In the front rooms, Tobin walks in the front door, stomping more dirt off his boots on the doormat, saying over his shoulder, "... are you sure you don't want me to look for a drill? It would probably relieve some pressure, or knock you unconscious from the pain at the very least..."

In the front rooms, Jervis looks up at Tobin and squints. "When Jokes Go Bad, Part Five." he says, dead pan and irritated.

In the front rooms, Tobin looks back at Jervis while walking into the room and says seriously, "What joke?"

There's a mild cacophony in the kitchen. It's not Bernie's singing in and of itself -- she's actually surprisingly good, with a fairly warm alto voice that hits quite a high percentage of the notes it's aiming for -- but combined with the clatter as she unpacks several grocery bags she must have brought here, it's a bit... well, on the noisy side. There's a beat-up little red wagon, radio-flyer type, beside the kitchen table, one bag still on it. "...an' th' cotton is hiiiiigh.... well, yo' Daddy's rich, an' yo' momma's good loooookin', so --" The sound of people arriving cuts the song off, and as she glances through the arch to see who it is, she seems to be blushing slightly. "Hey," she greets the cubs, and moves the last of the bags to the table.

In the front rooms, Jervis looks up at the stranger, and winces. The veins on his temples, if you look closely enough, are pulsing like worms under his skin. "Hi." he manages.

In the front rooms, Tobin blinks at the presence of a person in the house who wasn't there when he left. He, too, squints, a look of vague recognition coming over his face, "Oh, it's you. Hello, um, Bernie?"

"Tell th' cub what he's won!" Bernie exclaims, though not =too= loudly, and pitches a banana through the doorway at Tobin. She didn't buy any cigars. "Tobin an', lesse, Jervis, yeah? Of th' Country Cub Set, 's I recall..." Her brow furrows with something akin to concern as she regards the other Ragabash. "Damn, you look like shit," she remarks bluntly, "you a'ight?"

In the front rooms, Jervis puts his hand over his face again, and loads up the sarcasm cannons. "Oh, dandy. Wonderful. Beautiful."

In the front rooms, Tobin doesn't have time to blink at the banana flying at him but somehow manages to snatch it out of the air by pure reflex. He peers at it for a moment like he's not quite sure what to do with it, and then scowl/smirks at Jervis' response, "Don't mind him, he hasn't slept for three or so days." He eyes Bernie with a calculating glance, saying, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a car, would you?"

Bernie smirks at Jervis. "This is you healthy an' happy? Too bad. In that case you might look inta th' wonders of cosmetic surgery," she retorts dryly, and goes back to unpacking food, adding it to what's already on the table. Lots of meat, veggies, canned goods, and... a hell of a lot of beer for a place that mostly hosts minors. And how'd she buy it, anyhow? She doesn't look 21. "Infirm'ry's onna second floor," she remarks idly while she works, "...various drugs there. Might be sleepin' pills. Or I could prolly knock you out if you thought it'd help. I mean, hey, always glad t' be of service." Another slight smirk there, and eventually she answers Tobin: "Yeah. Ferrari. I just use th' wagon for style points..." She pulls one of the bottles of Guinness from its fourpack, and leans against the table, popping the lid off with a quick, superior glance, and catching it out of the air before she takes a sip. "...no. No car. Other people have 'em, though; whatcha need it for?"

In the front rooms, Jervis perks up, just a little, and remarks wearily. "Ooh, Guinness. Someone knows their beer." The smile is weak, but genuine.

In the front rooms, Tobin blinks, "There's an infirmary here?" He peers around suspiciously, apparently wondering where it's been hiding.

"Second floor," Bernie confirms, "Tylenol, Neosporin, an' ladies' lingerie. I'm prolly lying on th' last one. I hope." Jervis's comment gets a grin, and a light shrug. "Yeah, I had this li'l Fianna influence in my cubhood, see... 's got its side-effects." She takes another sip, making a gestures toward the other three that fairly plainly indicates the Fangs are welcome to grab one if they want.

In the front rooms, Jervis doesn't respond to the offer of beer. "I'm--" he winces and curses under his breath. "I'm gonna go look, I guess." He turns to Tobin on his way up the stairs. "Tobin. Get drunk. It'll do you good, I'm certain of it."

In the front rooms, Tobin looks at Jervis and gestures towards Bernie, "See that? That's /exactly/ what Lady Jefferson warned us about, about the Fianna." As Jervis starts heading up he lightly lays a hand on his tribemate's shoulder and says, "Ohhh no you don't, you sit down and have a beer. /I'll/ go upstairs and get you some drugs to mix with your alcohol. Besides, the alcohol in your blood will help dilate the capilaries in your brain and relieve pressure."

Bernie arches a brow at Tobin, amused, "What -- that they might teach you t' be discriminatin' in your choicea alcoholic beverages? Horrors. Next thing y'know they'll be teachin' ya how t' cook, too."

In the front rooms, Jervis puts his other hand on his tribemate's shoulder, and bit more firmly. "This is the part where you slip Ergot into my drink or something, right? No. _You're_ schizo. Thanks anyway, though." He begins to make his way up.

In the front rooms, Tobin scowls at Jervis' departing back and mutters incomprehensible. He makes his way into the kitchen and starts poking and sniffing at the groceries. To Bernie he says, somewhat haughtily, "I /know/ how to cook, thank you." His eyebrows go up at some of the food he sees and he nods appreciatively, "I could make some very tasty things out of this. Good job."

"=Do= you!" Bernie replies, expression far too innocently pleased and surprised, fighting the tiny smile that tries to take over her lips, "Kickass. You c'n make dinner, then. I'm sure it'll be fab." Congratulations, you've been volunteered. Drink in one hand, she busies herself putting things away with the other. The Guinness all ends up in the pantry, the cheap beer in the fridge, where it's joined by most of the meat and veggies, gradually.

Tobin eyes Bernie suspiciously for moment, and then nods, looking determined. He wanders out of the kitchen and upstairs, returning very shortly but without his jacket and wearing, of all things, an apron over his normal clothes. He roots around in the kitchen for implements and to find his way around. In just a few minutes he has rapidly assembled pots and pans and ingredients and is starting to cook several dishes at once.

All the food's made it to the proper place, when the cub returns, and the Gnawer's relaxing in one of the chairs, her jacket hanging over the back of it while she calmly nurses her beer. She's reading a book, and has her feet propped up on another chair. Someone's work here is done, apparently.

Tobin chops onions at a rate that threatens to add bits of his fingers to the mix but somehow doesn't. Ingredients are mixed together and a hot pan sizzles loudly. Tasty scents fill the air as the cooking progresses. Tobin hums absently to himself while working but doesn't say anything while he does so.

Bernie lifts her focus from the book long enough to watch a moment, and sniff the air approvingly. Returning to her pleasant, relaxing combination of book and beer, she comments absently, "Smells good."

Tobin is apparently engrossed in his work and it takes him a few moments to answer, "Hmmmm? Oh, yes it does, doesn't it? My father's recipe." He says all this absently before returning his full attention to the food. Just a few minutes later two plates clatter onto the table and Tobin announces, "Order UP!" probably a bit more loudly than he needs to. The food is apparently some kind of gyro-like dish with... yaki-soba looking noodles on the side? Weird, but it smells good. He sits down opposite Bernie and looks dumbly at his food.

Bernie tilts her head at the dish, and regards it a moment. She doesn't poke a finger at it to see if it moves or anything, but looks briefly as if she might like to. It does smell good, though, so that passes quickly, and she gathers up her silverware and digs in.

Tobin alternates between glancing at Bernie and staring blankly at his food for a minute, before shaking his head and just eating it.

Bernie pauses, glancing over to the cub as she notices the mannerism. "What?" she queries.

Tobin shakes his head again, slurping up some noodles before answering, "I'm just not used to being able to sit down and eat something I've made, right after I've made it. It's usually meant for someone else, see." Munch munch chew.

Bernie considers that, munching another bite, washing it down before she asks, "...you cook in restaurants or somethin'?"

Tobin nods, "Yeah, grew up in one." This is all he gets out before another bite of gyro occupies his mouth.

"Hey, yeah? Cool." Bernie continues to munch, before adding, "...you met Matt yet? He works inna rest'raunt here. You guys should, like, swap recipes or somethin'."

Tobin thinks for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, and then shakes his head, "I don't think I've met him, but then, I've been meeting a lot of people lately." He taps his head significantly and then takes another bite.

"You'd prolly r'member him," Bernie declares, "...packmatea mine, tall, blond, spiky hair, blue eyes, gen'rally wearin' a jacket with patchesa punk bands all over it, Fianna 'dox, cockney accent I've been know t' hafta translate for?" She grins again, and finishes off her beer, setting it aside and standing to consider a replacement. "You mighta seen him at th' Moot, act'ly, 'f y'haven't met. Y'want anythin' t' drink while I'm up?"

Tobin shakes his head again, "I might have seen him at the moot, but there were a lot of people there and I don't remember." At the offer of a drink, he considers for a moment before answering simply, "Just water, please."

Bernie flips a lazy mock-salute in reply, and obliges, filling a glass at the sink. For her own drink, she seems to waver between pantry and fridge before grabbing herself a coke. "So what's this warnin' you got 'bout Fianna?" she asks curiously as she returns.

Tobin takes the glass with thanks and swirls it, sipping it like it was wine. After a moment of thoughtful reflection he says, "She said to not let them get us drunk, basically, lest their drinks loosen our lips." *sip*

A hint of a smile plays around the Ragabash's mouth again. "Oh, yeah? Afraid you'll spill all your deep, dark, dishy secrets?" She pops the coke open, and drinks some. "...how about Gnawers, you 'llowed t' let Gnawers getcha drunk?"

Tobin sips thoughtfully again, staring off into space and speaking slowly, calmly, "No, no she didn't say anything about getting drunk with Gnawers. Why?" He looks back at Bernie and gets the glint of suspicion in his eye, "You don't want to get /me/ drunk, do you?"

"Oh, perish th' thought!" Bernie replies overdramatically, all shocked stodgy seriousness, before shrugging and grinning mischievously again. "I dunno. Just coverin' th' bases. All your base are belong t' me." She demolishes the last bite of her noodles before adding, "...could be fun. Everyone oughta get drunk 'least once, I think. Not that you'd wanna make a habit of it."

Tobin continues to eye Bernie suspiciously for moment and then nods slowly, standing up and starting to gather dishes. "Well, I certainly have no desire to get drunk, and in fact I probably shouldn't."

"'case of spillin' those precious tribal secrets?" Bernie asks, more obviously teasing, now.

Tobin gives the little half-snort that's as close as he gets to a laugh most of the time, and says, "Like I know any tribal secrets at this point. Actually, it's very important for me to keep control of my mind. Bad, or at least extremely weird, things happen when I don't." He starts putting leftover food away and piling up dishes in the sink.

"Oh, yeah?" Bernie asks, intrigued, "...like what kinda things?" A pause, "an' how d'you know, 'f you keep controlla it alla time?" She helps by gathering the plates together, but doesn't get up. Hey, there's =some= perks to Riting, sometimes.

Tobin washes the dishes with the same ruthless efficiency with which he made dinner, and soon has a pile of drying dishes on the counter. He's been silent the whole time, and at last he answers, "Well, see, I /haven't/ kept control the whole time, and I tend to become other people when that happens. Not all of these people are nice, and some of them are downright mean." He scratches his nose, looking out the sliding glass door at the darkness outside, "One of them may very well have killed someone." He adds this last very quietly.

Bernie stretches and takes another sip of her coke, expression fairly neutral. "Sorry t' hear it. Hope it was someone deserving..." She stops, as her gaze falls on the sky outside, and she suddenly looks startled. "Oh, fuck. What time's it? Never mind..." She grabs up her backpack, glancing at the broken-banded watch attached to one strap. "Shit. Watch th' wagon for me, yeah? I'm late..." She's on her feet already, slinging her jacket and pack on, and heading backward for the front door. "Sorry. I gotta go help with th' sewer lighting, bug ya soon, yeah?"

Tobin waves, looking startled, "Yeah, see you."