[Who happens to be in the vicinity to hear this testosterone battle? Everyone's favorite party-pooper, Claire. And she has heard far too much.]

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. What the hell are you two doing? For God's sake!

[It's like finding two dogs about to fight. She's loud on approach, but instead of pulling Rhys by the legs (the one least likely to bite her), she grabs his arm. Travis, she ignores, but the words are directed at them both.]

I have better things to do around here than fix bloodied noses and get a headache every time I want to get something to eat because someone is cuffed to a table because of nonsense like this.