“It can so be a surprise if you tell me,” she argued good naturedly, still clutching the vodka bottle and trying to salvage some shred of class, even as he belittled her with a nose-poke. “If I wasn't expecting it, it's a surprise whether you tell me now or later. And I wasn't expecting even this much, darling, so I am thoroughly surprised already – and impressed. You are such a gem,” she told him, beaming. She thought what she was saying was valid and convincing – at least she hoped it was, because she wanted to know what this surprise was - and Devon Reinhardt did not like to wait.

She scowled at him once he suggested she 'knew she wanted him' – though he seemed too absorbed in his bottle of fire whiskey to notice her impish grimace. Maybe she did want him – probably not in the way he wanted her to, but she had wondered, on more than one occasion, what it was she did want from Teddy Weiss. For now, his alcohol would do. After that – well, she'd have to see.

His reaction to his sip of fire whiskey gave Devon another warning in regards to how to approach the stuff – just as cautiously as she's approached the vodka, if not more so. She took the bottle from him with a smile, certain that she'd be able to handle the good stuff with a lot more grace than he could. “Yes, I certainly want you to,” she told him, placing the other bottle gingerly on the ground and giving the fire whiskey a tentative sniff. Her nose didn't need to be especially close to the mouth of the bottle for her to understand the intensity of the drink inside. Still, she hazarded a sip and, to her dismay, had a very similar experience to Teddy's.

For a fleeting moment she wasn't sure if the stuff was in her throat or up her nose, and whether she was choking or successfully swallowing. She floundered a moment, not breathing, just allowing the stuff to scald her throat until she managed to take a big, brave swallow. She was coughing and sputtering, sniffling and gasping, trying to figure out what had just happened to her. She cleared her throat loudly, but she wasn't sure it did much. “You know, I think I prefer the other stuff,” she told him, her voice a bit like gravel. She was slowly understanding the appeal of cocktails – she would have died for something to put out the fire right then, but there was nothing non-alcoholic in sight. She settled for switching the bottle in her hands with the bottle on the floor and hazarding another sip, which set her off choking again – albeit not as fiercely.

“I hope your surprise isn't quite so corrosive, dear. I'm not sure my throat can take any more of this abuse,” she told him, clearing her throat once more and placing both bottles at her feet. “I think I've finally figured out why people normally drink this stuff in such dainty glasses – any larger and they'd be spending the night spitting it on the ground while they gasped for air, and I imagine it's much to expensive to be used to water the grass” she laughed, trying to make a joke out of her little episode. She wondered, idly, how long it took to actually get drunk – if that was the goal, which she assumed it was. She didn't want to ask him and seem that inexperienced, though. Instead, she just watched him, emitting a rather curious “So?”