"Nobody could possibly be that unlucky," Lucas replies, catching a laugh in the palm of his hand and shoving his glasses back up on his face in the process - because they actually needed it, this time.

Then, his expression screws up, grin going uneven, one brow quirking up, bewildered, while Bash laughs. "Um, sure, of course. But that also sounds boring as hell, man. I'm sticking with you." He punctuates it with a playful nudge of Bash's ribs. As though the alternative were even an option. But it's nice enough to say it, out loud.

All that bluster disappears once they're staring down the Sci-Fi Dine-in Theater. Lucas gnaws on his lower lip, corner of his mouth hiking high up on one side. It falters - just a bit - when Bash struggles with words. His eyebrows knit up, vaguely worried. "It's exactly where I want to go. Fake France is cool, but this..."

"You know me," he says it at first like it's going to lead into something else. A self-deprecating joke, probably. But he just trails off, instead. He thinks about it for a beat, then meets Bash's gaze and repeats it - exclaims it - sounding sure. Almost like he's just received a gift. "You know me."