[The blush doesn't go unchecked. He has to keep looking to make sure the kid isn't peeling off into uncharted territory or getting too squirrely at how chummy Richie's been. He knows he'd be a touch suspicious himself, but all he sees is unmeasurable gratitude. Sheepishness, perhaps at his blue turns of phrase. He'd grow out of that quick enough, get the fire to spit it back just as good as he was given. For now it plays to his sympathies.

(Sympathy streaked with a hint of disquiet. He wasn't that funny. He had better material in the wings that he's not even touched.)]

I'd say more a jester, but in the fundamentals yes. I'm done with black eyes and cracked glasses.

[He halts when ordered to. Maybe a step too early. It's their building, instinct demands he slows the pace.]

Don't knock the eggheads. I liked it. [As a younger fellow anyway. Oh so casually now:] Is this our winner?