Sorry, do I know you? {Westley}

[Gaston]

Things were not going the way Gaston had intended when he'd been unceremoniously dumped back in this hellhole, not in any sense at all.  He'd been beaten to the Headship, despite his (read: Naveen's) hard work clearing the office, despite his tireless campaigning (read: carpetbombing every vote slip he'd come across with his own name), despite his threats and rage.  He was still just the deputy.  And the deputy to that weak little weed Milo, of all people.  Who had so far undermined him at every single turn with ridiculous memos, overruling every decision Gaston had made.

And to add salt to the wound, the woman he loved was married to his gay best friend, and had had his arch-enemy as her champion for the last eight years.  Who was also here.  And apparently forming alliances with that nightmare woman Della.  God he really, really hated her.

And he'd been lumped with the smaller office.

So, suffice to say, Gaston was not in the best of moods. Sat behind his desk, he had his feet resting on the desk, an array of daggers and knives laid out of the desk in front of him.  Picking one up, he hurled it at the back of the door, where he'd hung three dartboards, each one with a different photograph in the middle.  His dagger span through the air, landing squarely on the bulls eye of the highest dartboard, which happened to mean it impaled Milo's nose.  Another dagger, another throw, and this one went through Lancelot's eye.  Picking up a third dagger, he held his arm back, ready to throw, aiming for the centre of Della's forehead.

[Westley Roberts]

He was an idiot and a fool, and if she ever found out about this, Buttercup was going to tell him so in six different languages. (She had taken up languages.)

Of all people that could possibly have been elected Deputy Head, it had to be Gaston. It couldn't have been someone who hadn't once murdered him at a masquerade. (Or anywhere else, either, ideally.) Truthfully, at this point, it wasn't even surprising. A thing like this was exactly in keeping with the school's apparent mission statement to make all its tenants' lives as difficult as possible. (He wouldn't guess there was a big market for alumni donations.)

Still. He'd come here with two missions. Find the good friends he'd lost, and see if he couldn't work out what had happened here in the first place. Both would be crucial to the larger goal of protecting those dear to him more closely this time around. He sought answers, and unfortunately, those at the top were more likely to have them. Probably.

Headmaster Thatch had been first on his agenda, to be honest, but when he'd passed by, the poor man had already had a queue outside his office the length of the hallway. It seemed wise to refrain from adding to his plate until things had died down a bit. Besides; he came bearing a personal matter to discuss, and that wasn't the sort of thing you rushed between advisory this and administrative that.

There was no putting it off. Not that he wanted to do that. Of course not. Their history was years in the past, long before the war, even. There was a distinct possibility this would even be healthy. 

Or not, considering he opened the door to a dagger whizzing toward his head. He weaved a sharp left, sending the blade clattering out into the hallway, unfazed but for widened eyes that receded quickly. Honestly, what else had he even expected.

"Hello, Gaston," he said, stepping into the room against his better judgment. He closed the door, turning to glance over his shoulder. "What on earth were you..."

Della's photograph stared back at him. His cordiality deflated.

"Ah. Well. I can see this is going to be awkward, then."

[Gaston]

The door opened a millisecond after the dagger left Gaston's hand and for a second he was worried - what if it was Gwen, or Arthur? But as the figure who stepped through the door dodged the dagger, he scowled as he saw his knife disappear into the corridor outside. Feet still on the desk, he leaned back in his chair and brought his hands up to link them behind his head, looking his visitor up and down. Apparently this person knew his name - although, that wasn't a surprise, everyone knew Gaston. But he couldn't work out why things were going to be awkward.

"You ruined my perfect score." He said quietly, irritation clear in his voice. "I was about to get a bulls eye hat trick." He reached for another dagger from his desk, and spun in his hands. "I'm getting really sick of people ruining my games."

Swinging his feet off the desk, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, dagger still in hand, and studied the newcomer. "Have we met? You look somewhat familiar but..." He shrugged. "Who are you and what do you want? I am incredibly busy and important, and you're interrupting me."

[Westley Roberts]

Yes. Your games. Indeed, that's clearly the highest concern here, I agree. If only everyone respected priorities. 

Westley took one step further into the room. He didn't intend to approach the desk or sit for reasons that felt far too obvious to list by name. (Not that he couldn't quickly dispatch Gaston if things went sideways. You didn't routinely best the only known living fencing master, the greatest since the Wizard of Corsica, without knowing beyond a doubt that you were far more than decent with the sword. And it was with him, scabbarded at his side, so that was a comfort. But nothing really needed to come to that, now did it?)

In truth, Gaston's animosity toward Della didn't frighten him at all. It wasn't a good thing, and it certainly put to rest any faint hope that they might find common ground in their older age, but Gaston was well-known to be about as full of hot air as the vents in the building. He'd only killed Westley back when because Westley himself had been a headstrong young man without restraint, and it'd left him vulnerable for a split second too long. Not only that, but Della's skill had grown in the past ten years as well. She was no one's target, despite what several people might've thought. Least of all the sort of man's who...

Who didn't even remember having killed him. 

What are the chances I can convince him I'm the ghost of myself, then? Scare him a bit? No, that won't work, you're a grown man, for God's sake.

"Yes, you look the very picture of bustling importance at the moment." Knives or not, there was nothing to fear here. Westley might as well be talking to King Pumpernickel back home. A small and hated man, that was all. It was almost pitiable. "It's Westley. Westley Roberts. You drove a blade through my heart at a masquerade ball around twelve years ago, at least by my calendar. Revived by Alyss Heart? I have no grudge; I've only come for a conversation, nothing more. I was hoping we could speak like men."

[Gaston]

Looking the man up and down, Gaston made a halfhearted attempt to try and place him, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care enough to put too much effort into the thought. He had a vague memory of stabbing someone at a prom or similar event a long time ago, a memory that was linked with his intense detestation of Della, but, really, he thought to himself, that could have been any number of people. Apart from anything else, there were many, many people he had fantasised about killing, the three faces on the back of his door were just his current daydreams, and if he was completely honest sometimes he forgot which was reality and which were fantasy. There had been more than one occasion when he had fantasised about someone’s death so much he’d been truly shocked to see them walking down the street, and LeFou had had to remind him that he hadn’t actually cut their heart out with a spoon.

So it was unsurprising that he neither remembered nor cared about apparently killing this man, only for him to be revived by another one of his enemies. He wondered if he should add Alyss’ picture to his door, but felt that might be a quick downward slope into having half of the population of Trenale staring at him from those dartboards.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember every single person I’ve stabbed, maimed or injured over the years.” He said lazily, looking away from Westley and down at the dagger in his hand. “There have been so many after all. Can’t be expected to keep track of all of them.” He smirked at Westley coldly. “So if you’ve come here looking for remorse or apologies, I’d recommend you pop next door to see my esteemed colleague Thatch. He’s apologising a lot for me lately, I’m sure he can add another to his list.”

[Westley Roberts]

Not arrogantly (well, to be fair, at least not in most respects), Westley considered himself to be a smart man. He'd never for a moment expected an apology, or anything resembling one. Frankly he'd sooner expect a plague of miniature dragons than a humble word of remorse from a man like Gaston. He'd sooner expect all the plush toys in the gift shops in Trenale to come alive and begin eating the children. He'd sooner expect to be recruited into some sort of exclusive secret society on campus that defied death for entertainment, or pass a bar exam he'd never taken and be given a law firm out of the blue. He'd sooner expect to be chained up in the washroom by an unknown stranger and told to cut his foot off to escape. He'd sooner.... That could go on for a while, actually.

He was too smart a man to be here for an apology, was the point. Really, Gaston had meant as little to him in the interim years as he'd meant to Gaston. (There had been dreams of death, occasionally, but there always had been. He'd seen his parents die. Death had visited him at night long before Gaston.) Closure was a luxury, only necessary to some. Westley had his fill of affirmation every time he saw his daughter's face. There was nothing this man could take from him, or give to him.

Except a bare minimum of civil conversation. He'd be damned if he wasn't going to be the bigger man here. After all, he hadn't come here for his health.

"No. Though I do intend an appointment with Headmaster Thatch in the near future. I have no need of a thing like that from you." Basic humanity is much too far beyond your capabilities. "I'm here because you–" somehow, unfortunately, gods help us all, "–are in a position of authority. Seeing as that's the case, I supposed you might have been made privy to information the rest of us aren't. I thought I might trouble you with a brief question or two before you go back to murdering the contents of your fax machine. Primarily about why we're all here in the first place."

[Gaston]

He couldn't help it, he let out a loud bark of a laugh at Westley's ridiculous assumption that anyone might actually know why they'd all been dragged back here. He looked at Westley incredulously, amusement showing in his expression as he shook his head at Westley. "You really think any of us know what is actually going on in this godforsaken place?" He laughed, placing the dagger he'd been playing with back on the desk and his feet back on the floor, leaning forward and resting his arms on the large desk as he looked over it to Westley. "I'm sorry, you have been here before, haven't you? You've seen the kind of unbelievable shit this place just seems to love to throw at us all? You were here for the one ridiculous situation after another? The hallowe'en we all got turned into whatever we were dressed as? The memory losses? The apparent alternate universe versions of people showing up?"

He shook his head in amused disbelief at Westley, eventually motioning to the chair on the other side of the desk and indicating the other man should sit. Leaning back again in his chair, he laced his fingers behind his head and studied the man with an eyebrow raised. Did he truly think that, just because he was in a position of authority, he had any idea what the deal was with this place? Gaston doubted Thatch had any more information either, they were pawns. He knew that - he was a pawn with a tad more free will and choice than some of the others, but he knew full well he was just a pawn in the game of whoever truly had charge of this place.

"You're a fool if you think having any authority in this school gives me any more idea than you of what the hell really goes on here." He said quietly, with a small shrug. "Better to just sit back and wait for the shit to hit the fan, then try and clean it up before it starts to stink too bad. Of course, if you're too proactive and foolhardy for that, you can try and find out who's behind the Grayle corporation." He raised an eyebrow. "They're the financial backers, the faceless corporation who have any form of real control."

[Westley Roberts]

All right, so this wasn't going to result in a wealth of information. Frankly, he hadn't banked on that in the first place, but 'leave no stone unturned' was a phrase for a reason. That, and so was 'every cloud has a silver lining.' Westley refused to believe that at least some good couldn't be wrought out of a misfortune like Gaston holding an official office. If it wasn't information, then he was just going to have to work a little harder to discover what it was. 

Like progress in the 'basic humanity' department, for instance. He'd thought all hope of that was laughably dead, but when Gaston set down his weapon and appeared to extend the invitation to sit, Westley found himself truly surprised (not that he let it show in the slightest, of course). True, it was an absolute bare minimum sort of thing, hardly a change of heart or an invitation to start a summer camp...but Westley had always been the sort of person who preferred his to see his glasses as half full. Perhaps an adult conversation wasn't entirely out of the question after all. In a place full of bizarre and unfathomable things, it would be nice if one were positive, for a change.

Deviating from his initial plans, he sat. And reluctantly (very reluctantly; it chafed somewhere below his skin like an allergen, actually), he knew that Gaston had a point. Not that Westley thought himself nearly as idiotic as Gaston did for having asked—Westley'd never actually spoken to anyone in authority here before, except, very briefly, for Arthur, during the onset of the war. How on earth would he have known Grayle withheld everything from even them?—but unfortunately, he was faced with a lot of merit at the moment. He hadn't expected that, either.

"So there's nothing, then." It was a statement, this time, not a question, lest he be thought dense for that too (and by this man, no less, which...No, we're aiming for positivity for the moment, no need to go there). That was at least mildly helpful to know, if only because it saved him time. And he knew far better than to chase the Grayle Corporation, not because he'd ever been intimidated by the seemingly impossible, but because Grayle had already made themselves perfectly clear: they didn't care what happened to any of them. He'd probably be killed again before they told him a single thing, and he wasn't about to have to explain that to Buttercup. "I see." He was going to have to....

Hang on a moment.

Stunning even himself, Westley found himself studying his former killer. Gaston had gone unusually quiet toward the end of his last statement. Just as he'd spoken about them all being helpless to control their lives. Gaston was known to boast, and bluster, and bully, but never to sound as resigned as this. It was no opera soliloquy, no, but compared to the Gaston caricature, compared to all the infamous thundering that no man or beast could subdue the Unparalleled Gaston, 'resigned' would absolutely be the word....

No one is that bitter about this place without it having affected them. Usually by harming or displacing someone they.... Dear God, Gaston must legitimately care for someone or something other than himself.

He was going to have to approach this carefully. "They've certainly inconvenienced a lot of people," he settled on. "Thrown entire lives off-balance. Separated friends, loved ones.... I don't suppose you could relate...."

[Gaston]

"Nothing." Gaston confirmed with another shrug. It frustrated him, not knowing what was going on, not knowing what obstacle was going to be thrown at him next. Even in the army he'd been privy to information above his rank, charming, cajoling and threatening information from people who knew more than him, making sure to find out what was going to happen, where he was expected to attack, giving him the opportunity to figure out his own strategy for success and survival. It was how he had risen through the ranks, how he had survived and how he had beaten those who had tried to stop him and bring him down.

But here? Here he knew nothing. Here he was at the whim of a faceless corporation, here he could have the people he loved ripped from him without a moment's notice, without the chance to even say goodbye, not knowing if he'd ever see them again. Here he could lose everything he could only have here. Again. Having power in the school didn't change that, and he knew it. But it didn't stop him wanting that power anyway.

He narrowed his eyes at Westley's comment, leaning forward again and resting his arms on the desk. He raised an eyebrow, studying the other man. Was he looking for weakness? Was he digging for information so he could bring Gaston down, using the people he loved to achieve that? Against his usual paranoia and bravado, Gaston didn't think so, somehow. Still, this man was allied with those he hated, and that meant he needed to tread carefully.

"There are few here who would be unable to relate to that." He said slowly. "Those of us who have been here before, who had lives here before we were exiled - we can all relate to that." His eyes slid to the back of the door again, resting on the face of the man he hated more than any other, narrowing as they met Lancelot's eyes. "Everybody who has been here before has lost something."

[Westley Roberts]

Westley would never have come to this office if he hadn't expected to put in his share of work. And then some, for that matter. There was no scenario in any world or universe where this conversation would ever have been easy from the beginning. Truthfully, he was already ahead of his expectations just having established some manner of civility without invoking one of the resident gods for some sort of spell or trance.

It was clear he'd raised Gaston's suspicions, but that was all right. This time he was well aware there was legitimate reason. He'd have been suspicious too, if roles were reversed, and as it was, he wasn't entirely positive he knew his own motives, either. All he knew for sure was that they weren't malicious. Crafty, perhaps, but he'd iron that out in a moment; the point was that, despite having every reason, he had no intention of ill will toward Gaston at the moment, and especially wouldn't dream of worsening the life of anyone he cared about.... He had other ideas in mind, even if they were still in their infancy. Maybe in a moment they'd be teenagers, and he'd know where he was going with this.

As subtly as he could (he didn't kid himself that it went undetected, but hopefully it came off as casually as possible), Westley let his glance follow Gaston's glare to another of the photographs behind him, hoping that this time it wouldn't be Della. It wasn't. It was a man he only barely recognized, having only seen him on one or two other occasions before, only in large gatherings. He knew the man was called Lancelot, and that his reputation was generally positive, but his knowledge ended there. He faced Gaston again, wondering what Lancelot could've done to anger him so personally. As superficial as most of Gaston's grudges seemed to be, for one reason or another, this one appeared to be very different. Not that he'd hold it against a man he'd never known, least of all on behalf of someone he only tolerated, but perhaps if he could get to the bottom of the problem....

Westley copied Gaston's posture, forearms against the desk, albeit without the narrowed eyes. It took a touch of effort, but his tone fell somewhere in the realm of empathy. Even attempted helpfulness. "Of course.... I only meant that, perhaps, if there was something troubling you...it may help to...discuss with someone impartial. A man of their word, who might swear nothing he heard would leave this room."

[Gaston]

He saw Westley's glance to the photos and frowned slightly. He wondered if perhaps he shouldn't wear his resentments and ill wishes so obviously, but then, his hatred of Lancelot was hardly a secret. It never had been. Lancelot's love for Gwen was no secret either, and anyone who knew anything about Gaston knew his attitude towards his competition. And in the last ten years Lancelot had been there when he couldn't be, had been Gwen's champion, had been close to her, close to Tristian, had been in Gaston's place for all the time while Gaston had been stuck, alone and inwardly pining for the women he loved more than life itself. It wouldn't surprise anyone that Gaston's hatred for the knight had grown since their return.

The only thing that stopped him challenging Lancelot, dueling him, or even better secretly poisoning him, was Gwen. He knew she would never forgive him, that it could be enough for her to turn her back on Gaston forever. And as he'd finally gotten her back, he wasn't going to do anything to jeopardise that. For now, at least.

He returned his gaze to Westley, raising an eyebrow. "What, you're a therapist now?" He scoffed, his finger tapping on the desk in irritation. The truth was, he'd welcome someone to talk to to, to share his frustrations, his pain, and the fears that seeing Gwen and Lancelot together raised in him every single time. But he didn't trust this man. He didn't even trust Arthur with that part of him. And as he'd apparently stabbed this man in the heart, and his connections with Della, made him even less likely to trust him. Gaston didn't show weakness. It was too dangerous. He wasn't stupid, in spite of what so many people thought. He was intelligent, he was calculating, and he knew what happened to fools who ran their mouths off. They wound up dead, and Gaston did not plan to die any time soon. "Forgive me, but I'm not going to trust the word of any man who walks in here claiming I killed them once upon a time. Do you think I'm stupid?"

[Westley Roberts]

Therapy had been a degree he'd strongly considered acquiring, actually—he was the default shoulder for most of the people he cared about—but no, he wasn't here in any therapist's capacity. Truth be told, he was still smack in the middle of his own confusion over the last several words out of his mouth. Why on earth would you want to know a thing about Gaston's personal life? You've tired of sparring with those who've wronged you, and you intend to build treehouses with them all instead, is that it? No wonder King Humperdinck is still alive. Perhaps by the time you go home he'll have a lovely tea waiting. 

It was monumentally tempting to say yes. To blurt it, in fact, as if he couldn't get the word out fast enough. Yes. I do and you are. Beyond all compare. You really do have no idea the ridiculously low regard I've held you in the entire time I've known of you. Even if you hadn't murdered me, I'd be as likely to give you credit for intelligent thought as I would a chimpanzee. In fact, I'd give far more credit to the chimpanzee. They can paint, you know.

But he didn't. Because even he had to admit that it wasn't...entirely true. If only because, were Gaston truly a moron in all aspects, he'd have been long since dead by this point. He'd made too many enemies for that to be untrue. To endure in a place where you've made most people loathe your existence meant there had to be a certain shred of cunning under the surface. More than a shred, even. He was intelligent in some ways. Clever might be a more accurate word. A notch above Humperdinck, for sure, and more persistent. Even a cockroach, you had to respect for survival.
 
Of course, Westley was reluctant to admit, Gaston had just proven to have slightly more humanity than a cockroach. It made him the thinnest fraction more difficult to dismiss, but easier to read. Westley was on the right track. There was something there.

Forcing the issue, however, would get him nowhere, he knew. "No," he said, and surprisingly, it was...honest, etcetera. "No, I don't believe you're stupid." There are asterisks, but I can leave it at that. He leaned back somewhat in his chair. "We don't know each other personally, and with our history, I'd be just as cautious in your shoes. But it's been ten years in my homeworld, and in that time I've faced far more hell than you brought me. If our grudge wasn't forgotten to me, I wouldn't have come here in the first place. I have my share of enemies. Old. New. I hope you aren't offended when I say you don't warrant a spot on the list. It's behind me...and I've felt the benefit of that. I thought it might be a benefit to far more of us if there was anything you could put behind you, that's all."

[Gaston]

There was a tiny bit of Gaston that was offended that he hadn't made the list. After all, he'd killed this guy, and somehow that didn't warrant a spot on his enemy list? He'd have to try harder in future... he briefly wondered if killing Della might earn him a spot on the list. Two birds, one stone and all that.

Then again, maybe being on everyone's enemy list wasn't something to aspire to. He certainly had enough people out for his blood in this place, and although putting things behind him was something new and incredibly unfamiliar, maybe it was worth a shot. He studied Westley again for a minute. "Very well." He said slowly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Let's give it a shot. I'll put ... whatever I did to you behind me." He raised an eyebrow, feeling pretty damn proud of himself.

"Some things, though," he glanced at the photo of Lance again. "Some things aren't that simple. I'm sure you understand that."

[Westley Roberts]

'Let's give it a shot. I'll put whatever I did to you behind me.' The urge to laugh gripped Westley like a torture device. It was so strong that he almost wondered if holding it back would drain actual, tangible years of his life away—but he did hold it back. It was mostly amazement at the absurdity of life, anyway, and giving voice to that here wouldn't serve anything. It was just the absolute last thing on earth he would've expected to result from this meeting, that was all....well, and how very big of Gaston it was to forgive himself so easily, yes, there was that, too. One thing was for certain: if Westley hadn't known when he arrived that the torment over his 'death' was behind him, he knew it beyond all doubt now. He wouldn't be this tempted to laugh at the clearly drunken forces of the universe otherwise.

A casual scratch at his mustache seamlessly concealed any infinitesimal split second of smirk that could possibly have betrayed him, if there'd even been one at all. Luckily he'd always been quite good at controlling his expressions (both as Dread Pirate Roberts and as a servant, he'd had to be. A raised eyebrow alone had gotten him a broom to the head once). Nothing showed in his smile but a sort of pleasant openmindedness....and, in a truly bizarre way, a part of him was, strangely enough, almost proud of Gaston, or something like it. This was growth, after all, wasn't it? It at least had to be something in the neighborhood. God, who the hell knows anymore. I've missed living somewhere this absurd.

But the smile faded quickly. Westley read the change in tone as Gaston's glance returned to the photograph of Lancelot. If anyone had asked him a week ago—or ten minutes ago—whether he'd ever be able to understand anything Gaston felt, he'd have said no. Instantly. But now, he'd be lying if he bothered, and he couldn't even bring himself to try. Because of Humperdinck. Every day for more years than he could count, the quandary pricked at him whether he should've killed Florin's negligent king years ago, when he had the chance. Now, it wouldn't be nearly as easy.... Humperdinck hadn't given him any renewed reason recently—his royal duties had seemed to tire him to the point of retiring their feud—but there was always the fear that he could; that he'd reignite his ire and attempt to go after his girls, and it frequently set Westley's mind on the question of the fine line between preventative measures and murder.

"Yes. I do, as a matter of fact," Westley said. Putting up one palm to show he meant no trickery, he reached into his jacket with the other hand, pulling out a flask. "I don't suppose you have shot glasses in that desk." To hell with it. The one definitive thing he'd learned from this conversation so far was that it deserved a bourbon chaser.  

[Gaston]

Even if Westley had allowed a huge grin to break across his features, Gaston probably wouldn't have noticed - or if he had, he wouldn't have been thinking about it deeply enough to connect it to anything other than gratitude perhaps, or just assuming Westley was slightly mad. Most people here were, after all. But as it was, he was too absorbed in his own anger, hatred and jealousy to pay too much attention to Westley's changing facial features. And yes, he was absorbed in his own pain too.

Because while people assumed Gaston was devoid of all feeling or human emotion, that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes, he was ambitious, he was ruthless, and he did not suffer fools who got in his way gladly. Sure, he was murderous, he'd been known to lash out somewhat irrationally, and he didn't think highly of women - well, that wasn't entirely true. He thought very highly of women, he just had extremely conservative views about their worth and their role in society. Except for Gwen. She was different. But despite all of that, Gaston cared deeply. What people didn't see, what they didn't know, was that he picked and chose the things and the people he cared about very carefully. He didn't have a lot of love to give, so he wasn't going to waste it on anyone who wasn't worthy. He wasn't going to waste his time and affection on someone who would hurt him, who could break his heart, that was something he had decided from an early age, the first time he got his heart broken. It wasn't going to happen again, he wasn't going to let a woman - or anyone for that matter - hurt him, humiliate him, make him feel he wasn't the most important person in the world. If anyone ever found any of that out, they would argue that his behaviour was all just a defense mechanism, pushing people away to protect himself. But, it had worked for him - he knew his worth, he didn't get hurt, and he didn't let anyone close enough to learn anything they might be able to use against him. He was too clever for that, and it had worked for him.

Until Gwen, that is.

And now he had Lancelot to deal with. Lancelot who, if Gaston was the sort of man to admit it, which he wasn't, was almost Gaston's equal in everything. And he had ten years of Gwen's life Gaston could never share. Gaston couldn't let him have any more.

Gaston nodded, impressed, as Westley pulled out the flask and asked for glasses. Reaching into the cupboard under his desk, Gaston pulled out two shot glasses. His hand brushed his own bottle as he took the glasses out of the cupboard, but he left it there, happy to drink Westley's for now. After all, that stuff wasn't cheap. He placed the glasses in front of him on the desk for Westley to pour. "I'm always fully equipped for every situation." He commented with a smirk.