you are what you eat

The older hunter was right. As she was about most things — something Anika had a hard time admitting, let alone saying out loud. But that didn’t mean she’d let Valka have this. There was still something bitter lodged beneath it all. Something that wouldn’t let go.

"You should’ve known it was a stupid fucking idea."

It was bullshit, all that talk of love. None of them had ever seen love keep anyone alive. They believed in what was real — a bullet tearing through a monster’s skull, a fucker turned to ash at their feet, a stake driven into a heart that hadn’t beat in a decade. That was what kept them breathing. Not love. Fuck, If it was love that saved people, her family would still be here. And she wouldn’t be standing here asking to be marked.

But this was all his fault, wasn't it? He wasn’t some kid you could stop. So now Valka was the one getting the bag of shit dumped on her head, just because he wasn’t around to take it himself. And maybe that wasn’t fair. But neither was any of this.

No do overs. As if there was anything else waiting for her out there. "Been thinking you should do it on the back of my neck," she said, "If anyone wants a fucking piece, it won’t be so easy next time." Her eyes were tired, but they still held that flicker of boldness. Maybe the same damn spark that got her father locked up in her place. "Numb the fucking needle?" a scoff, bitter and low. "You think I got that sliced off under fucking anesthesia?"

Pain wasn't something she couldn't deal with. Neither was hunger, or thirst. Hell didn't fucking offer any of this. "Just get the gun and get it over with, Valka. Come fucking on—"

Always so goddamn impatient.

"Yeah, it was a stupid fucking idea. Book seems to be an expert in that regard," she admits gruffly. Still, Valka won't apologize for letting the man -- the father -- have his space. She's sorry Anika has to be here, she's sorry she's the only thing this kid's got. Even if Book really didn't know what he was getting himself into... he knew what he signed up for, this life. "Still, I gotta respect his choice to leave me out of it. No use if you're knockin' on my door and there's no one here for ya."

The Fellowship was freedom -- freedom from the rules of the Brotherhood, freedom from the growing plague of supernaturals, and freedom to die on your own terms. Mostly. That one's for a brave, stupid few. Or maybe it's for the cowards -- Valka will figure it out when she finally bites it.

A weary, knowing smile creeps over her face as Anika tells the elder hunter where she wants the mark. "Alright, Anika, no need to be a bitch about it," Valka says, rubbing the girl's shoulder as she stands to grab her supplies. Bolillo finally decides to get up and see what the commotion is about, the dog sniffing at their guest before deciding she's alright. His thick tail slaps repeatedly against the leg of a chair as he stares at Anika. "Ey, Bo -- leave'r alone. She ain't petting you in this state."

Valka has just enough ink for a basic hunter's mark -- courtesy of some other bitch from Boston she'd done business with on the other seaboard. From some coven obsessed with breeding and shit. Tryin' to make some fucking superbaby who she'd probably have to kill some day if those witches did succeed in getting too strong. Didn't ask what she was doing out in Port Leiry, but said she'd owe a favor if she stuck around long enough.

"Y'know, Anika -- I know you're tough. Been through hell and back. But you don't get a fucking prize for putting yourself through extra bullshit," Valka says, firing up the tattoo gun and checking it was all in working order. She gestured to Anika to situate herself in a good spot for the tattooing. "So, yeah, you've got a big dick and you're real tough. You sure you don't want a whiskey just to kill the edge? Need I remind you, you try to be a smartass with me and I'll draw something awful you can't see back here."

There is no rest for the wicked; Shiv is on the hunt and in hot pursuit once again. 

That was until the chase hit a crossway within the urban labyrinth. One second, Shiv’s lungs were burning and eyes locked onto the back of a lone werewolf sprinting for his life. The next, a figure emerged from the shadows and collided with them.

Bam!

Head first, Shiv’s side slams against the brick wall. Caught completely blindsided, they cry out and double over. They struggle to blink through the pain, past the ringing in their ears and swerve their head back on target. But it's already too late. He's already climbing over an alley gate, ceaselessly sprinting off the moment his feet hit the ground with a sickening crunch. He landed wrong. Sprained ankle if not already broken.

The hunter shakes their head with a huff. It’s fine. It’s only a matter of time before Shiv gets back on their trail. That limping mutt and the rest of his scruffy paussie will be put down by the end of the week. For now, they had other important matters to immediately address- Who dared to interrupt their hunt?

"...Shit."

Valka Hadley. The Valka Hadley. One of the founding Fellowship hunters.

Shiv immediately recomposed themself. Not in a manner meant to address authority but the combative stance one would have preparing to wrestle a cougar, hands at the ready and circling around the woman. Shiv recognized her from the pictures their father kept on file. But she still had two eyes and hands then. They'll need to update the record tomorrow morning.

Two Sundays sells meat scraps and buckets of blood for one reason and one reason only -- bait for the monsters. Yeah, she's had some weird fuckin' artists come in once or twice, maybe a horny Halloween enthusiast -- whatever they're doin' with that shit is between them and their god. But man alive, stupid monsters keep falling for it. Tattoo always gives 'em away.

Which is why she's chasing some dead dog walking (or in his case, running) through an alley at some ungodly hour. Valka's admittedly not meant for urban evasion -- losing her leg didn't stop her from being lethal on the hunt, but she's not Usain Bolt or something. Shit wasn't meant for track and field. More like track and kill.

It doesn't exactly matter when she manages to collide with something distinctly not monster-shaped. Doesn't send her tattoo itching either, but it spikes her blood pressure with sheer annoyance. Valka rebounds off the other body and it sends her sprawling, head just barely missing the pavement by sheer mercy. "Faaaahk."

She sits, dazed for a moment, before pulling herself to stand. The Fellowship hunter barely registers the stranger, but she notes the recognition in their eyes. Good. Not one of hers by the looks of it, so they're probably Brotherhood. Explains why she got an obstacle in her way on the chase.

"Nah, I still got two of those," she says, flipping up both middle fingers to demonstrate their functionality. Got her leg all twisted up, though, so she works on fixing that. Funny he remarks about a dog's breakfast -- if he hadn't fucked her over, that dog would have been breakfast. "Didn't realize the Brotherhood were teaching out of Dick and Jane books these days. Didja see Spot run, motherfucker?"

That mark — it had never felt like hers. It had been branded into her, not chosen. But this time she could choose.

She didn’t know how much survival was left in her. The bitch didn’t take her life, not because Anika fought hard enough to keep it, but because she didn’t want to. "Why weren’t you with him, then? When he found me? He wouldn’t be rotting in my place if you’d been there." A quiet rage simmered beneath her words, like a kettle left too long on the stove. She knew. Anika had seen the note he left on the table in his apartment. Valka knew where he was going.

Her shoulders tensed, rolling back beneath the weight of Valka’s hand. Anika never liked to be touched. Eyes shifted, skimming past the older hunter and landing on the tattoo gun she’d dropped onto the table. Replacement hand. No — not what she came for.

"I want you to do my mark."

Valka had never raised a child of her own. Apart from Anika, closest she ever got was babysitting her brothers' little tykes when she could. Never on a hunt. Easy enough when you could hand 'em back. And like those kids, she's fiercely protective of Anika. But Valka also wasn't going to step in the way of Book's authority as her father.

Still, the accusation stings. The butcher doesn't have a good excuse. "Your dad didn't give me enough warning. Clearly wanted to do it alone," she says, knowing it won't satisfy either of them to hear her say so. "And if I'd chased him in, you wouldn't have had two coordinated hunters. You'd have had one chasing tail as the other didn't want to wait up. Your old man is smart -- to a point. After that, I know it's his love for you that takes over, makes pudding out of reason. But Book is strong. He'll be... He'll do whatever he can to get back to you."

The Fellowship are dropping like flies while the Brotherhood sit back and pat themselves on the back for doing fuck all and still recruiting more. Maybe that's the secret, not actually hunting. But Valka would be damned if she ever sat back and let that happen. Book's a fighter. So's his kid. And if the Fellowship founder could only save one of them, she knew Book would make the same choice.

"Your mark," she echoes. It's a big responsibility. And she'd never take the girl's agency from her, but this is a chance to make a change, if Ani really wants it. "No do overs," is the butcher's only grace, giving the girl one chance to back out of it. "Tell me what you were thinking of. And seriously, you gotta eat something. Or a drink? To numb the needle?"

Yet again — survive. For what?

Green hues followed where Valka's eyes lingered. "Yeah, no shit." All she’d lost in the process outweighed any victory. And this could hardly be called that — just the slow prolonging of a rotting process. She didn’t care for the fellowship. They didn’t care if she lived or died, either. That part was mutual — the way they shed each other like skin, like garbage. One goes, another steps the fuck in. Funny how that worked.

Valka wouldn't budge. She didn't, when Anika was only a child, left alone in a world that was ready to chew her up and spit her out. And she wouldn't now, when she was responsible for her own downfall. Her own foolishness. But it struck her — that cold nature of the woman, the one that matched her own.

I ain't letting you in, if you're one of them. I wouldn't be here, she thought, if I was. Then feet crossed the treshold, letting herself inside— proof she wasn't one of them, yet. "Sounds like I missed an upgrade on those fuckers. Not like I could keep up with updates, while being six feet fucking under."

There was something lodged in her throat, that she had to spit out, or she was gonna chocke on the damn thing. "You looked for me?" she asked, walking the space.

Valka is relieved, precious little, when Anika shows her resolve -- and her humanity -- stepping inside. Taking the space she deserved. Hunters lose things all the time, parts of themselves mostly. Quite literally, but in small and quiet and invisible ways too. And some might argue their humanity was chief among them, but not how it counted. Not to a curse.

She thinks back to earlier days, realizing Anika's mark was on that hand the vampire bitch took from her at the art show. If anything, the girl is more human than she was before. That could be fixed. Question is, how bad does she want it fixed?

"Course I looked for you," she says, like it isn't even a question. "Me and your dad. I'm just sorry I didn't look hard enough to burn this whole city to the ground." Valka looks over Anika with her one good eye and... well, she's not affectionate. But the elder hunter claps the girl on the shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "I'm glad to see you're still you. That that vampire bitch couldn't take what counts from ya."

Valka cants her head to the side and invites the girl, in the way she knows how, to join her at the kitchen table. "You hungry? Wanna talk about a replacement hand? I know a guy, get you something comfortable." The daywalker thing is an itch under her skin, but for a moment, her business is with Anika alone.

She can't keep losing her people, her purpose.

"Valka—"

Her foot met the door with a sharp thud.

Hands were busy— stump wasn't good for shit, and the other one carried all that tattoo gear. Knuckles were hastily wrapped in strips of an old, torn up shirt, from when she punched that mirror in the motel bathroom earlier. The wound still bled in places, staining the fabric. She didn't have any gauze or bandages. All her shit was back at the apartment, and according to the news, that place burnt down. Good fucking riddance. Phone was gone too, left at the goddamn gallery or in the hands of that bitch. Either way, she didn't know any other means of contacting the hunter, but to come banging on her damn door.

What else was she supposed to do? Going on her own was suicidal. As if she had a chance against any fucker, while being down a limb and human in ways she hasn't been for over a decade.

Bang— again.

"Open up, Hadley. Come on—" a beat, "You thought you'd get rid of me that easily?"

It's all been falling to shit, and Valka can't tell if it's because she's trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

Brotherhood numbers in Port Leiry continue to swell -- easy when so many half-baked hunters are happily indoctrinated into those old, ancestral lines. Valka could have just as easily remained among their ranks, but seeing her brothers hesitate on the kill when their father was no longer their father... well, she knows she made the right choice.

That doesn't mean she doesn't fucking miss Alejo. And first Anika was MIA, then her old man dropped off as well. Yearwood is still kicking, at least as far as the Fellowship founder knows. But it's all getting to be too much. They're going to need a nuclear option.

For their sakes, she hopes her missing allies are still alive. But if they find themselves of an undead persuasion, it's smarter they don't show their faces around here.

The sound of her door rattling is enough to get her hackles up one quiet afternoon and the voice that follows sets her ears on fire. Valka's upstairs when it happens, so it takes her a few moments to hurry down. When she gets to the door, though, she looks out from the peephole first to make sure the girl's alone. The elder hunter swings the door open.

"Shit, Anika. You've looked better." It's as much a greeting as she can give because she feels like she's failed the girl, looking at her missing hand. Valka has a guy for prosthetics, if Anika wants. But no Book here... they've always been independent, but she worries what that means for the old man. "I'm relieved to see you, though... No offense. You still got a heartbeat? Cuz I ain't letting you in if you're a fuckin' mosquito now -- you hear they can daywalk?"

Despite her lack of welcome (a precaution, after everything), Valka steps back and waits for the girl to haul ass over the threshold before they can get to business.

She was a fellowship hunter, not someone that Annalise would usually find herself going to for any sort of help, but desperate times called for desperate measures and Hadley was once one of them. The blonde was at the point where she didn't care who a person was or what their so-called alliegance was to - if they could provide answers, she would ask. "Valka." Lis greeted, taking a seat next to her at the bar and motioning for the bartender to get them both a drink, going for whatever the other had been drinking. "I need to know if you've seen Reid." She was getting straight to the point, tired of going through the motions of small talk with people just to get stone walled, or simply told no. It was a waste of time, and she had a feeling time was of the essence. Part of her thought that Reid would never leave his sisters again, not unless he was forced to. "Or Nisha." She added as that line of thought crossed her mind.

Valka was pretty familiar with talk of the Halsteads and their family drama. Seems to run in the family, for most Hunter lines (her own included). Annalise, the youngest, could make great Fellowship if she could grow up and cut ties with the rest of the Brotherhood bureaucratic bullshit. But she understands the loyalty -- goin' to the grave with a dead brother and sister who quit the gig. She's surprised but quietly appreciative that the pipsqueak offers to top her up.

"Seen Reid? Not for a minute, not since he walked in here trying to cut a deal about, I'unno, being a monster hunting monsters in exchange for me not dusting his ass prematurely," she says bluntly, sipping her refurnished drink. Valka had discussed already with Heron too, about how they'd handle the Halstead man. Yearwood tended to do whatever got her off, but she promised to give a warning before she dealt with Reid altogether. "I don't know a Nisha. Why, you lost track of the boy scout?"

"Just give me a heads up 'fore you do anything, 'kay, Yearwood?" Of course, Valka never wanted to turn into the bureaucratic Brotherhood types she abandoned, but her Fellowship hunters tended to shoot from the hip. It was a great advantage in better circumstances, but with so few of them kicking in Port Leiry after everything lately, it would be better to keep the strength in numbers. "All it takes is for him to bite the wrong person on the wrong day and he's SOL. Hell, even a Buffy wannabe might try to get lucky."

The butcher just nods silently at the mention of curse and the wolf. She's bitter that she barely got to know or teach her son before he was taken and turned and returned to her something he shouldn't have been. That bitch he keeps calling 'mother' teaching him all the worst parts of the world. And as far as Valka knows, neither the Bookers nor Heron know about him yet. But that would be a secret she couldn't keep forever -- how would it look, that she couldn't even properly take care of her own child, in whatever form that would take.

"It's a shame -- I figure that given a chance to let loose, she'd be half decent. Losing two thirds of the Halsteads from the game doesn't bode well for her if she can't get wise and get out," Valka mutters. She continues the work of slicing the pig, catching runoff blood for just such an occasion as a vamp like Reid walking in trying to convince everyone he was domesticated.

"The Masquerade... Graver's... every little creep on Port Leiry must think they've got us on the ropes. I'll burn this whole city to the ground if I have to to teach them a lesson." Her voice is a growl. Val trusts Heron's instincts. She just wants fuckin' results. "See if we can't shake out a witch or two for more ink. Some of us'll need to re-up soon, give 'em a surprise they won't see coming."

"Cursed, of sorts." He said with a shrug. "Someone's taken a keen interest in me. Put it on me after knocking me out. They told me it was to make sure I didn't wander off too far. I was just... testing to see how far I could actually go." He pressed his lips together into a thin line and nodded. "I've already tried to yank it off. Cut it off. And I don't have the type of magic that'll just... disintegrate it or anything."

"Yeah, I can step out for a sec." Valka leans casually against the closed door when the stranger steps back out. It seems too weird to be any sort of trap, not that she knew any witches or wolves with enough spine to try something in broad daylight. And that kinda kills her vampire theory besides. As for the business talk, she figures she could sell bacon to a pig farmer in his own barn if she gets the chance. Still, she gestures up at the sign above their heads.

"Butcher," she says plainly. "I sell meats -- beef, pork, chicken, others. Prepared cuts and custom orders given enough notice."

Valka listens as the kid explains the wicked wristwear, surprised he's so candid about it. Who'd wanna chain someone up just so they couldn't get so far as a butcher shop? He speaks openly about magic too, not that the hunter has any herself. She hums with interest. "No offense, what's so special about you they gotta clap a glorified ankle monitor on your... well, wrist?" She's not really an expert at breaking curses, though she knows enough of her way around witchy rituals.

"I got power tools in the back but I'm guessing that won't really work. Can't say I've ever hear of something like this, exactly, but... I'unno. What's it worth to me if I help you out?"

"Sorry, Heron. I'm just as disappointed as you are to hear he's askin' every hunter to the dance," she says with a bit of a laugh. In truth, Valka's not disappointed -- if anything, she's amused. Curious. About what Reid's game is here, and if he really thinks alerting half the Fellowship to his plight is gonna get him any sympathy points. Halstead tragedy only has so much weight in these intimate circles.

Heron's always been an interesting one to watch. Carnifex, with an admiration of butchery. But she takes a more artistic interpretation of the word, really. Her knifework is more artistic, whereas Valka's is artisanal. One's a craft, one's a trade. At least, that's how the older woman sees it (with her one good eye, no less). Enhanced hunter strength, while useful, plays little part in her cleaving of meat here. You could have all the strength in the world, but if you make a sloppy cut, you're selling half-assed goods to the masses. Bad cuts, bad rates.

"With all the witches and shamans and deals with the devil out there, if someone had found a cure for anything, it'd be known," she mutters with impartiality. Valka believes in the fantastically unlikely as much as the next person, but that only made the true impossibilities that much surer. Like the thought of ever really, truly having her son back. The way he was, the way she made him to be. "Only cure of all of us is death. And after that, salt -- Yearwood, I've gotta have you over for some proper fuckin' bossam sometime."

But Valka digresses. She picks her gaze up from the meat on the table for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure you'll be the one to do him in, huh? I'm sure his sisters won't take too kindly to it, though I hear one of them's outta the game entirely these days."

He wishes, sometimes, she would hold him; after a nightmare, during a bad day. How many times did he wish it was her arms around him instead of the cold metal of his cage? He doesn't know how to ask; can I sleep with you? I've had a bad dream; could you hold me? The world is big and scary.

He doesn't think she would want to hug him, wouldn't be comfortable with it. He is not sure if he would be comfortable, or safe, in her hold either.

The mutual fear and discomfort is something he tries not to think about while he tries to follow the recipe through; he knows how to read, he just doesn't do it fast enough, and the turkey is on fire before he can stop it. The burns on his hands are of no worries to him, as he tries to blow the smoke away.

If he flinches at her voice, makes himself small and raises his shoulder to protect his face, he hopes she doesn't notice. "You wouldn't feed it to a dog, huh?" Self-defense. He is embarrassed, shy, caught tongue-tied and fearing a possible hit that doesn't come. She won't punish him. The fear, however, is there. He clears his throat, shrugging.

"I - Mother always liked dinner to be-" words die on his tongue, and he shakes his head, blinking. "I wanted to have food ready. For when you got home. Figured you would be tired. I got pie, too." He picks up the store bought pie with red hands, just a boy begging his mother to love him. "I'm sorry."

Valka never intended to be a mother. The circumstances of Roan's birth were more or less the result of her carefree attitude and choices to live recklessly, chasing her wildest thoughts. It's what led to the creation of the Fellowship, after her boy was taken from her. But motherhood and leadership aren't the same, thought to a casual observer they might appear to be related. She had her family beside her to raise the boy, but she scrapped hard and fought to build a new family of hunters when that boy was taken.

Still, it's lonely at the top, in a profession that teaches you never to trust, never to get attached or to love.

Valka's lip twitches in a sneer about his dog comment. She looks to Bolillo to break the tension and forces a chuckle. "Bo's spoiled. He knows good meat from bad," she says, turning back to Roan. Hearing him call that bitch wolf 'mother' makes her want to go out and kill something just for the hell of it. Oh, she'd love to carve that one up on the table right now and make her boy watch as she skins and butchers it. Normally, the crime of being a wolf would be enough to satisfy Valka's hatred, but this vendetta runs deeper than the curse. No one makes a fool of the Hadleys and lives to get away with it.

"Ro... I know you wanted to... look, that's sweet of you. Thinkin' of me. I don't want you worryin' -- or worse yet, settin' my goddamn house on fire," she says, searching his face for the traces of what precious little she remembers from those earliest days, scared when she finds those bits of herself in him despite the years apart. "Could you... be okay with lettin' me do something better for us? I can show you how to make a decent steak, I've got potatoes and some other fixins... And yeah, we can finish off with the pie, if you've still got room."

Reid's still eying her warily with an edge that he cannot kick, a determination in his gaze that gets battered and bruised with every degrading phrase that spills from the woman's mouth. It's well deserved and he too, would use those terms the same way. Even if he is the mosquito in the metaphor. So it's whiplash that she cares to offer some form of condolences in amongst her declination to meet him in the middle. He has to pinch the laughter in his throat because it doesn't belong here.

His gaze still wanders in intervals to that bucket of blood sitting idle at the end of the butcher's block. Catching the spillage of Valka's brutality to the dead.

He can hardly cling to pride when she'll be quick to learn he's got none left in his state of undeath. Reid shoves down his apprehensions because she's not stupid and he doesn't like to think he is when it comes to the sheer basics. Tight-jawed he's looking back at her. "Can't I play the hand I'm dealt?" One way or another, it is what he's doing. But self-loathing probably isn't a trait she'll favour either. "I want an impossibility, and the Fellowship might not have it at their disposal, but they're the closest — you're the closest to it. You don't have to shake my hand. But I want monsters gone, just as I did before." It's one way to put it and he's sure Valka's smart enough to know that the Brotherhood wouldn't welcome that, the same way the unhinged corners of Fellowship rumours do.

While she and Book have known each other for a while, and shared a lot of stories of the trade with one another, there's still plenty it seems they haven't discussed openly. It makes sense, especially in their line of work. Hell, it's why she had no idea Anika was his daughter for the longest time. It's why she still hasn't opened up about her own son. He'll find out eventually and he'll react how he reacts... but the Fellowship's been about bending the rules, being less uptight and more innovative than the Brotherhood... flexing the policy for desperate monsters might be a needed edge or a death knell.

"It's a shit hand to gamble with. Gonna get you run out of the game quickly," Valka asserts. She wonders what impossibility it is that he wants -- the sun on his cheek or a cure for a wolf or someone's head on a platter or his own breath back. Most of those things ain't gonna happen, and on a different day he'd get stabbed just for asking. But she's feeling charitable enough (or lacking just enough appetite) to stick her finger in the neck wound and prod a little more.

"Some noble vampire -- what, you wanna be the last monster standing and then have someone take you out before you're too far gone? This path doesn't have a storybook ending, even if we all get what we want outta this, you have to understand. You're asking me to make a big fuckin' exception to the Fellowship's creed. As a leader, I set the tone. Quite literally stickin' my neck out for you if we actually do make a deal."

She follows his gaze to the blood and carnage quite literally commodified behind her. Valka smiles. "So, what is it you do want? What's so impossible, Halstead?" A pause, then a curiosity for her own sake. "You been feedin'?"

"Well, I figure you'll be glad ya did show. Especially if you sell a piece," she shrugs. Valka's never exactly known how to encourage someone in a creative pursuit, but she knows as well as anyone else the benefits of a therapeutic outlet. Butchery and cooking for her are as much an art as she supposes painting is for Anika. And yeah, the money's nice too, but sometimes, it's just for you.

Still, she knows the girl's going through a lot. No one drawn to the life of a hunter had a happy childhood or a well-adjusted adulthood, really. But Valka sees an opportunity in her to prove that the older woman isn't broken beyond all repair. She can still support and protect the ones she hasn't failed yet. Every time Roan slips and calls that bitch wolf 'mother' it makes her want to tear the skin from her own eyelids. She takes another somewhat aggressive sip of the free booze they offered here, in an attempt to calm her own nerves.

"Well, they're all good. I mean it -- I know I don't have all the fanciest words for 'em. But I can tell you aren't just... y'know, fuckin' around for no reason," she says, grateful for Anika's added comment distracting her from having to try to say something smarter. It strikes her as a surprise, and Valka blinks for a moment as she processes the thought. "You have a painting for me? No foolin'? That's... Anika, that's real sweet, of course I've got room for it. I mean, I know I might come off like a real hardass but I've got a few sculptures and accent walls 'n shit at home. Thank you... you'll have to come over for dinner and we can find a place for it, yeah?"

Maybe invite Book over too, if it wouldn't be too much flirting with danger.