"Plenty left," George managed, waving a fork around the small mountain of food that Oliver had provided. "Ale in there," he added with a vague wave toward the icebox.
"You know, people used to come around, right after I reopened the place. Old customers, new folks, people from the Prophet. Mostly I think they wanted to see the place with just one of me, instead of two of us. Get a look at what was different, I dunno. People always want to nose into stuff that's none of their business. Good for the shop, back then, but it got old real quick." He shrugged vaguely, looking at the pair of them. "And this isn't anything but your business, I guess. You're welcome as long as you like."
He took a few more bites, washing them down with the ale, head tilting as he thought of Angelina and wondered what she'd say at the instant locker-room that his flat had become. Well, they could always hang at hers; it wasn't as if his flat held any particular appeal, anyway. He rubbed his nose absently and grimaced; it was still a bit painful although the bruises were mostly subsiding. What a mess...
He shook his head as if he could throw that thought aside. "Only thing I've got that might be helpful is some Peruvian Instant Darkness. I think there's a bit. You might be better off with some of Verity's creations. She's getting good at the hair-colouring sweets and has almost managed to turn your skin a pretty fair tartan. Might be good on you, Wood..."