That hand on his shoulder might have startled him a few months ago, but he's gotten pretty used to the fact that Al's just much more of a touchy-feely guy than he himself will ever be, and has come to accept it. He's still never going to be affectionate himself, but at least he's no longer actively paranoid about people clapping him on the back or shoulder in a friendly way. That qualifies as progress, right? One step on the long road towards becoming a slightly less tense control freak?

"Yeah, sure, sounds just fine."

It's Al's birthday, after all. He wouldn't be so rude as to tell him they can't go where he wants, and he sees nothing objectionable about pool and cards, anyway (unless Al has some other prank up his sleeve, which he wouldn't put past him.) He just follows after him, lighting up a cigarette, chronically unable to go without one for the space of more than about fifteen minutes. People around here have told him he needs to cut down. He's pretty much told them to fuck off, in his own special, eminently polite way. He offers Al one.