"I dunno about no socializin', but the beer is good here." Drake figured Tabbart was referring to the Prohibition, but he'd been too young to care. He'd been barely ten years old when it ended, although he seemed to distantly recall his daddy and uncles bitching about it like old women while working the still hidden inside the compound. He calmly took another swig of his fresh beer and listened to the chatty gremlin. He was hoping he hadn't made a mistake inviting conversation with the clearly outspoken man. To Drake, the whole socializing bit was best served in small doses. Very small doses.
He didn't like the sound of that made up word, draco-menta. In fact, he had absolutely no idea if it was gibberish or if he was somehow being made fun of. This wasn't good for anyone's overall health, to take digs at a pissy draconian alpha. He reminded himself to behave and not be so damn touchy, but he reverted to his previous stillness. He did turn his head very slowly to give Tab a blank look before he muttered neutrally. "Water under the bridge."
No. Nobody ever accused Drake of being sane. All of his self-imposed isolation had made him a prickly, suspicious man.