That pulled another hearty laugh from Marcus. He leaned back in his own chair, causing the hinges to grunt again in warning, and shook his head. It was true that he probably couldn't tell the difference between Irish, Scotch, or American whiskey, so best that Griff hadn't spoken that out loud. His fears would have only been realized. Marcus didn't turn down a drink, and wouldn't have been opposed to furthering his education in all things alcoholic, but he was a tequila, mezcal, and pisco drinker by choice.
"No prayers required, mijo," he replied, smirking at the expression on the other man's face. Beat up and worse for the wear, but not bad looking in the least despite the bruising and bandages. "But I ain't got no glass either. Just let yourself taste it. All I ask."
And that was true. The teasing didn't bother him, and he suspected that even if the man did pull a face at the taste of his fine spirits, Marcus probably wouldn't be too put out by it. It might have been shallow be more forgiving of the beautiful people, and he tried to combat that instinct by broadening his definition of beauty where he could. With Griff, there wasn't any need. Marcus wondered if the man would survive once the camp bitches got a hold of him. Some of them were more welcoming than others, but the younger girls especially got excited at new faces. Fresh meat.
He supposed he couldn't blame them if they did. He'd been quick enough to offer his own company to the stranger. One might think at the end of the world there'd be better ways to pass the time, but boredom still had a way of creeping in between the crises. Without television to slaughter the hours, a lot of people were rekindling curiosity about each other for entertainment. To that end, he wasn't sure if he should warn Griff about the enthusiastic young women of the Dog Park, or just let him discover them on his own.