Max raps on the door with her knuckles. Today she's wearing her overalls and a bleach-stained brown corduroy jacket. There's a glorious bruise tinting the jaw along the left side of her face. In her hands she holds a bucket around which has been tied a green ribbon with gold reindeer embossed here and there, apparently recycled from someone's Christmas garbage.

Bernie is curled comfortably in a corner of the shockingly green couch, surrounded by books, most of which seem to be along the lines of "Amazing But True" volumes on various supernatural and psychic phenomena or treatises on hoaxes of the above. There's a notebook in her lap, which she scribbles in periodically as she scans one of the books. This, of course, changes at the sound of the knock. She quickly sets the things aside and unfolds, peeking through the little hole in the door before she opens it, grinning. "Hey," she greets the other Ragabash, grinning, "'sup? Y'Santa t'day?"

Max grins back at Bernie and pushes the empty bucket into her hands as she walks into the flat and begins poking around. "People with pads gotta have shit to clean up with." She says this like a doctor would prescribe aspirin and a morning phone call, taking in the room from all angles, the books on the table, the sofa. She then heads for the kitchen and checks out the refrigerator. "Where's Carmen Sandiego?" She closes the refrigerator without taking anything out and heads back into the front room.

"Prolly one step 'heada Interpol," Bernie replies, closing the door and giving the bucket and good once over. "Thanks... Matt's at work, but he prolly oughta be off shift anytime now..." She proceeds to the kitchen, and sets the bucket on on edge of the kitchen counter, flashing a grin over at Max. "'sa nice place, innit?" she remarks, sounding quite pleased with it.

"It rocks, chica. Carmen picks up the tab?" This is asked as if it were not even close to being an intrusive question. But then what question would Max consider intrusive? She meanders down the hall, poking around in the rooms there.

Bernie doesn't, in fact, seem to consider it intrusive; she answers readily enough, "...yeah, 's his place, jus' lets me stay here. An' sadly I'm trust-fund free so I can't help that much yet, y'know? Alas." She shrugs slightly, looking momentarily upset, but it passes swiftly. She trails along behind Max, hands in her jeans pockets. Her own pockets, that is.

Max heads back out of the second bedroom and back down the hall past Bernie to flop on the sofa with much more care than she typically would. "Yo. Yo puttin' the lib-ary out of bus'ness?" Picking up a book, Max looks it over then shoots Bernie a calculating, fascinated expression.

Bernie leans over the back of the sofa, crossing her arms on it, and shrugs again, but grinning this time. "More like Barnes'n'Noble, they don' get better s'cur'ty... di'n' wanna get too mucha 'em from th' lib'ry, 'case someone goes lookin' an' gets all s'picious. 's a Project. Distractin' weirdos from th' whole bones d'bacle."

"Fuckin' brilliant," Max mutters almost more to herself than to Bernie. She flips through the pages of the book she holds, but too fast to read any one passage, then looks back to Bernie. "Whatcha done so far?"

Bernie pushes back up straight and steps around the couch, plopping inelegantly onto the sofa proper, and leans over to pick up her notebook, flipping back a few pages. She turns it where Max can see it then, and replies, "Made some crop circles, th' other night. With some spooky lights in th' sky for 'ffect." The page she displays is covered in small writing in what sort of looks like greek, and a careful sketch of a group of circles, with a bunch of little numbers and measurements.

Max takes the offered notebook and looks it over, fascinated and perhaps a little impressed. "You's the rock /an/ the roll, Burn. Where'dya do it?" She points to the Greek parts. "An what's that?"

The multitude of locks on the door rattle and thunk in a performance not quite worthy of Stomp. At the end of it, a tired Fianna cub slides into the living room wearing his work uniform.

"Thank you," Bernie replies, pleased, and grabs a map from beside the couch. It's obviously someone's sketch of the area, xeroxed from a book or some such. "Right about.... there," she says, stabbing a finger into a decidedly rural bit, and continues, "...an' 's my notes. I got five siblings, no way in hell I'm keepin' my notes in English, right? So..." She breaks off at the noise of the door, glancing toward it, and grins wider again as Matt enters. "Hey, you," she greets him. "Look, we gotta guest."

Max's gaze flickers up from the maps to take in post-work Matt. "Dude," she greets with a mild smirk, her dark eyes sharp behind her hair.

Matt musters up a grin for Bernie, which segues into a look of dismay seeing Max as well. "Oh fuck. Two No Moons in My flat. Oi'm doomed. Beer?" The grin returns and he heads for the fridge, for himself, if no one else.

"Yeah, a'ight," the other cub replies, leaning over the arm of the couch to talk toward Matt, "...We're plottin' t' blow th' place up. Y'don' mind, do ya?"

Max draws one booted foot up onto the couch and wraps her arms around the knee as she watches after Matt. "Nah. I's good." She looks back to Bernie with a briefly amused gaze. "So what is it? Fuckin' Egyptian or somethin?"

"Joost wait until after tomorrow, will ye? Oi don't wanta be here." Matt pulls a Guinness from the top of the fridge (no need to actually open it) and pops the top with a 'psssht-tok.' "Lookin' frough the Book o' Madness?" he indicates the notebook with the can.

"Trade secret," Bernie tells Max, grinning again. "Th' alph'bet, though, tha's Greek. Mostly. An' awww," she looks back to Matt with a mock-pout, "you're no fun. 'f you don' wanna 'tend th' 'splosion I guess I jus' won't bother. Hmph."

Max listens to Bernie's half revelation, then follows her look back to Matt. "I dunno. He'd look /good/ on fire, f'you ask me." There's something disturbingly sincere about Max's observation.

Matt raises an eyebrow. Failing to find an adequate rejoinder, he sets his beer on the dining table and starts for the bedroom. "Oi'm gettin' outa these. Gotta do laundry when Oi get back." He pulls his shirt over his head as he goes, revealing the wreck that is his back.

Bernie tracks him with her eyes for a moment, then pushes up and steals his beer. Well, he never gave her the one he offered... She drops back into her seat again, pulling her legs up indian-style on the cushion. "No settin' th' Fianna on fire," she admonishes the other Ragabash seriously, and takes a sip of the beer before breaking into a wide, mischievous smile, "...'cept Steven. 'cause THAT was fuckin' hilarious. I'm up for a sequel."

Max mutters to Bernie after watching Matt down the hall, "What the hell cat used /him/ for a scratchin' post?" The admonition gets a bare, dismissive wave of Max's free hand -- the other is still wrapped around her knee. She glances down at her blue fingernails and begins picking at one while asking offhandedly, "Someone lit Steven up?"

Matt absently leaves the door to the bedroom open, but is thankfully wearing boxers when he pulls off his work jeans and rolls into something more blue-denimish. A PiL t-shirt completes his ensemble, and he fishes for fresh socks before returning to the living room.

Bernie darkens a bit at the reference to the scars, and just leaves the whole topic alone. The second question, though, she addresses quite enthusiastically. "Yup. Sepdet. They were havin' this li'l spat in th' Barn, see, an' he tells her t' kiss his ass. So she does. In the forma this fireball, =right= onna seata his pants. Practic'ly strained somethin' tryin' not t' laugh. He's all rollin' around t' put it out..." She grins at the memory, shaking her head. "Oh, so an' then a li'l later, he's all telling Sepdet she owes him some pants now, so she goes, fine, an' heads outta th' barn, an' then th' door opens an' she throws her li'l like size zero jeans at him...." She snickers, taking another drink of the stolen beer.

Max lifts her gaze from her fingernails to Bernie as she relates the story, her grin rising reflexively. "How the /hell/'d I miss that?" She shakes her head a little. "What'd he do? Run lupe?"

Matt looks over to the table as he pulls on fresh socks. "Where's my...oh. Roight." He rises, sockfooted, to get another beer from the top of the fridge.

Bernie almost looks guilty. But only almost. The memory is still amusing enough to counter such things. "He took 'em an' tied 'em round his waist t' cover th' burnt spot... an' 'parently he had another pair nearby t' change inta, but anyhow." She giggles again. "It was great. Though, t' his credit, gotta say, Big'n'Scary took it pretty well, overall. Given it was his moon an' all."

Max shrugs, looking not at all sorry for the Fianna, "You dish it out with a shovel like he does, you gotta learn to eat fast." There's a pregnant pause, then Max says suddenly, "Like, yo, you need help with this X Files shit, I's so there."

Matt finally pulls on his shoes and joins Bernie and Max around the notebook. "So, Oi suppose yer wonderin' why Oi called this meetin'...

"Nah, jus' you've figured out who killed Lord Alderberry an' you're gonna let us know, right, C'lumbo? I still say th' Butler did it..." She moves over a little, making room for Matt to join the raggies on the couch, and adds to Max, "...an' cool beans. I was plannin' t' r'cruit ya anyhow, so tha's handy an' all, y'know?"

Max winks at her partner in auspice then scoots back into her own corner and sets her chin on her knee, assessing the Fianna thoughtfully.

Matt plops down between the two Ragabash. He turns to Bernie to stick his tongue out, then to Max. "Well, ye may 'ave noticed the place isn't exactly...'omey." He glances up to the humming instustrial fluorescent light that serves for the livingroom. "Books 'ere tells me you've done /wonderful/ fings to...wif Signe's flat."

"Oh yeah," Bernie agrees, with a nod, all innocence, "reg'lar Martha Stewart an' all." She can't keep that up, though, and falls back into a grin, sipping 'her' drink.

Max smirks a little at that. "You want 'n attitude a-fucking-justment in paint form?" she asks Matt, brows lifting a little. Then, glancing up to the light, "I ain't so good at 'lectric shit."

Matt shrugs. "The lights, those Oi can fix later, neh? Just though ye might like ta do some paintin' that won't earn you one o' those." He indicates her bruise with his chin. "Oi've got ta leave fer a while tamarra, but Book 'ere 'as a key. 'ave fun if ye loike."

"'cept th' ceiling in there," Bernie remarks, gesturing vaguely to the larger of the bedrooms, "...got plans for that already." The room's light gets a speculative look... but not a very long one, given the brightness. She blinks a few times as she lowers her gaze again, the view already burnt in.

Max eyes Matt with a suspicious look. "You into harsh or bright, or Ethan Allen, or what?" It's a disconcerting thing, sitting next to a ragabash whose wheels are turning.

A brief 'I Have no Idea What You're On About' look crosses Matt's face. "Um...I'm /not/ inta this look, whotever ye call it." He gestures vaguely about. "Just bear in mind that someone else might come in 'ere. No Veil Breaches painted on the walls in the w.c."

Max nibbles on her lip thoughtfully, glancing around the room. "Yeah. No shit. So .. whatchoo into? Nature shit, abstract color, tagging mess or some kinda story?"

Bernie leans over and very casually switches the beers, giving Matt back his original one. Then she relaxes back into the cushions and just listens.

Matt is taken a bit aback. "Well, uh...Oi 'adn't really fought about it, actually. Didn't reckon Oi'd 'ave a choice anyway." :he reaches for 'his' beer, and nearly splashes it all over himself when it is lighter than he expected, by half.

The corners of Max's lips quirk upward and she shrugs. "I ain't no color-by-number freak, but it'd rock the casbah more'f'it had somethin' t'do with your shit."

Bernie smirks behind 'her' can at Matt's near mishap, quickly rearranging her features into a semblance of innocence again as she sips. She remains quiet, but it looks as though she might be trying to think of something to suggest.

Matt frowns. "Y'mean loike personal 'istory an' all? Dunno if the stunts Oi've pulled'd make great art, but..." he shrugs. "Oi can fill ye in sometime, Oi s'pose, sure."

Max suddenly bounds up from the sofa. "I gotta jam. You guys up for some comp'ny later?" She's a little hesitant about the question, slouching to a hip to offset the query.

Matt nods. "Sure an' Oi'm not goin' anywhere."

Bernie seconds it. "Yeah, don' see why not. Gonna be figurin' stuff out mosta th' day, I 'spect."

Max is already heading for the door. "Happy Bucket." she calls over her shoulder, then with surprising agility she unbolts the series of locks and opens the door. "Tah!" And the ragabash is gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

There, after a few moments, can be heard scratching at the door. The tapping is at a steady rhythm, as if knocking, and a soft whine can be heard outside. Dog. You like us dogs. You want to let dogs in...

Bernie sets her can down, reaching over toward a newspaper among her books and papers, and pauses at the sounds at the door. She smiles slightly and shakes her head, leaning in to steal a very quick and light kiss from the Fianna before she stands and heads to peek out the little spyhole in the door.

Smokes-the-Weed is standing away from the door, looking up towards the spyhole. The Gnawer is wagging his tail. Down here! He shakes his head, mostly to get a stray floopy ear out of his eye.

Matt perks on the couch, looking confused. "Whot th' bloody is it then, Books?" Not disturbed, mostly curious.

"It's," Bernie replies, brow furrowing as she tries to recognize the dog in the slightly distorted view the glass gives, "...Joey. Wow, 'parently th' Dec'dence's th' place t' =be=, t'day." She opens the door, the locks still being undone from Max's exit, and steps back behind it a bit as she does so, so as not to risk being jumped on. "Hey," she greets the mutt, "'sup?"

Smokes-the-Weed doesn't appear ready for jumping, though that does not mean he is in a bad mood, either. His ears perk up as he sees who does answer the door. Hi! His tail wags again. I did not expect to see you here, he explains, and walks towards the door. At the doorstep, he remembers one important thing; he's a guest. So, he wipes his feet off on the mat, in Lupus, before he walks inside. I wanted to visit the friend of our Tribe.

~Be welcome, Smokes-the-Weed~ Matt greets. He shrugs sheepishly. "Oi'm afraid Oi took the steaks to the Church already, or Oi'd offer you one. 'ave a salmon offa the icebox, if ye'd like, though."

Bernie closes the door behind the canid, relocking it behind him. "Niceta seeya," she remarks, and heads part of the way over to the fridge, in case Joey wants to take Matt up on the offer. Not that wolves are notoriously good with cans.

Smokes-the-Weed shakes his head quickly. No, but thank you he says, formally. He looks around towards the windows, then back to his hosts. May I shed this dog skin? I would rather have thumbs again.

Matt says "O'course!" Matt nods. "No one 'ere but us cubs."

Bernie makes a silly chicken noise, and heads back over to her spot on the couch by the Fianna, reclaiming her beer, and the newspaper she'd earlier started to pick up. There are various books lying all about, as well as a notebook and some papers.

Smokes-the-Weed looks all-too-relieved at this, and quickly changes to his more-familiar birth form. "Gah," he says. "Thanks." Looking to Matt quickly, he says, "We got the steaks. I wanted to get up here and give you a formal thanks for it. Gnawers are a lot busy sometimes, and we don't get around to the folks that mean somethin' to us."

Matt blushes. "Oh, it's nuffin' special. Doesn't cost /me/ anyfing, saves /you/ the trouble of rootin' around in the dumpster for steaks, an'...it never 'urts ta have friends, eh?"

Joey just smiles. "Course it don't," he admits. "Especially with the Gnawers. I know Elan all up and said this already, but just to remind ya, Matt, if you ever need anything, call on us. We know all the cool shit."

Bernie smiles at Matt, and pulls her legs up indian style again, bootless, as she glances through the newspapers section swiftly, sipping her beer. Suddenly, she grins widely, and sets the can aside, carefully pulling one sheet from the paper and folding it neatly to frame one article before handing it sans comment to the other cub.

Matt takes the paper without looking at it for a moment. "Fanks, Joey. I may be comin' to ye soon, ta learn some fing, if ye care ta teach 'em. Oi 'ope ta be Rited soon. Oi'm goin' tomorrow." He lets this news hit the elder Gnawer, then looks down at the paper. "Oh my," he manages, after reading it.

Joey looks like something hit him in the back of the head, and it takes him a moment or two to recover. Inwardly, he chides himself for letting himself be caught off guard. "What," he asks. Whether he's asking about the Rite, or what the kids are looking for/through, he doesn't specify.

"What what?" Bernie replies innocently, looking rather like the proverbial feline who recently consumed the songbird as she finishes off her drink.

Matt flashes Bernie a mischievous grin, and passes the paper back. "Savin' that one, are we?" he asks. Then he turns back to Joey. "Whot? Me Rite? As much of a surprise ta me, mate. Brian-rhya joost turns up at the corn and tells me. 'One week.' So Oi've been studyin'."

Joey smirks, just so. "The Elders like you, if'n they're giving you a warning," he blabs out. He smiles, though. "About fucking time, though. Hell, you should have been rited months ago." His eyes go to the newspapers. "Ok, humor me..."

"Long 's th' wrong people don' find out," Bernie replies, and holds the article out to the elder Ragabash. "...an' hell yeah, 's 'bout time." She shakes her head, glancing skyward.

Matt thinks, realizing Joey was probably asking more than one thing. "As fer learnin' fings, there are some Rites. But Megan's told me on more than one occasion it'll 'ave ta wait 'til after me Rite. Since that's soon, Oi wanta find out whot there is ta learn."

Joey reads the proffered article. "Shee-it," he says, Southern accent becoming a bit more pronounced. "That..." he looks up. "You two are looking for signs, ain'tcha? Things that, yo, we might have been a part of, and what the humans are finding?" Matt gets a wide grin. "I only know the one, called Questing Stone. You use an object or something, and it leads you to where it is, most of the time." He seems all too happy to talk about this one. "Found my parents in Seattle a few months ago using it, after Elan taught me."

Bernie grins wider, managing not to laugh... barely.... and glances sidelong at Matt. "Oh," she replies casually, "I'm pretty damn sure we mighta been a parta that..." She trails off, leaving it there, and reaches over to steal Matt's beer. He doesn't seem to be using it, after all.

Matt snorts, then starts laughing, hiding his face behind the back of his hand. "Maybe..." he tries again. "...maybe just a little. Hee." The stolen beer doesn't really bother him, it was nearly empty anyway.

Joey, beerless and not really piping up about it, /yet,/ looks over the picture again. he winces, visibly. "Mother of God," he mutters. "Don't tell me..."

"Won't tell you," Bernie replies obligingly, continuing to grin like a particularly proud maniac. Matt's beer has the temerity to be empty when she tries to take another sip, so she gathers both empties and carts them into the kitchen, taking another down for him by way of apology. Joey gets a look, and a somewhat teasing, "...sure y'still don' wan' that beer?"

"The Caern," Joey says, thinking. "Or someplace really close, or something you two cooked up to keep humasn off our trails, I dunno." He giver Bernie a look. "What beer? Matt said he had salmon."

Matt is the picture of innocence. "What, you fink we cubs captured aliens and are keeping them at the Caern? Doan't be daft. We'd keep 'em 'ere. In the spare room." he points. "An' a salmon is a beer, ye Yank. A Stout, ta be specific. We 'ave Guinness, served at a totally appropriate twenty-one degrees." He grins, archly.

Bernie sometimes forgets Matt-translation is a specialized skill. She shakes her head slightly as Joey reminds her of this fact, and holds out a Guinness to the other Gnawer. "Behold, a salmon," she announces as she offers it. "an' you're gettin' close, but no cigar."

"I was gonna ask Matt for one of those next," Joey admits. He looks back, again, to the Fianna. "You know corrupting our cubs like this isn't right. Leaves me with nothing to do," he says with a wink and an innocent look skyward. "So...ok, you two went out for some kicks and made these circles?"

Bernie hands the beer over, with look of mock-offense. "Hey, who says =he's= corruptin' =me=? 'less y' mean by teachin' me taste in bev'rages, in which case, 's worth it..." So saying, she drags another pair from the fridge, returning to the couch and passing one to the Fianna. "Not 'zactly for kicks. Well. Not =just= f'r kicks. See, Tecmessa an' Leda put me in chargea distractin' an' discreditin' th' weirdos who're all flockin' t' town lookin' for Bigfoot proof, what with th' bones an' all... so, ta da! Figured we might as well start out with a bang." She gains a major smirk, glancing sidelong at Matt and remarking, "...y' damn fool hippie kid."

Matt makes a fist, extends his thumb and pinky fingers and waggles. "Peace, man," he adds, accepting his beer. It rattles as she passes it, at least it does until he opens it. It clinks open with a hiss, and he taps it on the table before knocking back approximately half of it.

Joey just...shakes his head. "I have to start hearing more about this stuff," he mutters. "Bad enough the one gets all-" he cuts himself off as he realizes he is thinking way out loud, and shakes it off, or tries to. "Hippie...Matt...hippie...no. Ok, wow, that so does not work on so many levels. No tie-dye for instance. Nor illegals, for that matter."

Bernie tuts fondly at Matt. "Nonono, that's surfers, that's like," she makes the same hand motion, and puts on a slow, low 'surfer' voice, "Duuuuuuuuuuuude, hang loose." Back to normal, she continues, "Hippies are like," an equally slow, but infinitely calmer, almost stoned tone, as she lifts two fingers into the peaces sign, "Like, peace out, man, flower power..." She drops that as well, and sips her beer, grinning, before replying to Joey, "...an' yeah, I know, but that's what he called us, yeah? Got halfa mind t' send him a note, 'Dear sir, we take exception to your characterization of us as "damn fool hippie kids." We are, in fact, damn fool punk or hoodlum kids, and would prefer you apply the proper terminology. Thank you.' ....'course, then we'd be screwin' up th' aliens-did-it angle, an' what good'd that be? Guess we'll jus' hafta suffer."

Matt raises an eyebrow. "/You/ didn't know me in me 'glory days'.... Me an' Tom an' Blackjack. Oi was never as ripped as Tom, but...well, no one was." He glances to Bernie and takes in his hippie lesson. "Got it." He gives her a peace sign. "Duuude."

Joey almost spits out his beer as Matt makes a go at it. Almost, mind. Gnawers learn one thing early on; don't piss Signe off. The other thing is don't spill the beer. He pulls the can away from his mouth and roars. "Yeah, you got those Children of Gaia beat, flower child."

Bernie laughs as well, replying much more naturally -- and surferly -- "Dude!" She gives him a friendly sideways nudge, and goes back to sipping her beer. "We'll be 'rrangin' Woodstock Mark Three anyday now, this rate."

Matt chuckles. "All roight, all roight. Oi'll leave it to you Yanks. Joost doan't try ta get all punk on me, or Oi'll 'ave ta show ye whot /real/ moshin' is loike. Oi!" He grins, slams down the rest of his beer, and crushes the can against his forehead. "Learned that from a bloke whot we called 'the German.'"

Joey smiles, again. "Then you'll just have to show us what real moshing is, then. And, let me guess. Called him the German because he was from Germany?"

Bernie laughs more at the display, and shakes her head, drinking her own can much, much more slowly. "I'm kina hopin' it was 'cause he was choc'late with coconut on top..."

Matt shakes his head. "Oh, no, 'e was from Stutney. He joost wore one o' those German motorbike 'elmets wif th' spike on it. /All th' time./ Wouldn't bloody take it off! Completely bent, 'e was, an' last Oi 'eard, he was in th' kitchen for a pony."

Joey lets out a short laugh, feigning ignorance. "So how's he smash beer cans against his head without getting them stuck on the point? Or was that his way of keeping track?" Blink. Joey makes a mental note to bone up on MattSpeak in the future. "What was that last part?"

"A pony," Matt sighs. "Twenny-five years."

Joey nods, getting it now. "Ah, ok. What'd he do?"

Bernie considers the helmet. "Gotta be handy inna fight... bet they made him take it off once he got inside, though." She sips her drink.

Matt smiles, as the light dawns. "Possession, manufacture an' sale. 'e was a trainspotter, on the side. Bit of an anorak, actually. An' yes, most pubs made 'im take it off inside."

Joey looks skyward, muttering, "Not illegal if you don't get caught, mind."

Bernie hehs. "Not th' 'inside' I meant, but yeah..." She glances over to Joey, and tilts her head, with a half-smile. "'s what onea my friends always said... 's not illegal less they catch ya. I always told him it was illegal anyhow. Jus' di'n' =matter= 'less they catch ya."

Joey just flashes a grin. "But where's the fun in that?"

Matt covers his ears. "Doan't fill my head with sooch nonsense th' night before my Rite of Passage as a =philodox=! Are you chicken oriental? Oi'll fail for certain, now."

Bernie grins mischievously at Matt. "Serves y' right for hangin' with Ragabash. An' y'won't. You'll kick severe ass, aided by th' flexibility of mind an' interpretation imparted by y'r fellows. Meanin' us." To Joey, she continues, cheerfully, "...an' nowhere, 'less you're really inta fast-talkin' as a good time. Us'ly th' fun's in =not= gettin' caught..."

"For me," Joey drawls to Bernie, with another mischievous grin, "Fast-talkin's a career choice." Then, hearing Matt, the Gnawer just blinks. He stops his train of thought, and walks until he's right in front of Matt. He drops his hands on the Fianna's shoulders. "Listen, Matt. Just this once, and listen good. You have got to be, without a doubt, one of the most level-headed people I've ever met. Comma dammit fucking period. You're going to pass, you got that?"

Matt yawns, inappropraitely. "Sorry. Oi know, Oi know. Dunno if I'm /the/ most level 'eaded"--he steals a glance to Bernie--"but Oi make do. Oi'm surrounded by no-moons most days. you should be 'appy to know a half-moon wif a sense of yumor." he's smirking big time, now. "Anyway, Oi promised me pitch Oi'd work tomorrow since Oi'm askin' fer anovver fortnight off. So Oi /should/ bo peep, neh?"

Joey chuckles, letting himself smile. "I can translate that. 'Joey, take your beer and get the fuck out,'" he says, not at all bugged by it. He picks up said beer, since he does like it. "I better scoot, anyways." He goes serious for a moment. "Good luck, Matthew Fulton. I'll be one of those waiting."

"Know I am," Bernie replies to the other cub, smirking back a tad, "...an' yeah, I =guess=, =maybe=, y'oughta." She flashes a grin at Joey, giving him a wave. "'s niceta seeya, by th' way. Jus' 'bout never do, lately."

Joey shrugs at that. "Been messing with the sewers, mostly. Look me up in the next few days, 'kay? I'll be around."

"Fanks, Joey, and...fanks." Matt smiles, and gets up to show the elder, um, ranking, Gnawer out.

Joey leaves with no muss, no fuss.

Bernie sighs, and stretches, finishing most of her beer and setting the remainder aside for now. "Not gonna see ya much for a while then, huh? D'ya think it'll really take two weeks?" She pushes up form the couch to stand.

Matt shrugs, pessimistically. "Oi fookin' 'ope not. But, it might. Depends on where the Righ takes me, neh?" He moves from the door, meeting her on the way to the bedroom.

Bernie bites her lower lip lightly, and nods. "S'pose so, yeah. Well, we already all know you'll ace it, you'll jus' hafta try an' do it =fast=, too." She smiles at him a bit.

Matt waggles his eyebrows. "Aww. An' Oi so prefer takin' my time..." He punctuates this statement with little kisses on the back of her neck.

Bernie shivers, and laughs a little, ducking her head. She reaches back in a doomed attempt to hug him behind her, and turns around instead, doing it the much easier way, and stealing a kiss from his lips in the meantime. "Well. Y'don' hafta hurry with =ev'rythin'=," she relents.

Matt laughs, taking her hands and guiding her down onto the pile of blankets. "Probably the last good night of sleep Oi'll get in a while, hmm?"

"Prolly," Bernie agrees, allowing herself to be guided. "Likely for me, too... so I guess we better try t' make it a particularly good one, considerin'."

Matt pulls his shirt off and kicks off his boots, then sits down to take off his pants. He is left, lying next to Bernie in his boxers and necklace. He tucks an arm under her head, and lays there, staring at the ceiling. It may be a while before sleep actually overcomes him.

After a little consideration, Bernie partially disrobes as well, pushing the clothing out of the nest and cuddling closely and quietly in, an arm across Matt's abdomen as she moves her head slightly to rest against his chest, and listen to his heartbeat.

Matt's breathing slowly becomes regular, his eyelids droop, and eventually all his worries pass away, as he drifts, finally, into slumber.