John immediately began pouring a second glass.  “What’s troubling you, love?”

Sitting at the island in Mary’s kitchen and watching her down wine at her usual ungodly rate may not be the best use of his time, especially as he’s expected to go outside and make conversation with the rest of his neighbors as is his usual routine at Joseph’s weekly barbecues, but he’s not feeling that sociable today- whether it be on account of the fact that he got paged at three in the morning last night, or the fact that he woke up and got a very bad look at his own shoulders in the mirror this morning- and he’d much rather be sitting alone with Mary. Even if she did only want to drink in silence, it would still be a respite from the horror of having to be around other men when dysphoria is nipping at his mental heels.

He smiles. He’s loath to admit that he finds some of Ernest’s less dangerous antics amusing, especially as worrisome they are to his dear friend Hugo, but he can remember clearly when he would have thought the same would have been an absolutely hysterical thing to do. “Not that I’m saying I don’t think he did it,” Damien says, giving Mary a tired, but also very amused, grin, “Because really, all fingers point to Ernest when something happens at a barbecue, but I’m curious. What exactly is the ‘evidence’ he has up his sleeve? You don’t mean he literally has the can of shaving cream in his hoodie, do you?”

“Literally!” Mary cackles and takes a too-long sip from her glass of wine. It’s the kind of sip that would have drained the glass had she poured an appropriate serving’s worth. “The little cretin’s got cream all up his arm.”

She gestured up her own arm with the hand which holds her glass, sloshing the dry red against the curved container, but not threatening to spill. Mary Christiansen is no amateur.