Through the process, Crawford grew more and more irritated. The fight and struggle had done wonders for his headache, but as adrenaline faded it returned and felt worse than ever. It was really his fault there were threats of handcuffs, as he yelled and got in the cops faces. He knew them. They'd been in his bar to deal with similar scenes. Or so he assumed. All cops were the same to him and he couldn't tell them apart most days.

Then there was a phone call and they were let go. Not knowing the priest could ever have such ties, he thought it was for him. It left him with a sick, sinking feeling in his cut. His step father was an influential man in the city, and did all he could to halt anything that could lead to negative light being cast upon him. But it was usually more subtle. Crawford would lad in a holding cell and before he could be properly processed, he'd be let go. Perhaps some of his rowdier behavior was because of this. In part because he knew nothing would stick, and in part because he wanted to make life hell for the old man. But to make direct calls to the scene of the incident? Would he be so proactive?

With the cops done, Crawford pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, inspecting the contents. Maybe he should just fuck off out of there, have a smoke, and get food somewhere else. Stocking up could wait. Then there was a hand offered in his field of vision. He'd forgotten the priest was still there.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to the other's face, unimpressed. Repayment. That was a concept that sat so oddly with most of the nights events it sounded like another language. From his perspective, he'd not been helping, and Luca had made a simple situation worse with his ineptitude.

"How about you hand over a tenner and we call it even?" he growled, because the last thing he wanted to do was spend time with this guy.