"No wonder you're looking for someone to beat your face in," Dutch stated, crossing the street towards the pub they were headed for. There was no judgement in her voice; her family history was a lot less fucked up than his sounded like, so she really wasn't in a position to judge. "I'll get the second round," she added, because sharing that kind of fucked up history definitely called for a drink, and she pushed open the door to the pub, holding it open for him to follow her inside.

It was a cosy little place, with a few stalls and some stools along the bar. The walls were plastered with old concert posters, and the music currently playing was some classic hard rock.