She smacks him in the shoulder for that one, scowling. The bartender grins at Liam and says something about having a live one there, and the scowl shifts into a glare, directed with pinpoint precision at the bartender.

"I'm wound perfectly fine," she mutters, eyeing the shots as they're poured. "And I don't drink." Much. Anymore. Okay, that's a lie, but she's feeling contentious.