Hey. There's beer in the fridge, knock yourself out.

[Cable's cleaning his rifle. It's in bits on the kitchen table, on a towel. It smells of oil and metal.]

[He's sitting at the table, shirt off. One side of his chest is deeply bruised. The other is metal, starting at his shoulder (or his arm, really), crawling up the side of his neck and down his left side, across his left pectoral. There's an open bottle of beer at his elbow.]

I figured we don't know each other very well, so I'd ask. Next time I'll just kick down your door.

[The smile means he may or may not be joking.]