[He had a default refusal all in mind, just so. You know. He'd have it. Because seriously, Damon was the shittiest defense for him. He'd never saved him from a bolt in the leg or anything mildly heroic in the least.
So he was still on his own.
The stakes changed it. He could admit that the moment he had one in his hand, he felt a little better. Not even a fourth of the stash he'd had before -- which was stakes, guns, knives, hell, even a few spears -- but it was a start. Even looking at the engraving, he could afford a disbelieving laugh.] You suck at whittling. [He was probably gonna get splinters from these things.
Not that he was forgiven. Like hell.
He closed the door in Damon's face without another word. So, yeah. He got on his boots (thank god for free favors, huh) and some clothes that weren't flimsy pajamas. Stake thing was harder. Without his holsters, he was stuck carrying them. Or -- there. Bag. He shoved them in a little bag stuck in the back of a closet (he seriously needed to figure this house out) and closed the door behind him. Damon wasn't even close to wrangling an invitation out of him.] Don't expect me to watch your back.