[ The thing is, Heathcliff's come a long way from the man who would sooner break heads than hold hands, as it were. He's learned how to listen to people when he can and ignore them when he can't. He can keep his temper down to a smolder, his fuse harder to fully ignite. He leaves Don alone as long as she leaves him alone, and even when she doesn't, the lass isn't the worst person to be around. Just loud.

So no, Heathcliff doesn't twist his arm out of Ishmael's grip. At some point, it suddenly struck him that these people are his home now, and he doesn't leave family behind. Not usually, anyway. ]

Wish I didn't know half the shite I know about you. Never had much choice, though. Neither of us.

[ He does catch Ishmael's ear growing pink from this angle, briefly wonders if he should point it out, then remembers that Dante isn't here to put his head back on if she rips it off. Heathcliff then wonders who should make the first move. He is... embarrassed. Mortified. He stands outside the metaphorical chamber door.

Daft animal. You didn't make the first move last time, and neither did she. Look at where that landed the both of you. Nothing to show for it. Not even her memory. ]

Well. Time's awastin'.

[ He takes another slice of toast from the plate, folds it, and shoves half of it into his mouth. He isn't all that hung over, but at the very least, he needs his stomach stable for this. While still chewing, he readjusts, slipping around until they're facing each other more than they are sitting side by side. He doesn't move away, though. They're going to have to be close for this anyway, right?

Heathcliff grabs the now slightly less scalding cup of coffee and washes the toast down. ]

Lemme finish this and we'll get started.

[ And he shoves the rest of his toast into his mouth like the goddamn creature he is. His cheek is bulging out a bit, he's got crumbs on his face. Once again: the worst guy Ishmael knows. Once again: Sorry. ]