The look that Peter offered Catherine's words of warning over drinking slow was that of a man who'd drank his fill in the past and still come out alright on the other side. He knew how to handle his liquor. Particularly foreign stuff. If this could be counted as foreign. What a weird thing it was, to be back in a place that practically counted as home.
It hadn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would. He glanced down at his drink thoughtfully over that revelation.
He wondered if that was something Cat had a problem with too. Her husband was clearly out of the picture and not in a bitter divorcee sort of way. He'd apologize, but frankly -- well. That sort of thing didn't actually help. He knew that.
This was a song he didn't know -- but then, for all his pop culture knowledge, Peter really had been only eight when he'd been taken. It hadn't reached as far as he pretended he did. So he listened and sipped at his drink and watched Catherine sway. It was sad, and he wasn't sure if he should fill the void with words.
Music was important. Sometimes it was best not to talk.