It was one thing to know the mechanizations of Siren vocal chords. It was quite another to witness it first hand. There was something indescribable about seeing Cress sing. She was, after all, the reiging Shotgun Carpool Karaoke Queen. But to hear her Sing...
His head had tilted back to watch Coro's retreat. She would be furious, no doubt, once the compulsion wore off, but he was of the hope that the departure would grant the demi-god the time and space to at least acknowledge her own fault in the matter. Flash cooking four cirque employees was hardly proper retribution for a Wendigo existing on the grounds.
The static field buzzing through the midway abated with the beating of her impressive wings, yet the hair on Grayson's arms remained raised. He turned wondering eyes on Cressida before he was startled back to himself by Birdie's declaration of Thanksgiving miracles. There was also the matter of James' still-outstretched hand to deal with as well. Scrutinizing his mostly-returned humanity, Gray finally shoved the light into his beckoning palm. Surprise registered at Birdie's compliment, and his hand immediately reached up to feel along curls that looked to be making an escape attempt. A grimace pulled the side of his mouth. "Thanks," he muttered, surprised by the warm sentiment cast in the direction of the guy who'd so closely resembled The Thing moments before.
There were questions of course, mainly pertaining to James' impeccable flair for dramatic exits and entrances and Birdie's mentions of 'pipes' and tea, but they were D.O.A. in the ensuing commotion.
The bottom corner of the Pool's tent canvas rustled to precede the ejection of a very-frantic Roger, high pitched squeaking wailing into the sudden quiet like the world's tiniest police car on the move. His fur was matted, reducing the brush of his luxurious tail to a shadow of its former self, though Gray had no doubt under any other circumstances his familiar would be puffed up like a Thanksgiving Day float. "Jesus, what the hell happened to--?"
The carbuncle spared Gray nothing of his claws as he climbed the warlock's body like a tree amidst a startled chorus of yelps and squirming.
Relinquishing his hold on Cressida's hand to flail his arms in an attempt to scruff the fennic-esque creature, he finally managed to get a hold on him once he was half-tangled in the startled thicket of his hair, lifting him out and away from him. "Watch the feet," he muttered, and Roger glared with adorable viciousness at he-who-wielded-the-flashlight.
Amidst the clamorous, displeased fox-noises and the retreating roll of thunder that served as reminder that there was still a bratty Native god-bird to contend with, Gray seemed to pause, his eyes cutting briefly between Cress and James before he reluctantly extended the soggy creature closer to the former. There was no such thing as a private aside in a situation like this, but he still touched a gentle hand to the frail curve of Cress' elbow, his eyes taking quick inventory for anything out of sorts. "You ok?"
The confirmation wasn't fully convincing, all things considered, but he'd expected nothing less. Fine, fine, everything is fine. His eyes lingered on her for an extended, indecisive moment before dragging skyward once more, following a track of silver light that split the sky. "I gotta make sure she actually gets back." His hesitation was palpable, his brow curled and his hand lingering. "Don't suppose you've got a song about Menageries in the juke box?"
A sidelong glance regarded Jaime's emaciated frame where he was still standing like the world's worst-dressed scarecrow. His own opinions aside, standing half-naked on the midway was hardly a predicament that afforded much dignity to anyone. Sighing, he seemed to pause before he shrugged himself out of his sweatshirt, holding it out to Jaime with an indicative nod. "Batteries in the left pocket. Just in case. You can uh... keep it."