Logan's given the jobs and clubs little more than a glance, instead heading straight for the food. Looks like they didn't realize it ain't October anymore--this spread's the best Thanksgiving meal he's ever seen, considering he usually spends the holiday in dive bars.
So he loads up a plate of everything he recognizes (and a couple of things he doesn't) and takes a seat. He leans hard on one arm, unconsciously guarding his food like a stray dog as he eats. All of it's good, even the damn grey stuff, just about makes up for the fact that he was kidnapped out of his own camper for this little under-the-sea adventure. The one thing that mars it is the hand that reaches up from beneath the table and smacks itself right into his mashed potatoes.
He grabs for the wrist attached to it, firm but not bruising, and gives a little tug. Come up from under there, whoever you are. "The hell are you doing?"
a.
So he loads up a plate of everything he recognizes (and a couple of things he doesn't) and takes a seat. He leans hard on one arm, unconsciously guarding his food like a stray dog as he eats. All of it's good, even the damn grey stuff, just about makes up for the fact that he was kidnapped out of his own camper for this little under-the-sea adventure. The one thing that mars it is the hand that reaches up from beneath the table and smacks itself right into his mashed potatoes.
He grabs for the wrist attached to it, firm but not bruising, and gives a little tug. Come up from under there, whoever you are. "The hell are you doing?"