Griff took the ‘term of endearment’ remark with a grain of salt and a small shrug. He honestly didn’t understand how ‘friend’ and ‘fucker’ fit into the same category but he guessed it was on par with how British girls called their friends ‘bitch’ to their faces but would get into slap fights if a stranger used the same slur. Language truly was a bizarre thing.
He saw the way Marcus shook his head, as well as the vague inkling of disappointment in his eyes. It was strange that Griff took it to heart, feeling that he’d already let the other man down somehow and it left him fumbling for an answer to his reaction.
“In Wales,” Griff said around another small cough, “this sort of stuff is reserved only for the young or those wanting to forget their name come the end of the night.” It was true though and something that they shared innately with the Scottish. Put a few bottles of whiskey in front of them and they’d all end up singing into the early hours of the morning. Put some tequila in front of them and they’d be playing fisticuffs and waking up around toilet bowls with blackened eyes.
Griff listened to what Marcus had to say about the park, weighing it up with what little he already knew. Bigoted as it was, there was a part of him that didn’t like the idea of being surrounded by a bunch of ex-cons and ‘fuck-ups’ but, as he reminded himself, they’d been quick to help him out of his sticky situation. Well, not really quick but they had come around to see reason, and they had taken him in and patched him up afterwards. And they still tolerated him being here without lock and guard, so that, to him, meant that they had to be alright despite what this new society said about them.
Marcus truly liked to use the world ‘fuck’ and many others and Griff put it down to being an American thing, even if Marcus really wasn’t all that American.
“What sort of law is left around here?” It was an honest question born out of interest and curiosity. When Griff had first set his bearings to Texas and, more pointedly, Austin, he’d been expecting a fortified city of united harmony. That was an ideal that was dying quite quickly.
When Marcus offered the horrible rum and paired it with a smirk, Griff felt that his sense of pride was on the line. He baulked at the idea and took the bottle back. He could do this. The second mouthful was better and he was able to look past the sense clogging burn. It went down easier, his face only slightly contorting at the potent taste.
"I suppose you don't have a cigarette?" he asked, paying particular attention to not coughing. Maybe a smoke would make drinking this stuff easier.