He doesn't have fucking blood clots, Dave. He also hasn't been to a doctor in literal decades, and telling him one is a hot woman isn't about to get him to change his mind, sorry. But he's here, right now, and that's what matters, right? Better late (hah, late) than never.

"Tex-mex." That sounds innocuous. Really innocuous. "Tacos, specifically." Oh, no. There's so much material there. "I'll iron out the details later. Menu items, names." He feels an odd pang at the idea of Dave actually helping, but presses that thought down. Not now.

(Then when?)

Dave should know better than to lie to a human lie detector. "Bullshit," he says, and there's a tension there that's not directed at Dave, inexplicably. But he takes a breath. Quiets. "David." Now that one's a rarity. "Let me rephrase. What happened with Cal?" There's a sharpness to his tone. "Don't be a little shit, either."