There are probably good words to say here, but Desmond keeps his mouth shut. Patrice has been here before, Patrice has obviously been here before. He hasn't. Probably isn't his place. And sometimes it's good to know when not to talk.

He tilts his head down at the slowly coalescing image instead - and, well, that don't seem quite done, does it?

"Fuckin' told you," he says, followed immediately by a quiet "Sorry, ma'am," his chin dipping sheepishly. Then one shoulder ticks upward and he reaches forward for a corner of the envelope. "Eager's when you want to. Practical's when it makes sense."