Finn was back down within ten minutes, his jeans and t-shirt shed for the outfit his mother had insisted they wear when they worked a stand at a Boston ren faire. It wasn't typically Irish, but it was Celtic, so they'd gone with the white blouse and the a plaid she'd liked the look of. With that, and the boots, he'd turned a few eyes at a few faires, even though he felt just a little idiotic at times.

"You know," he said when he walked back into the bar from his loft. "It's almost wrong that you're in pants and I'm the one showing off my legs."