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In which Gladys goes to the medbay hoping to make peace with Tailor, but finds Callahan and makes small talk instead. It ends up in weird and uncomfortable places, but that's RED medics for you.

Initial Setting: Medbay

Timeline: Preceded by 'Second Thoughts Again'


Edit

Tea tray grasped firmly in her hands Gladys makes her way to the Medbay. She had been avoiding Tailor for the past week... two weeks? Which wasn't hard, they both had plenty to occupy their time and attention. And to be fair, he was ignoring her right back. But she was starting to feel bad about it, and hopes maybe she can at least start to apologize for acting like a hormonally crazed idiot. Tea is a relatively small peace offering, but it is a start.

At the goal of her tea-course, the Medbay, there is not a Tailor present, but many a medical file with a Callahan on top.

He makes a frustrated noise, face smooshed against the table and probably wipes his nose against Mr Johnny-aren't-I-cocksmart-Doe's bullshit medical fairy-tales files.

The last couple days he'd simply tried, like most of the new arrivals on RED, to settle in, which for his part resulted in revelling in the fact of unlimited access to working plumbing (and soap, sweet merciful saint John) and wading through piles of laughably ridiculous medical history. To his frustration, it felt less like reading through the history books and more like perusing a Holocaust-denying essay. Names were constantly redacted, bits and pieces conveniently left out, it was like a fucking massive crossword where every solution vertical and horizontal read 'crazy bleedin' paranoid asstards, who gives a fucking shite?'.

He might as well start making paper planes out of the folders and throw them out the windows at the BLUs, it isn't like anyone is going to miss the contents at bloody all.

As she is holding the tray with both hands, Gladys has to push the door open by walking into the room backwards. She calls over her shoulder before she's even confirmed that Tailor's there:

"So I know I've been an ass and we've been mutually ignoring each other but I made you some--" she turns around and sees no one but Callahan at his desk. "... tea." she sighs. "Tailor's not here is he?" She looks more impatient than disappointed. And maybe just a tad embarrassed.

Turning his head a bit and wrinkling a few formulas with his sparse cheek, Callahan squints at the newcomer -- christ, the grabby, spotted man-lady -- and grumbles, muffled by the desk and the paperwork: "Nae, he's off-duty fer no', laddie."

Gladys quirks a smile at the medic; 'laddie' huh? She still feels really dumb for talking to the wrong person.

"Well. Uh. Shit." She looks down at the tray and then back up at the stickman. "You want some tea?"

There was toast too, with plenty of butter. Nothing fancy.

Callahan flexes his back with a series of crack-snackle-pops erupting from it like a human cereal box and pulls himself up into a proper-ish seating position. He eyes the tray like it was made out of knives and asbestos and flickers his gaze towards the ruddy youth.

"Wh' exactly am I lookin' at, here? An attempt at makin' amends wi' th' chucklefuck Tailor? I get th' feelin' yer fella 's jus' naturally assy -- no amount o' breakfast's gon' make that go away," he mumbles. "An' he's already plenty round, try wi' a glass o' carrot juice an' celery sticks next time, there's a good girl," he says dismissively.

Gladys is afraid for a split second that the stickman is going to fall apart at the joints, but after the alarming sounds ceased, he seems to remain together, if just barely. She misses the dismissal, or chooses to ignore it, and remains standing where she is.

"We had a bit of a spat a few weeks ago, we're usually on better terms with one another..." she smiles fondly, "and there's a lot of muscle underneath that padding I'll have you know, we can't all be as near starved as you are. Talking of which," she plunks the tray down on his desk, "it'd be medically irresponsible for you to let me drink all this tea by myself, and we're not letting food go to waste, so--you're helping me."

She smiles in what she hopes is a kind but resolved manner.

Callahan sends her a blank look and peeks over the edge of the steaming tea mug, looking like he's expecting something like a version of the Creature From the Black Lagoon to suddenly erupt from the mug like some horrible miniature monster geyser.

He looks, in a few words, not very convinced.

"Tch," he grumbles. "It ain't like I actually have th' authority t'tell ya to git up th' yard. Y'might as well sit around if by some awful contrivance fuzzykins comes spelunkin'."

Gladys chuckles, it was better than being told off. "I got no idea what y'er sayin' half the time. It's funny to me." She takes her tea and a piece of toast and leaves the rest for Callahan to pick over. She wanders about the medbay. "I take it you and Tailor don't get on then?"

Callahan sniffs disdainfully at the first comment and waves his hand around dismissively. "We get on like a house on fire, laddie. He spouts summat daft bollocks, I tell him off, he gets some iffy sorts o' amusement outta it, rinse, repeat to infinity."

Gladys smirks to herself. "Sounds like you two were made fer each other then. Like peas in a pod." She turns and faces him. "You know you'd be bored otherwise, right? One can only go through so many medical files."

Callahan glances up at her. She's got this kind of roundish, easy-to-blush kind of freckled face that, speaking of medical files, probably would look adorable on somebody less criminal and twenty years worth of spoiled innocence younger.

"I got th' feelin' from those very same med'cal files tha' yous lot here be quite adept a' keepin' things busy," he says meaningfully and picks up a mug from the tray between long fingers, like a daddy-long-legs perched on top of it.

Gladys quirks an eyebrow at him. "Don't get too eager, you'll get your chance to patch up horrible injuries in no time Doc. 'Course the idea is to not leave anything to patch up, if'n we did our job right. Talkin' of which, you go through respawn yet?" She watches his hands, at least glad he's touching the mug. She really needed to get something more substantial into him.

"Might jus' get there from havin' an aneurysm, dealin' wi' all these self-righteous an' or daft twats on base," Callahan retorts. He thinks respawn sounds... well it sounds exactly like the older boys back at grade school, trying to make the younger boys crawl into the dog yard, tellin' them that it'll be okay, they'll get a cigarette in reward if they prove themselves, and those dogs were done for rabies a long time ago, don't you worry none, boyo. It sounds iffy as all hell.

Much like the medigun, which he'd poked and prodded for half an hour and found himself exactly zero percent more educated on it, he'd gone to the respawn area and found it was just another depressing room full of lockers and empty floor for people to spasm on, presumably.

"Bu' no, no' yet," he allows and smells the tea suspiciously.

She chuckles at his biting retort, but then sobers a bit, "Good, you keep it at 'not yet' for as long as possible." She plunks into one of the office chairs and rolls around the room. "So which am I? Daft or self-righteous?" She almost wishes he'd make up something new but just as scathing, this man was a never ending fountain of poetic swears.

"Attention-grabbing," Callahan spits at the recollection of their first introduction and how the brat had, unasked-for, 'introduced' herself to other parts as well.

He looks at her, out of the corner of his eye as she circles around the office on the wheely-chair, in sort of the same way Tailor had done. The image strikes him as incredibly familiar and -- when he squints, squints a good deal -- it sort of hits him how alike the two jolly fuckers are. Like... schoolmates that hang around in the backyard and throws lines and annoyances back and forth. Like... cousins, in how similar they look, with the roundy-squarey face features, the brownish hair, the stocky sort of build.

He's not sure what to do with this observation exactly, so for now he decides to just dislike the hell out of it, as per normal, and sips tea, as disdainfully as he can manage.

Gladys gigglesnorts. She likes that much better than being daft or self-righteous. She goes to her mug but finds it empty, so makes her way back to the tea pot, and notices Johnny Doe's open medical file. "Wow, he included illustrations..." she observes with dry sarcasm as she pours herself another cup.

"Aye. I believe theys be meant t'be a comic sequence o' sorts, bu' th' prat ran outta space before finishin' th' big climax. Happens t'all men, really. Ne'ertheless, I won' be wi'out entertainment wi' tha' ponce aroun' fer sure..." Callahan says with a tone like he's announcing how he was diagnosed with prostate cancer last week. "This tea tastes like cat piss," he offers rather matter-of-factly and wrinkles his nose. Takes another sip.

She frowns and checks the teapot for any foreign objects. She'd cleaned it out before use, followed all the directions Zach had given her on the 'proper' preparation of tea. "And yet you are still drinking it."

She adds milk and sugar to her cup and resigns herself back to the rolly chair. "If you think I'm bad you've got no idea with that guy, he gives me the willies. You can smell the crazy on him." Thoughtful sip.

"Beggar's cannae be choosers, luv."

Another sip, likewise thoughtful, but with an added spoonful of cynical experience. He's not too worried about Johnny Doe, honestly. He's the sort of bloke who sticks his fingers in all kinds of shady horseshit and you can smell it off him from miles away. He's got the kinda grin and swagger of those streetwise lads who put on so many fronts and façades they might just forget what they were supposed to hide in the first place. Callahan can see why most would be unnerved around the nosey twat, but he himself hasn't got anything on file he's not willing to share if bugged stubbornly and persistently enough about it.

"Smell th' bullshit, mo' like," he voices his thoughts concisely.

"That too." She is glad there is at least one person on base who seems to know how to handle the wildcard spy. "Sounds like you know how to handle frustrating idiots like him, what's the story there?" She figures he's already read her file, or will get to it eventually, so it is only fair to know more about her medics.

"I know how t'handle..."

He thinks back, a year and a few months, to the dodgy streets of Northern Dublin and there are jackasses with springknives dealing on the streets in plain daylight, and housewives with suspicious marks that keeps smiling through gritted teeth, and hard-chaws bigger than a stack of chimney bricks who think they're made of harder stuff than a broken bottle can tear through, and they won't hear otherwise from little thin college boys like Callahan.

"... people who make ill-advised choices."

"Then, sir, you are in the right place."

This wouldn't do. He was doling out such small packets of information for what felt like a lot of talking on her part. She was positively starved for information from the outside world, and as one of the most recently arrived he obviously had the most up to date news.

"You stickin' around here fer the holidays then? Thanksgiving, Christmas whatnot? Oh... right, they don't have Thanksgiving across the pond." She spins around, not too concerned with her slip-up. She idly wonders if anything really could offend or surprise this guy.

"Don' got much reason t'go home for any o' that seasonal glittered-holly-roasted-animal-dinner bollix. 's far as I'm concerned, home is where th' paycheck is," Callahan says. "What they do have across th' pond, laddie, is th' Troubles wi' th' English, and th' Catholics an' th' Protestants, an' lots o' them. 's far better stickin' around o'er here in this fabricated little shit-war, at least it's contained to jus' two bases fulla idiots and not two fuckin' countries who shou'd bloody well know better by no'."

It's all delivered quite like a casually-frustrated speech on how the weather is a bit on the crummy side, like it's a small but inevitable annoyance you just have to gear up properly for, with wellies and a brolly and scarf.

On the one hand, his description of troubles at home made the 'war' here seem petty, on the other hand, both sounded just as fabricated. "So do you not eat meat then?" Getting him fed up was going to be harder than she thought, if that was the case.

"I eat," Callahan answers simply. "Sometimes. When th' stars are right an' th' moon is in position and God willin'," he snarks.

Gladys starts to wonder if Callahan's starved state wasn't just that. Her eyes flicks momentarily to the man's bandaged arm. She has been wondering about that concealed site, perhaps an embarrassing tattoo, or an unsightly wound, or if he was shooting up and wished to hide the bruises. But now she is starting to suspect repeated needle use for an entirely different reason.

"You have anything favorite?" she asks casually.

Callahan makes a grimace. "... lemon curd," he admits brusquely, and then cocks a glare Gladys' way. "I don' need ye worryin' 'bout that, see? Ye go back to speculatin' on yousser own trouble wi' yer backwards fella."

Wondering what the hell lemon curd is, Gladys resolves to find out and acquire some. If he couldn't handle regular food the fake, freeze dried space meals that the base had stocked certainly wouldn't agree with him. Or would they? Maybe vitamins and filler protein would be okay. She kicks off of a table and goes scooting to the wall opposite.

"He ain't backwards, he's a musician," she intones with attempted dignity. "And he ain't my fella neither." she adds as an afterthought, blushing a bit. Damn her transparent Irish skin.

"Ach, I'm sorry. A musician. Well tha' paints a whole 'nother picture, of course it does," Callahan says flippantly. "Hope he better serenade that blush fully back on if he ever wants any o' this tea again.... as wojus as it may be," he mumbles and wrinkles his nose at the mug.

Gladys only blushes harder and scowls at the implications, but as she spins away on the chair she smiles a bit. Looks like Doc's a lot of bark but not a lot of bite. That was good. She frowned a little as she rolled around the room in a contemplative silence for a bit. She'd run out of conversation points. And she had no idea what 'wojus' meant.

"So what got you into the war?" It was the commonest question, and she hated resorting to it, but it was all she had left to fall back on.

"Same as most folks here, I'd suspect, laddie. Lack o' options, lack o' money," Callahan replies in simple honesty. "Suspectin' ye kin relate," he adds and reaches over for the sugar.

Gladys spins around as he talks, opening her mouth a few times to retort, but closing it again without saying anything. She wanted very much to contradict him, point out that there were tons of options for a doctor, but as she thought about it, it hadn't until then occurred to her that he might have criminal charges too. Looks like he'd gotten to her file then. No matter. He was a medic, he was safe.

"Yeah..." she says more to herself than to him. Then she brightens. "You get to try the medigun yet?"

"You volunteerin'?" Callahan shoots back and dumps roundabout half the sugar into is tea. "I dinna know, laddie. It looks iffy as hell. 's well as th' respawn, it's jus' too good t'be true," he says pessimistically. "'sides, pain teaches better reflexes than easy fixes do," he grumbles.

She shrugs like it's no big deal. "I don't mind it if you need a patient. But it does work, we've just not been filled in on the side effects, if they even know what they are."

And how true that last bit was. But she liked her easy fixes.

"I'll take yer word on that." Callahan sips the half-tea-half-saccharine concoction with a lot more tolerance in his facial features than before. "... By th' way, laddie, wh' class are ye?"

If it were anyone else, Gladys would scold them on a) hogging all the sugar and b) drinking all the sugar, but she wasn't about to argue with Mr. 'pins and needles really needs a decent meal.' So she kept her mouth shut.

"Ah, Pyro. I don't wear the whole getup unless I absolutely have to, or in the winter, when it's... not completely intolerable." It wasn't completely obvious?

Callahan nods like he wasn't entirely listening to her or his own question in the first place, too enthralled with the tea. "Hmmm," he sighs and takes another sip.

Gladys tries to suppress a smile. Not wanting to ruin this rare moment (he was so close to actual happiness!) she rolls over to a table and puts her feet up.

There's a kind-of pleasant lull in the conversation, the doctor quietly revelling in the tea and the pyro revelling in the doctor's sparse moment of sort-of-almost-looking-approachable-ish.

Which Callahan of course goes on to destroy by speaking up: "Ye cross'd hairs wi' that giggly fuckwit Doe, did ye?"

Gladys chuckles in a I'd-love-to-strangle-him sort of way.

"Ooooh yes. Th' other day I was trailing a cloaked spy, but when I cornered him, the idiot went n' disguised himself as a BLU! Took me like, five minutes of threatening to burn his face off to get him to at least show his team colors. But he disguised as Mister Durand instead. And then only cuz I guessed it was actually him did he drop the whole thing altogether. It was like peeling an onion. A creepy fucking onion." she shakes her head. "He's bad news. Like, actually bad news."

After that little anecdote, Callahan has to wonder if he hadn't made a wrong choice in becoming a RED. Truthfully, they'd been the first and only to offer him a job, but it might not be too late to subtly check if BLU doesn't have... sanity. Or a minimum of competence. Not that he himself would bring much of either, honestly, but a hobo can dream, can't he? It's all he can afford to, anyway.

"Ye'd best take ev'rything that pissant says with a bag's worth of salt. He's a..." he wrinkles his nose, thinking of dumb vegetable-and-fruit-analogies off the top of his head, "...pomegranate. Garish colours, an' you try an' get 'im to spill the truth, it just explodes inna million seeds you don' know which is realer or better an' it ends up... stainin' ev'rything in this awful bullshit mess," he says with sage spite and watches the swirls in his sugartea. "Attention-deficit assfucks like that... they wants t'be entertain'd. Try an' be borin'. They'll lose int'rest, eventually, hopefully. Same wi' that brick shithouse Creedon."

Gladys can't really follow the extended metaphor about the pomegranate, on account of her never having seen one, but at the mention of that name, she can't control her outburst: "UGH! I HATE dat guy! Can't Clark, like, fire these assholes? They don't even do their jobs, and frustrate the work of their own teammates! It's unbelievable!" She gesticulates wildly.

Callahan keeps quiet and drinks tea, waiting for the girl to compose herself a little.

"If people like you 'n me kin get hired here, people like Creedon can 's well. As fer Ballard..." Callahan shakes his head. He honestly doesn't know what to think of his boss... because so far, he's not seen much of him at all. "... instead a bitchin' ta me, file a witness report. Ye ken, somethin' tha' actually might solve yer problem..."

Gladys grumbles and settles, not pleased to be compared to those two.

"That's just the problem, I don't know what'd be the better option, snitching, or staying quiet. Cuz when all's said and done, I'd rather they be in here than, y'know, actually killin' people fer permanent out there," she finishes quietly.

"It don't have to be either-or," Callahan says into the tea. "Don' be thinkin' sae black 'n white. Limits yer options."

He's keeping his sentences short and his voice terse, because doling out unwanted advice makes him feel like a complete tool. It's also the easiest way to make people put their nose in the air and stop talking to you, and as mildly tolerable as Gladys is being, he can't help but feel like she reminds him of home. In all the worst ways. And talking to her just keeps reminding him.

Gladys, oblivious to Callahan's aversion to her general existence, rubs the back of her neck and ponders his words. She thinks of all manner of tortures and ways to make their lives miserable, but then wonders if he didn't have something different in mind.

"Nope I don't get it. Either there here or they ain't. Unless they're dead. And despite anything you might've heard or read contrariwise, I'm not into that. Well, the, permanent version I mean." Nope, she's not really making a convincing case for herself.

"I don' care either case. Jus' remember t'use a condom," Callahan grumbles. Whether or not he's got ideas to keep an eye on the likes of Creedon or try to put a damper on his behaviour, he's not in a mood for sharing. If the boss Ballard isn't interested in trying to show up and keep his fucking rabid pets under control, absolutely nothing Callahan will say or do is going to change anything at all. Thus, he decides to sit and stew in his own apathy and wait until he needs to point that damnable medigun jobbie at something.

If Gladys had been drinking tea, she would have sputtered and choked. Instead she sputters and laughs, "What on--what! What does that have to do with--with anything!" She is equal parts amused and confused. Here she was thinking about intimidation tactics, not bedding them.

"Ye tell me," Callahan replies shortly. Then wrinkles his nose in slight distaste. "Actually, I'd rather ye din't. Ergh. Standards, girl."

Gladys crosses her arms, a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. "And what makes you think that I'd fancy a man wot thinks he's a peacock, or a woman-hitter?" And how did they even get onto this subject?

"Fuck, people stick their soft bits into th' weirdest shit," Callahan shakes his head at the follies and jollies of man. "What th' fuck do I know? Prize poodle or prize peacocks, somefolks like animals a biteen too much jus' like a few black eyes cou'd be consider'd likin' it rough. I don' judge, laddie, I jus' plaster them over wi' bandages after th' fact."

She smiles, amused, still not sure what brought that up. Had he overheard some gossip in the locker room and he was wanting to know if it was true?

"Well, that's good to know doc," she smiles and settles more comfortably into the chair, feet still propped. "I take it you don't fancy any of those activities then?"

Callahan makes a disgusted noise. "I seen enough brothel sprouts and groin growths t'know better." ... and probably to also suspect that kind of behaviour from anyone, whether they deserve the suspicion it or not. The base has its gossip mill, sure, but mostly he tends to sling random shit out in conversations and see if it sticks to people.

Gladys was starting to doze, but that wakes her the hell up. "Holy shit, what? What do you mean?" Her knee jumps up like she were protecting herself from a groin shot.

The thin doctor doesn't look too affected by her outburst. In fact, he looks a mite annoyed by the theatrics.

"Used ta treat low income households. They drag in a lot of awful shite," he explains and scowls at the now empty mug.

"No, no I mean, what were those things, that you said...?" she tries to dial down her panic, but she'd never heard of those things before. Were they some kind of disease?

She's given a measured look. "Are ye askin' me t'give you a talk on STDs? Christ laddie. That ain't th' sort o' work I was expectin' here." Somewhere along the road, this conversation took a weird turn. He thinks he might need more tea to deal with this nonsense, and reaches out to pour another mug.

Gladys curls up on the chair, knees pressed to her chest. "S-T whats?" She got the feeling she was supposed to know about this. She hated that feeling. She wasn't stupid.

There is a moment when Callahan's tea mug hovers indecisively in the air. Then it settles on the desk quietly. Callahan grabs the tray with the now cold, soggy toast and pushes it out of the way, off the to the edge of the table.

"Don' fall in on yerself, there," he says gruffly. "C'mon, sit up straight. An' pull yer chair o'er here."

He pours the rest of the sugar in the tea because fuck this thing he's about to do. Fuck it because it makes perfect sense. The people here aren't educated beyond what they need to know to burn off a face or shoot someone's head off. Of course they fucking aren't, and he feels like an idiot for giving them too much credit. Again.

Gladys blushes, but out of sheer embarrassment. She was going to get a lecturing and she wasn't going to like it. She could tell. No lecturings ever went well. She scoots the chair closer to his desk, but not too close. She did as she was told and sat up straight, feeling cold and vulnerable. She didn't look at him, staring at her hands instead.

Callahan studies her face shortly, and suppresses a million uncomfortable memories in doing so.

"When people tell yous to use a condom, it ain't jus' t'keep ye from squattin' out wee freckl'd babies," he starts less-than-elegantly. "It's also ta protect yourself from gettin' sick, gettin' illnesses. They's called sexually transmitted diseases; them STDs you were wonderin' about. Most o' them're annoyin' 'n gross at worst, some o' them're... real nasty pieces o' work," he says in a perfectly neutral tone of voice and stirs the tea with a spoon. "Remember, humans excel at precisely one bloody thing, and that's getting themselves fuck'd up in spectacular ways, any way possible. Y'kin get sick from anythin'. Sex ain't some magic exemption."

Tensions were so high that she couldn't suppress a nervous laugh at 'wee freckl'd babies,' but sobered up as he went on. Why hadn't anyone told her about this? Or had she just not been listening? She's quiet for a moment after he stops talking.

"I can't have babies, I had a surgery t' make it so. I thought it was enough..." She felt stupid. She was stupid. Of course the only nice thing in her life was gonna screw her over, of course it was.

Callahan reaches out with a loose wrist and raises the mug to blow at the steam. He looks at Gladys over the edge with half-lidded eyes.

"Not knowin' this ain't uncommon," he says with a tired voice. "No' uncommon a' all."

She can only muster a soft "Oh," and then sinks back into contemplative silence. Medic or not, she really didn't want to continue discussing this with him. Or with anyone for that matter. But she wasn't the only one in the equation here, what if Andy got sick too?

"So, so now what?"

"... regardless o' yer sexual history, an' how often ye been usin' protection," if at all, "... it's advisable fer ye t'get a gynaecological examination, t'put it in fancy words. In layman's terms, have a doctor on base give yousser undercarriage a checkup. Might involve superficial questions 'bout past behaviour. Make sure it be someone ye trust t'handle it professionally," he warns and sounds a bit too weary as he looks into the tea and wishes he hadn't ran out of sugar already.

Of course these people aren't properly educated. Hall was not the exemption, he's the fucking poster boy. Christ, he's yet to see that trembling trainwreck try to lift a hand at the BLUs in battle. It's going to bring tears to their eyes. In all the wrong fucking ways.

Gladys deflates even further and sinks somewhat into the chair. She mentally goes through the list of team medics and can't think of a single one she'd want doing such a checkup. Getting naked for someone was for intimacy, not for science. Probably why she'd avoided it for so long.

"And if there ain't anyone I trust?"

Callahan sends her a weary glare. "... it's bloody daft not havin' it done."

He drums fingers on the porcelain of the mug. Sighs.

"Bu' no doctor kin make ye do anythin' like tha' if ye don' want it happenin'."

"Yes, I know," she sighs, defeated. "I--I'll think on it alright." She pauses, glances at him, looks away again, "Ah, thank you, fer talkin' to me."

"It's me job," he replies with a noncommittal shrug. "In any case, remember t'have a rubber enter th' scene from now on," he adds a bit sternly. "There's a supply here, so's ye got no excuses except bein' dumb or drunk. An' those are interchangeable."

Callahan sips his tea with an air of finality about him, like the topic's closed for now.

Gladys nods, and looks sufficiently whipped. "Yessir." She bites her lower lip and glances at the door. Zach isn't coming. Or he saw them talking and decided to call it a night. She can't remember who is avoiding whom at this point. "Should I leave you alone then?"

"I'm sure you got things t'be thinkin' 'bout," Callahan answers concisely and puts the empty mug on the tray next to the by now very sad-looking toast. "... ta fer th' tea." And the extra worry, bloody hell. Another little kid who doesn't know their ass from their elbow.

He drums the table again, shortly. Looking like he wants to say something.

Shakes his head, then gives a her a short look. "Up th' yard, laddie. An' take this wi' ye." He points at the tray.

"Yes, ah, thank you." She stands and removes the tray. As she reaches the door she looks back, "And, sorry," and leaves.

Callahan folds his arms over the table. Looks up at the ceiling.

"Yeah. Lord knows we're all sorry."

And goes back to work. Like nothing of lingering interest took place.