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“We have a problem,” Hardison said to Eliot, the third week of Bucky’s residency at the gastropub. 

Eliot was immediately alert; he’d been preparing garnishes, and he wiped the knife quickly on a towel before flipping it up into a more combat-ready grip. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Whoa, no, not like that,” Hardison said, holding up both hands. “No stabbity. Social problem, man, you’d hear me yelling if we had a stabbing problem.”

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