"Yeah, well." He has no actual excuse to offer so he instead swoops in to take the bottle before she has the opportunity to regret bringing it to him. "I'd say take a seat, but," one arm sweeps across the starkly empty living room. There's a cardboard box in the middle of the floor, a couple of crumpled-up takeout bags in the kitchen, and... yeah. No, that's kind of it. "Before you get on my ass about it, I'm going couch shopping tomorrow."
And, as everyone knows, a couch is a multi-purpose piece of a furniture. A bed. A table. The list goes on. He'd gotten some real mileage out of the last one; he'll miss that old thing sorely.
It's not good beer (he suspects that assholes who don't tell their friends where they're moving haven't earned good beer), but it's drinkable beer, even if he makes a face after tasting it. "Oh. Great. Thanks." He gets the feeling he knows exactly what sort of freaks have been tracking his location, and takes his phone out of his pocket to dig through the settings. Then he gives up that pursuit quickly. It's not like it really matters. He spares the bundle of letters she's brought with her only a passing, disinterested glance.
"Throw it on the counter. Or in the trash. Sure it's just bills," Nick mutters. He leans against the wall across from her, twirling the bottle between his hands and staring out the window absently. He appreciates Caoimhe for... actually, a whole hell of a lot, but right now mostly for the fact that she's not absolutely grilling him about... you know, any of it. The house-burning-down thing or the ghosting thing or the everything else.
Maybe it's just because she's come to expect this sort of behavior from him, which is not a great realization to have about himself.
"Think it was that triangle fuck again," he confesses after a while. A conversational segue into discussing demon-related arson cases. "Caught it setting my bushes on fire one time already."
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