2020-04-10 - An elk steak, a bottle of beer, and thou

August arrives on foot, since the spring melt has made the ground passable once more. Also, he really needs a walk; he's been resting since getting set on fire a few times in the Safeway construct, and is getting stiry crazy as a result. Though Erin's healing restored most of his hair, there's a couple of scars on the right side of his scalp that have produced sections of white hair which don't follow the normal graying pattern. So it goes; he knew healing Lilith would come with a price tag.

He has a canvas shopping bag covered with pigs in one hand, the shape distended with a six-pack of Sam Adams, a pair of elk steaks, and some vegetable odds and ends. He's in denim jeans, heavy hiking boots, a red and black flannel over an oatmeal Henley, and his black, leather, motorcycle jacket. He looks a bit worn, but alert, and continues to move tenderly. Those charcoal briquettes were a fucking menace.

It's currently drizzling. Spitting, really; that fine misting that's common in the PNW at this time of year. Not enough to soak through clothing, though it lends the place a greyish haze and sharp scent of ozone.

De la Vega's hauling what looks like lumber out of the cargo area of his truck. Gate down, work gloves on, he hefts an armload of two by fours to the ground, pauses to rub at his nose with his elbow, and spots the other man trekking up the road with a slight squint. He doesn't bother waving; August has likely already spotted him, if not by sight then by his distinctive signature in the kythe; like a sudden, violent squall on a clear summer day.

The cop's in a pair of grungy old jeans, work boots and a tee shirt, and by the looks of him, he's been out here puttering around for a while. "Hola," he greets once August draws within range of conversation. A glance at the bag with pigs all over it, his look questioning.

August isn't exactly immune to the mist, but there's that old saying about being born in a briar patch. He barely registers it; it's not really rain, after all, and that's the only thing he might consider a squall jacket for. He's his usual, passive self in the kythe, more sound and setting than action. Waiting, always.

"Hey," he says, and holds up the canvas bag. "Elk, Sammy, and some odds and ends. Radishes, carrots, scallions, leeks, lemons and limes, peas." He surveys the pile of lumber, arches an eyebrow. "Working on the interior? I can help you finish unloading, if you want."

Ruiz's eyes tick back up when August speaks, like he hadn't just been contemplating where the guy got his bag. And why pigs, of all things. "Can't say I've ever cooked elk before," he confides, sniffing some of the cold out of his nose as he regards the other man, posture slightly hipshot. "Think it'd do well on the barbecue like a regular steak? Throw on some of those scallions and carrots, and I've got some peppers I need to use." The offer of help earns a quick, almost wolfish smile. "Sure. They need to be brought around back, you can leave the bag inside." Sure enough, the front door's open, and the place looks reasonably clean.

If August is aware of Ruiz's curiosity about the design of his canvas shopping bag, there's no indication. "Not much different than cattle, but it's lower in fat, so you don't want to let it get above 140 or it dries out into shoe leather. 135 is a sweet spot. We can toss a rub on it if you have one, or make a quick marinade out of a few things, and the veggies would go great."

He nods at the the indication to set the bag inside, and do so, placing it just beyond the door, he asks, "What kind of project you got going on?" as he returns and pulls out some gloves from his jacket. They're snow gloves, really, but they'll do for keeping splinters off his hands. He can't carry as much as Ruiz even when he's not injured, so he takes it easy and only grabs a few.

He's not going to make mention of it, that's for damned sure. Instead, the armload of planks he'd been lugging earlier is hoisted back up, and he nods August toward where he's ferrying them over to. A stack against the back porch, and he's got a few power tools already out there, under cover of the overhang, where he'd been working on.. whatever the hell it is. "A workshop," he confides in a low mumble. "Honestly, if you've done much carpentry, or know someone who has.. I could use a hand with it." There's not much left to haul over; he's already done most of the work.

"A fine use of your property." So says the guy with a bunch of farm animals. "I've done a little but not much," August admits. "But I can point you at someone who's done a fair bit." He smiles, a little sly. "Hyacinth Addington." He sets the two by fours down, surveys the open spaces where the workshop might go. "You thinking for general use, or did you have a specific thing you want to do in it?" He heads back to grab a couple more. "The ME, Yule, was thinking about putting in a basement workshop. Though his was for," he raises a hand and rubs his fingers together, his personal non-verbal gesture for Glimmer.

Once he's finished depositing the planks, and brushed some residual sawdust off his arm and shoulder, de la Vega takes a gander at the space August is eyeing. The truth is, there's enough land out here for whatever he could likely dream up. Though his response is, as is often the case, cloistered and characteristically guarded: "Just some stuff. Hyacinth? Yeah, I think I remember her, from the Gohl shitshow. I'll look her up." He hitches his chin to indicate they should head inside, then starts prowling off that way. "The fuck's the ME planning on doing with glimmer that requires a basement 'workshop'?" Yes, he puts in the fingerquotes, too. And once they're inside, the door's hauled shut, and his gloves tugged off before he goes to stoke the fire.

Shortly after that, another pickup truck rumbles into the drive. Itzhak's big, shimmery-orange shop truck has a bed full of stuff lashed down under a tarp. He doesn't bother unloading it, just gets on out with his violin case and saunters up to the house. He's in such a good mood that he's practically glowing, his radiating aura of prickly fractals and violin music cast out way ahead of him before he comes in. "Hey it's me!" he calls cheerfully through the door before he opens it.

August follows Ruiz, pulling off his gloves and dusting them clean before he shoves them back into his jacket pocket. "She's done good work. We're about ready to cut down the maples for Itzhak's new violin. And even if her plate's full anyone she recommends'll be solid." He dips to grab the pig-covered canvas bag and bring it with towards the kitchen. "He's been looking into things like, how to put the Art onto objects. Like those things we had, from 'FCN'? Only," he grimaces, "now that we know how that was all being made, we might have to change tacks. Anyways, he wanted it somewhere private, where he could keep an eye on it, maybe keep Their attention off anything else like his actual work. That sort of thing."

And then Itzhak's here. August half turns and gives him a shit-eating grin to end all grins. "Hi honey, welcome home!" he announces.

"Look," de la Vega can't restrain himself from observing any longer, "why the fuck do you have a bag with pigs on it?" His own gloves are tossed atop the kitchen island, and he kicks off his boots before going to soap up and rinse off his hands in the sink. His expression grows more circumspect when FCN is mentioned, though. He might still be a tad irritated with those fucking guard dogs deciding to gangbang him. He's just drying up and hunting down barbecue implements when the rumble of Itzhak's truck is heard on his drive. Not like he wouldn't know that sound anywhere, of course. Does he say a word as the pair go all 50s hetero couple on him? Noooooope. "Rosencrantz," is greeted instead in a low grunt. "Help me get the barbecue going. Roen brought elk."

Itzhak squints at August, spreading his hands at him in the universal Jewish sign for 'what the fuck is wrong with you.' "You're such an asshole, Roen. You brought elk? Good, I'm starvin'. ...What the hell happened to you?" It took Itzhak a minute, but he eventually noticed that August's looking a little rough round the edges. He unslings his violin case, setting it on the dining table exactly where he'll have to move it again to make room for dinner, and flashes Ruiz a half-smile that doesn't need a big honey-I'm-home-kiss to make it obvious that he's happy to see him. "Sure thing. You have a barbeque?"

August pulls out the elk steaks--already thawed and prepped for seasoning or marinading--then the six pack of Sam Adams lager. Looking down at the bag, he shrugs and says, "It was on sale. There was a bin of canvas shopping bags, five for a few bucks, and I figured, sure, why not. Grabbed five, didn't really look at what I grabbed. So. Pigs." He seems utterly unphased to carry around a bag with cartoonish, colorful pigs all over it. The veggies he leaves in there for Ruiz to deal with, since August is not about to wander around in another cook's kitchen.

His jovial fifties nuclear family smile turns a little grumpy at the question. "Safeway. Wound up in one of those things of Theirs, with Eleanor. Charcoal briquettes had it out for me." He runs a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Erin and Ellie patched me up, but now I've got even more white." Is he cranky about that? Oh, a tad.

He leans a hip against the counter, eyes Itzhak getting comfortable with his violin case on the table. August is giving Itzhak a look that telegraphs 'So'.

The cop continues to look bemused as August's story about the bag is divulged. The guy's given a look like, really? don't you have any self-respect? before Javier finishes digging out the cooking implements and shoving them at Itzhak. There's a hitch of his chin to indicate the back door, where there does indeed reside a barbecue on the patio, under shelter of the A-Frame's overhang. "You know how to get one started, yeah?" is pitched toward Itzhak as he gets to work chopping vegetables and digging out ingredients for a steak rub.

Itzhak steps close to August, putting his fingers in the other man's hair without hesitation. He fingers the new white strands. "...Huh," he says. "Well, at least it looks real cool on ya." Then August is giving him that look, and he gives him a narrow-eyed glare right back. "WHAT." He grabs the cooking stuff Ruiz shoves at him and storms out the back door. "Yeah I know how!" It's not far, so his storming doesn't have space to get up a full head of steam, but he sure is dramatic about it anyway.

August's answering look for Ruiz suggests August and self-respect parted company in his undergrad years, and it was an ugly breakup, yet not one he regrets. Not that this wasn't obvious by the canvas bag sitting on Ruiz's counter in all its garish, ridiculous glory, the same bag which carried elk steaks from an animal August himself killed. He submits to Itzhak's inspection without complaint, seems mollified by the assertion it looks good on him. "Think I could get away with a fauxhawk? I was considering it."

And then Itzhak's storming off, and August just smiles after him. "Come on, baby, don't be that way," he calls after him. "Be careful Kingstons don't fuck around!"

Itzhak's huffiness doesn't even seem to register on de la Vega's face. He keeps right on chopping, with only a brief glance up at the other man's departing back - and backside - before returning to his task. "You've got to stop getting pulled into this shit," he informs August while he slivers peppers and onions. Then a glance up at the comment about fauxhawks, and he seems to seriously consider that for a moment or three. Then, with a bit of a grimace, "No." And then the chopping resumes.

Itzhak yells, "Yes!" from the patio, because he actually thinks that or just to be contrary, who knows. He clatters around the barbecue, and he wasn't kidding, he really knows how to get it lit. Then he's got to meticulously arrange the cooking implements according to size. Only then does he come back inside. He flips open the latches of his violin case, gets out the instrument and starts tuning, smiling to himself.

August pouts for a half-second at Ruiz's declaration, but seems to take the judgment seriously. Itzhak's contradiction has him sighing and rolling his eyes. "You two are no help. I'll just ask de Santos." Obviously Ignacio will know what would look good on August, or at least give an impartial opinion. Right?

He watches Ruiz chop, expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah. Really only one way to make it stop, though, and..." And what are the chances? Would it even help, if he stopped cold turkey? He's around too many other people who do.

He rubs at his eye, the one that's just about healed up from his attempt to download an entire forest's worth of memories into his brain. "Only real solution would be to leave." The thin spot, he means. "Not sure that'll help. We need to know what we're dealing with, how to...survive it."

Ruiz might just be pleasantly surprised that Itzhak actually does know how to light a barbecue. He looks over briefly at the yell from the back patio, chuckles, and continues chopping. "Leave?" he prompts, scraping the coarsely chopped peppers and onions onto a sheet of foil, destined for the grill. August's given a curious look in between prepping the vegetables, and getting started on the dry rub for the meat. "What do you mean, leave Gray Harbour?" It shouldn't bother him to think of that happening. But it does; the brief distress is written pretty clearly across his face.

"I ain't going anywhere," Itzhak says, promptly, plucking the strings of his violin in pairs to test the resonance. "I'm stayin' right here with you ridiculous assholes." He's not looking up at the other two, his eyes on his instrument. "Dunno about youse guys, but me? This," he glances up now, twirling a finger in a circle to indicate all of Gray Harbor, "this is what I gotta do. I can hear it singin' to me."

August picks up on Ruiz's distress, even feels some of it himself. Itzhak's certainty dials it back. "Yeah," he says in easy agreement, then coughs a laugh. "As if I could." He knows it's there, even if it's not digging in too deep just now; that pull, that tether that made him pull over some four plus years ago. Growing up on one thin spot and surviving war on another prepped him perfectly, made this place his magnetic North. It's etched into him as surely as this tattoos. Even if he did manage to leave and be gone long enough to forget, he'd worry over the scars unknowingly, just like he did about that missing day he and Ruiz and numerous others all have from their trip to the Asylum. He might not remember, but he would still know, balls to bones.

He blinks, shakes his head to clear that line of thought. "Only if Ellie wanted to," he adds, which is equally unlikely. She has her own crusade here, and she's not going to abandon it any time soon.

He resumes watching Ruiz work at prepping their meal, smiles at Itzhak's off-handed comments as he focuses on the violin. There are ugly things in Great Harbor, but there are good things too. He sees no reason to sacrifice one for the other. Not yet.

"And simply stopping using the power won't help. Too many others around me doing it; I'll get caught up when they do." He shrugs. So it goes.

Ruiz doesn't comment on whether this place sings to him. Or whether he has his own crusade, in his police work. Or whether he might, or would, or could leave. Even if he wanted to. He seems, as is often his way, intent on keeping his own counsel there. "Hear you two are getting married," he murmurs, giving the rub a quick toss before starting to slather it on the meat and grind it in with his fingers. "When's that happening?" There might be a slight easing in his shoulders at those first few plucks of strings, like a tension he didn't know he was carrying, starting to unwind.

Itzhak glances up at August, meeting his eyes ever so briefly, with a little tug of a half-smile. I got your back, that smile says, proud, fierce in its own way. I will be your shield.

While the other two talk, he tightens and rosins his bow, sets his fiddle under his chin. With a hitch of his eyebrows at August, towards Ruiz, in a silent 'watch this', he sets his bow to the strings. Something sweet and plaintive floats out, something rich with the sound of Americana, a lone voice singing of times past.

August smiles at Itzhak, small but genuine. And I've got yours. No one's knocking you down when I'm around.

He nods at Ruiz, glancing up to meet his eyes for a second. "Yeah, in summer. Once the weather's clear. Not here, though--Oregon, or Olympic." August is quick to add that, no doubt because he's thinking of the last wedding he attended in Gray Harbor, which Ruiz was at as well. The wedding, and everything that had come after.

No, not here.

"It'll be small--close friends, immediate family. We'll do a reception for a bigger party." Also not here. "Probably in Seattle."

He catches that gesture from Itzhak out of the corner of his eye, and settles himself so he can watch both men as they go about their respective arts. It's a relaxing piece, the kind that allows August to let go of the difficult things their lives are plagued by, at least for a little while.

Finished with the meat preparation, Ruiz goes to wash off his hands while August talks about the what he and Eleanor have planned for the wedding. It brings back a few memories, no doubt. He was married once, and maybe he's remembering that backwater little church in Virginia, or the fact that he shined his shoes especially for the occasion. Or that the night before-

"Good idea." Not here. Not here. His hands are dried off on the thighs of his pants, dark eyes roving Itzhak's way as his playing begins in earnest. And he stills for a while, lost in the music like a beast charmed, the steaks temporarily forgotten.

Itzhak sways in place, eyebrows quirking along to his bowing, up then down then up. His eyes go to Ruiz, the way his lover is lost in the music he pulls from his strings, and something in his expression unknots itself. Sometimes he gets these looks of terrible vulnerability, his tough-guy attitude opening like a lotus, and it happens now as he watches Ruiz charmed by his music. He takes his time, wends through the long sweetly melancholy sighs of the music, and when he wraps the song up, he's blushing, looking away. His fiddle falls silent, and he clears his throat.

"And we're gonna hold you a gay-ass bachelor party," he says to August, like none of that just happened.

August nods in firm agreement. "Yeah. Not here." Of course, if they weren't doing a ceremony here and weren't doing a reception here, what else won't they do here? Kids? (He and Alexander had discussed that once.)

The music and the way it draws Ruiz out of himself just a little encourages August to set those thoughts aside. Tonight's not for borrowing trouble. Tonight is dinner with two good friends; one of the lights in the dark around here. If pain and suffering were their food and drink, love and companionship were their poison, and August was determined to see them all choke.

He laughs as Itzhak ends the moment like that. "I expect both Kellys and Marshall jumping out of cakes. No half-assing, I want a proper farewell to dick."

Like none of that just happened, indeed. Ruiz avoids looking at either of them as the last strain of violin melts away, and voices replace strings. He clears his throat, fetches the tray of meat, and pads off to go throw them on the barbecue while gay-ass bachelor parties are being discussed. "Might be able to get one of them to give you a lapdance, we play our cards right," could be either a threat or a promise, complete with a dimpled grin flashed August's way as he passes.

Kids are a pretty big question, considering Bex has asked Itzhak to generate one with her. He grins, though, as August laughs. "Both Kellys and Marshall. And at least one of 'em is gonna be willing to lap dance." He's all in on not borrowing trouble tonight, in this moment, with his boyfriend and his BFF. Tonight he'll make music and they'll eat together and the Nothing will be driven away from their door.

"If that's supposed to be a threat you really need to up your game," August calls after Ruiz. He gestures at Itzhak. "Exactly. We all know Marshall would do it just because someone mentioned it as a possibility."

He pulls a bottle of lager out of the carrying case, offers it to Itzhak. "See? Told you I was right about the violin thing." He opens one for himself, has a sip. One of his eyebrows tilts up. "Have you played it for anyone who hasn't fallen in love with you?"

The sound and smell of meat sizzling on the grill soon begins to filter inside from the back porch. Softer, the patter of rain against grass and rooftop, and then de la Vega pads back in and goes to pop one of the beers he left sweating on the kitchen island. One's handed off to each of his visitors, as well, and he takes up a lean against the counter right as August starts talking about people falling in love with Rosencrantz. A glance back at Itzhak, and he mirrors the other man's browraise. Like he, too, wants to know the answer to that question.

Inevitably Itzhak blushes. He sets his fiddle and bow down to take the bottle, and flicks off the top with his thumb in what is absolutely a subtle display of his power. The bottlecap tinks to the table. "Yes," he snaps, conscious of Ruiz looking at him too. "I play all the time for people who don't fall in love with me! Like...like..." he swigs the beer, pretending he doesn't need to think about it, "like Isabella's in the hospital and I went and played for her. She's not gonna fall in love with me. You seen the way she looks at Alexander? That's not a thing, Roen. Don't talk like it's a thing."

August watches Ruiz as he comes back in, ever so glad he could be here for this commentary. He blinks, totally innocent, as Itzhak claims it's not a thing. "She didn't huh." His tone is a study in doubt and made up minds. He sips from his beer, trades a bland look with Ruiz. Oh yes, he has an opinion from which he won't be budged. "Look, you're going to need to come to terms with the fact that your violin playing is like out of those old stories. The kind that has people falling at your feet. Be careful who you play for, or some god or goddess is gonna kidnap you to play for them all the time in their tower." Now he's brow-waggling.

Itzhak's a little showoff. And de la Vega likes it. Or so says the look he gives the man at that subtle use of power. His eyes slant up a fraction, crinkled and warm at the corners, beer bottle lifted to his mouth; his smile, if he has one, is hidden. "To be fair," he murmurs, after a pop of suction being broken, and his inked knuckles dragged across his mouth, "I think I was hooked before you played for me." And then, speaking of awkward questions, "So." He downs another swig of beer. "You two ever fuck?"

"Please," Itzhak mutters, rolling his eyes, tipping the bottle up for a swig. "Quit tellin' tall tales, Roen." He can't help smiling back at Ruiz, bashfully, but he's taking a drink when Ruiz asks that and Itzhak promptly chokes. Coughing, he crams the back of his hand against his mouth, flushing vermilion. August is gonna have to field that one.

A hand on his chest, August says, "I speak only the truth." He rests his hip against the kitchen counter, raises his beer to take a drink.

...and stops just in time. He coughs a laugh when Itzhak isn't so lucky, which turns into a proper guffaw. "Sorry," he says, trying to sober, "it's just great how you caught him like that." He clears his throat. "You know I would have figured you'd discussed that by now." He's giving Ruiz a look that's equal parts amusement and curiosity, like he's reassessing the relationship on display before him.

He shakes his head, has that drink of beer which was interrupted. "Nah." He gives Itzhak a dry look. "I did all my bad boy fucking in college."

Amusement from the cop, like maybe he did plan the timing of that question. Which, who's to say he didn't? "What makes you think we'd have discussed it?" he fires back evenly, pushing off to go flip the steaks. "We've both fucked a lot of people. Wasn't aware I needed to provide a comprehensive list of people to ask about." The last thing he does before disappearing out onto the porch is chortle at the bad boys comment. "Please. Rosencrantz is a teddy bear." The musician's given a salacious wink, and then he's grabbing the tongs and getting to work.

"Youse guys are assholes," Itzhak rasps, trying not to laugh. "Teddy bear, I thought we discussed this, I'm Sugar Bear." Now he really does laugh, and takes another swig. Then he smirks at August. "I ain't got the bad boys outta my system yet." Unsaid, but obvious: and now he never will, with Ruiz around. "Nah, we ain't ever fucked. I'm too much for Old Man Roen."

August arches an eyebrow at Ruiz, even more curious. "I didn't mean a complete list. God knows that's not something I'd go over with anyone." He starts to say, 'It's not like I remember all the names,' thinks better of it. It's there, though, in the way he glances away and laughs to himself.

Ruiz almost gets August mid-drink with the bit about Itzhak being a teddy bear. He cuts Itzhak a mock-frown. "How much have you been shining this man on that he thinks you're a mild mannered, genteel gentleman?"

But then Itzhak is insisting on being a bear again, and adding insult to injury. "We did go over this, and the only bear in the building right now is me." He arches an eyebrow, makes a low sound. "Mmmm, yeah, I definitely couldn't handle thirty whole minutes, that's for sure. My poor old bones couldn't possibly take it."

Finished turning the steaks, Ruiz adds the vegetables to the heat, and covers the grill before wandering back inside. He caught most of what was said, on account of the back door being open, of course. "I didn't say a fucking thing about mild mannered or genteel," he mutters, fetching his beer and going for a swig. While he drinks, a slow look up and down August, like he's assessing something about him in light of Itzhak's commentary. "Thirty minutes," he repeats, tone flat and yet drenched with amusement. Never mind the fact that he's older than the other man. By a little bit, anyway.

"Hey, that's at least thirty-two minutes," Itzhak fires back, flushed and grinning. He's totally ragging on himself with that one. "You'd throw a hip out." He glances at Ruiz, sideways and sly and very appreciative, the lip of the bottle nearly touching his mouth.

August sighs dramatically. "Now here you are, maligning all teddy bears as not being fine, up-standing citizens of mild disposition. Where does it end, de la Vega." He glances sidelong at him around a drink from his beer. On a saccharine smile, he asks, "Oh, have you gotten him to make it an entire forty-five? That's good, that's good. You know younger guys, popping off at the least provocation. Takes some time to work 'em up to a proper fucking."

He laughs when Itzhak counters with 'thirty two'. "Well it's a start. And you'd be surprised, Ellie keeps me in pretty good shape. These old muscles have never been so limber." He gestures with his beer bottle. "She's putting in a hot tub. Be nice after a long day at the shop or on appointments." Or getting his ass kicked in a Dream, but that's besides the point.

"I'm sure you're a fine, upstanding citizen of the mildest disposition, Roen," assures the cop with an equally saccharine smile. Dimples and crow's feet and all. It only grows wider with the second thing said, and he tacks on a rusty sounding chuckle. "What can I say; practice makes perfect. I can think of worse ways to spend my downtime, than teaching a young buck what a proper fucking looks like." His gaze lingers on the man, brows inching up a little when the hot tub's mentioned. "Been thinking about looking into one myself, actually. Was that her idea, or yours?" And then he's got to go and bring the food in, and pushes off the counter again to go do so.

"Oh my God," Itzhak mutters, promptly going a delicate shade of tomato red as Ruiz calls him a 'young buck'. "You're gonna get it for that, de la Vega." His eyes track his boyfriend as Ruiz goes out. "Would you stop encouraging him!" he hisses at August. "He's bad enough without you!"

"It's a good thing he has you to teach him," August tells Ruiz on a nod, because when Itzhak asks him to stop encouraging Ruiz well August's first thought is to tack on a little more. (This is in all likelihood meant to be a teaching moment in why it's best not to imply August can't handle someone in the sack. His bad-boy-fucking days might be over; his asshole ones have only just begun.) Another smile for Itzhak's blush, and a triumphant drink of his beer.

But August is also happy to set that topic aside. "Sort of a joint idea; I mentioned I'd been thinking about it but didn't want to deal with the maintenance. She decided she'd just hire a company to take care of it." He shrugs about that. As long as there's a clean, hot tub to soak in he won't complain.

Ruiz has got nothing more to say about that. He's also presently tied up with bringing the food in from the grill, and rustling up plates and cutlery, and seeing whether he has something resembling dinner rolls in the fridge. Which, fortunately, he does. "Let me know how it goes, yeah?" And a nod toward the table, to herd them both thataway. "Heard anything more from that fucker Peregrine lately?" Because why not ruin a perfectly nice evening with talk of the guy who commandeered his mind for a couple of weeks there.