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Well, there's this to be said: when Sawyer goes about indulging in a spot of shoplifting, he does so boldly.

He'd greeted the cashier cheerily--and by name--and sailed on past to the candy bars, pausing as his eyes passed over the man at the beer cooler with a stirring of faint recognition. He'd grinned at him like they were old friends, but he hadn't stopped, not really; he'd just sauntered over to his targets and, seeing that the cashier's attention was apparently engaged in attempting not to look bored as the beer-buyer was rung up, only spent a minute or two deciding on what to cram in his pockets.

Judging from the way he does that, the idea isn't so much the loot itself: an onlooker would say that he barely noticed what he stowed away, deftly, easily, with an air of habit. And fearlessness: he is not exactly dressed to fly under anyone's notice, from the eye-searing clash of three separate patterns layered up above to the mismatch of two high top sneakers--one mint green, one lilac--below. The only thing he has going for him, if he has decided to pursue a career of open-air burglary, is that he is so short his head does not come up above the aisle.

One thing he does not have going for him is an abundance of awareness for his surroundings: he's positioned himself squarely in the path of a convex security mirror.

"Aw, come on, Tyler," said the boy, throwing up his hands palm upwards. He didn't even make a move to run, just stood there: Sawyer knew, and knew that Tyler knew, that in all honesty a cashier's options were limited in this situation. "Look. I'm putting them back. I'm leaving."

There was a confused moment, wherein an accusation was made and received with a wounded tone, and the would-be thief was marched towards the front. He looked surprisingly at his ease--he apparently did not feel that this would pan out the way the clerk was hoping--and when "Tyler" wheeled to address him angrily again, he saw, through the crook of the man's elbow, Ever at the counter. And Ever's hands on the counter. And the beer. And he very nearly met Ever's eye, and he grinned--raising further the ire of the employee, who took it as a personal slight and increased the volume of his tirade, totally unaware that he had been made to stop well short of the cash register, and in such a way that Sawyer had an unobstructed view.

It wasn't long--maybe three or four minutes--before the boy came out of the building, fairly sauntering, one hand in his pocket and the other the subject of a furious and self-satisfied nail-chewing.

When he saw Ever he hesitated, and veered off his course and across the street to meet him, as if they'd planned the whole thing and were meeting the appointed rendezvous. He didn't even bother to introduce himself.

"Stupid ******** didn't even notice," he said cheerfully. "Thanks, I am sure, to my genius diversion. I think you owe me one. A drink I mean." He looked about sixteen at the outside, and put out a hand expectantly.

"Jesus Christ you've got some skinny ******** hands," he said, before anything. "Fix." Real names, apparently, were for better acquaintances. "I feel like you know me too, so you obviously already like me. You used to work at a... what was it. Maybe a bookstore?" Hand relinquished, he left his own out, waiting patiently. Nothing subtle there.

"I remember everyone. Also, I was there a lot." This he said in a somewhat wounded tone, as though offended that Ever doesn't remember, too. Not that it was the books that had had Sawyer in the library--more the public spaces with a roof, when the prospect of going home filled him with too much dread, which was usually.

"I think you kicked me out once or twice. Anyway, lead the way." This, as cheerfully as ever, with both his hands thrust back into his pockets.

"It's OK," he said tranquilly. "I know I'm ******** adorable, I don't blame you." And it was infuriatingly impossible to tell whether he actually thought that--puny and insignificant as he was--or if he was being a grade-A troll. "But if you've got other obligations I can resist your advances. I've got a lot of practice." He was so short he was having to make up every few steps with a little undignified hop to keep up with Ever's long strides, but he maintained an air of aplomb as he said it.

"Well," he demurred, "no one's that adorable when they're standing next to me, so I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. You ain't got near enough tits, anyway." Without so much as a word of thanks--as though he was simply accepting his due--he accepted a cigarette, and gladly, and actually procured his own lighter. He didn't offer to hold the beer, either, although he did mutely offer a light. "You in the habit of shoplifting often, or just when someone gives you the opportunity to do it without gettin' caught? I wonder if he's noticed yet."

"Amateur," scolded Fix, with satisfaction. If he was grateful for the slowed pace, he said nothing, just exhaled with a theatrical flourish. "If you'd known I was coming in maybe you coulda sprung for a twelve pack. Aren't you worried I'm going to nick something out of your apartment? I could, you know. I'll walk off with your TV. You won't even notice. Hey--" oh god, he was in the swing of it now, the chattering would commence, "--what time is your (and here he imitates, perfectly, Ever's tiny hesitation) uh, roommate probably getting home? I drink slow and you should feed me. I'm starving. I'm driven to stealing Snickers to satiate my gnawing hunger. Hi!" he added to a passer-by, who acknowledged him with a familiar wave but didn't stop. "What've you got to eat?"