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Mozzie doesn’t want to call it bonding.
But between the crunch of crickets and the cold beers sitting in front of them, between him and the Suit at the same table without Elizabeth or Neal as a buffer, there isn’t a better word for this in his vocabulary right this second.
He glances down at Satchmo and the canine’s whine is almost pitiful. So he tries, and he doubts he could’ve been caught if only the Suit didn’t have Neal pretty much shackled to him for years, learned all their tricks from his front man and added a few of his own in their bag.
“No one needs cricket in their diet,” Peter tells him, warning in his voice, taking an easy sip of his beer as he keeps his eyes on Mozzie's hands on the table.
“Dare I remind you,” Mozzie starts, and he figures distraction might be the oldest trick in the book but they are there for a reason, and Moz has never been one to turn down a classic, "Satchmo is not some one. He is—”
Peter fixes him with a flat look, cutting him off before he can continue, “You’re still not feeding my dog cricket, Moz, end of story.”
Mozzie makes a noncommittal noise, but he doesn't try again. And there are just as many reasons why he doesn’t as there are the places Mozzie imagines himself to be, right now. From his Wednesday safe house on a Friday night to even just Neal’s apartment with one of the good bottles opened, breathing, June downstairs with their game board set up.
But with half of a team (one that Moz can call his own), he figures two is better than none on a night like this.
XXX Kuro