"It's just not fair." Val drops back into the armchair behind them, a flurry of clattering pendants and messy curls as they settle. "Y'know darling, I'm so tempted t'have you bite me properly, turn me, just so I can taste blood how you do. Bet it's a fuckin' dream. An' meanwhile, I drink it and it's like... hot vomit's been stewin' in an old metal pot for 50 years." They sigh, maybe a bit over-dramatically, swirling red wine in a glass. Close-by, a black Newfoundland is lying calmly on the floor, half-asleep. "I just can't win."

Oz has been meaning to get out more. Sitting around at the bed and breakfast checking people in is mind-numbing, and he's slowly going insane. It's nothing like what he's used to. High stakes, week-long missions lying in wait for the perfect time to strike. Constant adrenaline rushes and excitement. Now he just... sits.

Talking to Lucia about her cabaret... well, it had been the first time he'd felt some kind of excitement again. So now he sits in his wheelchair at the little bistro table at a coffeeshop, waiting for Lucia to arrive. Dressed in all black- a blazer with no shirt underneath, pinstripe pants, dark leather boots with a bit of a heel, a cross-body bag. He stands out a bit in the quaint little café - but when he spots her making her way over, he gives a small nod. "Good to see you again." He states, still a bit too used to his own monotone, sometimes making him almost sound sarcastic.