[ Is there food to feed the beasts, Adam asks, and it takes all of Ronan's gradually depleting patience to stare with baleful thoughtfulness at the [1] boyfriend unit before him and blink, and blink, and whistle Chainsaw close. ]

The cement in your plate's looking pretty solid.

[ As things that pass for agglomerations of nutrients go, the 'mac' and its 'cheese' are dubious but worthwhile candidates on the list of pastes the average raven might deign to stomach once, then never again.

Even Ronan grudgingly decrees he is above that plastic, nodding thoughtfully at Adam with the sad understanding that, yes, he's into this man, despite his supernatural abilities to digest the loathsome and the profane. God help them both. ]

Eat your poison. I'll lure them out with your dead body. Win-win.

[ Jokes never resolve any situation, and even Chainsaw's giving him the one, sharp, crystalline eye to retaliate against the Lynch humor — but he can't help himself. Levity, magic, the works. Straddling one of the chairs, arms braced before him over its back, he lets his eyes ease shut, depth of his frown gaining vigour. ]

Shit's never going to go away, is it? This, or the next one.