I'm working on it I swear to God

Alastor doesn't just live rent-free in Vox's head.

“Yes, sir.” Remmick answers quickly, straightening his posture, arms at his sides. Sammie knows he ain’t, not completely—knows they each had at least two shots and smoked half a joint behind the bar forty-five minutes before they left.

But Sammie doesn’t dare say anything, not with Stack’s arm slung around his shoulder. He only prays Remmick manages to successfully navigate the series of landmines that is an encounter with Smoke.

And then Sammie remembers who Remmick is, and gives up hope with a heavy sigh. Stack gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“You know what time it is?” Smoke’s voice is sure and steady, unconcerned about staging an armed outdoor confrontation in the middle of the night.

“A little after ten. Sir.” Remmick replies promptly.

“And what time is Sammie’s curfew?”

“Ten PM.” Remmick’s voice wavers. “Sir.”

Smoke had popped out the bushes and put two holes in Remmick’s tire after Sammie and Remmick were already on the porch, thinking they were in the clear. Stack unexpectedly opens the door, all smiles as he casually separates the two, wrapping a firm arm around Sammie while Smoke stalks over and points his gun at Remmick.