Well that just came out of his mouth. Tell'n Wash to shut it- that much he'd meant to do. The rest was just- instinct and habit. Deal'n with a five year old would do that to you. A willful five year old. 'Course talk'n down to Wash like that, to anyone like that was a mite uncalled for albeit, if Casey's reaction was anything to go by, hilarious.

And a li'l absurd.

"Habit." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Got a five year old- eight year old. Back home. When she'd throw tantrums I'd-"

There was a vague wave in Wash's direction. Behind him, in the kitchen, the coffee maker clicked on. May as well multitask. "You're pissed. I'm pissed. Casey's pissed. Holler'n ain't gonna change a damn thing. Casey is sorry. Miz Rose is sorry. I'm sorry 'bout whoever we've woken up with all the yell'n. It is late. We are all tired. We are all stressed. I think we can put a pin in mosta this stuff till the morn'n. Awright? We'll talk later- and it needs t'be talk'n not yell'n."

With that he moved from Casey, patting him on the shoulder as he went, to inspect Rose's wound with the tricorder. "I don't rightly know what I can do for you- my tools aren't calibrated for treat'n hard light holograms. But I can look at this."