Re: At the bar: Grant S/Cris M
Grant thought about that. Nobody liked gentrification, and he understood why, but he also wanted people to be able to live better, under roofs that didn't leak. Maybe that meant you had to give them the renovated house for free, and nobody wanted to do that. Money made the world go around, and despite what his memories and the grandfathers of the world liked to think, it always had. It dampened Grant's smile a little, and his mood, thinking about that, but he shook it off. "If I get mine in and it doesn't leak, I'll help you with yours."
Grant too came from a world where nobody was handled with kid gloves. To be mocked was to be included, and he did it himself sometimes, gently, with plenty of sparkle in the blue eyes to be sure it was interpreted correctly. (Unless he was dealing with someone like Cat, who got the dry comment sans twinkle, because that worked better for both of them.)
Grant just shook his head at this idea of Cris admiring abstract form, knowing the comment for what it was. "Let's avoid the requests. I'll stop by, though, for supplies. I didn't think of that when I thought of arts and crafts."
Grant's pocket rang, the default electronic trill that made to estimate the old-time metal bells of his time (and failed completely). He didn't look at the Caller ID, he just answered. "Stevenson." Very military, that. Someone on the other end of the line commented, and he waited. "Yes." Pause. "Okay." He didn't say goodbye; the other person cut the line first. Grant frowned slightly at the phone, then pocketed it again, glancing sideways at Cris before he abandoned his half-full beer.