Charles' intention had been to indulge in something alcoholic and solitary before he returned home, a tendency he often felt after spending the worst part of a day at the town hall. In his estimation, he could be forgiven for still having doubts that everyone who worked there was capable of recognizing a regulatory mandate, let alone know the proper way to handle it. He was on his second drink and already considering a third, when hearing a familiar voice edged enough into his interest for him to peer up and cut his gaze toward Patrick.
Watching the scene over the top of the whiskey he slowly sipped from, he waited a moment before lowering his hand, momentarily debated, then stood up to cross the room, cradling the glass with deceptive ease between his fingertips. As two of the chastised teens passed him and left with palpable disappointment, apparently having set aside this time to humiliate themselves in public, Charles was sure there was a reason why kids who'd lived on the island all their lives thought they could fool anyone with an ID from Florida. He was also sure that the reason was chronic stupidity.
"It must be the fine company that keeps drawing me back," he replied without missing a beat. The shadow at one side of his mouth deepened slightly into what might have once been a smile, and he moved to sit on the seat next to Patrick, placing his glass onto the bar top with every intention of keeping it topped up.