(She's not going to say anything, but she is pinching the bridge of her nose and muting her thoughts again, because. Holy shit, Quire, but even worse, holy shit, Phoebe. Oh, God, she played him there. She most definitely, without a shred of a doubt, unquestionably played him there.

Mental breathe in, mental breathe out, unmute. She'd laugh at the dramatic antics if she wasn't so ridiculously weary. She's still stupidly searching, after all, the building over, brain after brain, cells to cells. Nothing.)

Quire, I said you win. Do you really want to keep at this conversation so we can dig ourselves even deeper into the hot garbage container that is literally anything you or me, or do you want to do the normal thing for fucking once and get a hangover that won't solve shit and pretend we never had this conversation?