“Hey — uh ... hey, pops.” Grendel may have taken to Cutter faster than Cutter’s own family had, but that doesn’t mean shit between them doesn’t carry a hint of awkwardness. He’s hiding something behind his back, eyes darting from side to side, before he slips him a small black felt box under the counter. The Casio’s gold, topaz-faced, and looks ten times more expensive than everything Gren owns put together. (How he got it ain’t important, don’t worry about that.) “Thought it’d look good on ya.”
Cutter’s eyes lift from the newspaper he’d been reading, one brow arching high on his forehead. He drops it onto the table, setting his reading glasses down on top and folding his hands together, resting them beneath his hairy chin. See, he doesn’t mind Gren so much either — thinks he’s a good kid. Real smart; understands things a lot better than most people. Cutter can respect that. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a little uneasy when it seems like Gren’s hiding something from him, especially considering the company Gren likes to keep. Cutter squints, craning his neck to the side. Makes no secret of the fact he’s onto him.
“What’cha got there, sport?” he asks, keeping his tone relatively light and pleasant. He reckons it ain’t truly fair to bite Gren’s head off when he ain’t the mastermind of all this. That’d be like kicking a dog whose master sicced it. Ain’t the dog’s fault it’s too loyal. “Not somethin’ from Murdoc, I hope.” Cutter forces a laugh. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘Cause I gotta tell ya, I ain’t exactly keen on the idea of gettin’ blown to pieces a second time.”
Gren’s wordlessness when he sets that little box down isn’t exactly reassuring. Cutter eyes it, momentarily debating with himself before sighing, reaching for it. Oh, hell. If Murdoc wants him gone that bad…
But what he pulls out ain’t a bottle of cyanide, or one of them lithium battery mini-bombs, or nothin’ like that — it’s a watch. Bar none the most fancy-ass watch Cutter’s ever laid his own two eyes on, let alone been able to touch. He gawks at it, dangling it right in front of his face. Takes it in his hands, then, real careful-like, examining the strap up close — half-expectin’ to see the words ‘GO FUCK YOURSELF’ engraved in rhinestones or some shit. When he doesn’t, a breathless laugh leaves him, and Cutter finds himself compelled to try it on.
So he does — slides it right onto his wrist after undoing the clasp, then folds it all back up again. Holds his arm up, admiring the way that pretty yellow colour glitters under the light. He’s never been one for material things — has always dismissed them as a waste of time and hard-earned money — but even a stubborn old bastard like himself can’t deny:
“God-DAMN. I DO look good!”
He chortles, beaming at Gren. All teeth and bright, crinkly brown eyes. If Gren hadn’t won him over before, he definitely did just now.
“Well shoot me in the leg and call me gimpy! I think I owe you a whole goddamn tree after this, never mind a couple’a beers.”
Maybe Christmas with this new motley crew won’t be so bad after all.
