Brandon chuckled and shrugged his shoulder. “You've gotta say that. To save face.” Honestly, Brandon's friendship with Regan was different than the one he had with Silas, and they had never actually had any sort of physical altercation. Beyond occasional shoving and horseplay, they'd always been a team, never really fought for any particular reason.
Those cops. Brandon chuckled. Officer Stone had been very different than the crass, crude, sailor-mouthed Brandon that was well known today. Yeah, he'd still had a pretty terrible mouth on him, and yeah he'd still been crude, but the degree was actually a lot smaller. He was actually tolerable. “Depends on what you mean by 'those,'” Brandon said seriously. “I was really fucking different then.” Tolerable, some people would say. “More by the book. Less willing to bend the rules... though that was mostly because my partner wouldn't let me,” said with a huge grin.
“And she didn't throw herself at me so much as she...” he trailed off and broke into a grin. “Okay, yeah, she kinda threw herself at me.” Brandon had only been three years older than her and he'd enjoyed every second of it. Silas' comment earned him a middle finger as Brandon made a show of swatting smoke from his face.
A smug grin. “You,” Brandon answered Regan's question with a nod. “I'm calling you old. What're you gonna do about it, Captain Geriatric Ward?” he asked. It was hard for him to hold back laughter while Regan did his thing, and he turned to Silas, lightly elbowing him in the ribs. “Still think you'd've made a pretty badass cop,” he pointed out. “We got to do that shit every night.”
He laughed again. “Eh, a little PTSD's good for you at that age. I'll bring you the gin tomorrow. It's in my stash.” And not many people knew where that was. Only one wasn't here anymore.