Somehow the sound of the door was telling enough, or maybe it was the time. They always had a thing with timing, carried forth from this lifetime to the next. It was probably why she'd looked up from the bar she'd been cleaning, aggression in the way she nodded, a confirmation that dark eyes had fallen on them, and she clearly wasn't pleased about it. "Of course you show back up tonight, of all nights. What the fuck do you want?" Irish lilt in her voice made the demand, choosing to stand on her anger, the anger of them leaving, choosing to remember the way it scarred her. It was an excellent disguise, intended to hide the way that those scars ached, not with hate, but with the acute awareness that she always found herself missing them.