arm coils around him, a dagger-less smile playing across Withnail's face.