"Yeah..." he agrees quietly. "Everyone sings a different tune, hard to decide which one to listen to."

No more rubbing hands? Fine by him. One rests casually over his knee, the other goes to his cigarette for a deeper drag and exhale, and flicking ashes off the tip.

"The Voyeurs screwed me and mine over, once. We hit Wolfram and Hart like the fist of an angry deity, and I don't mean that like the teenie queenies mean it."

...sharing is caring, obviously. Tit for tat, eye for eye and so on.