When dinner usually consisted of reheating whatever was leftover in chow, all other options sounded good. He shrugged and waved a hand noncommittally, signalling that where and what the dinner was up to Legolas. "I leave the choice to you." It was like the analogy that driver chose the music; the one on the hook for the bill or meal was the one who got the choice.

He wasn't picky— well, as long as it wasn't pizza. Hereford had pizza often enough to the point Buck had started choosing MREs over take out, all while grumbling up a small storm that he was forced to pay a portion of a meal he was beyond sick of eating. "I'd like to see what you ate at home," he said as an afterthought, leaning back in his chair and looking up as if asking the ceiling. "British food is shit— ce n'est pas ma faute! It's the fucking truth." The latter part was directed toward the barkeep, who'd let out a loud hmph at the statement. He made a dismissive gesture, before thinking twice, and gesturing for the barkeep to return, this time with the bill.

"But, I have no preference. I'll leave the decision in your hands." He nodded, with more vigor than usual. It was a good sign that they'd drunk enough to hit the point of tipsy when his actions became more expressive, and a good sign that anymore would lead to a far more exciting night than either of them had planned for.