Howard slaps the table, a bit more loudly than he thought he was doing, and grins. Finally, someone else who appreciates music. Howard thought it was an outright crime that Eponine didn't recognize The Rolling Stones, and Sigma may have been familiar with David Bowie and Iggy Pop but didn't seem all that enthused by the idea.

"Old Blue Eyes? Yeah, I know Sinatra." And he whistles a bit of 'Fly Me to the Moon', noting that his pitch is a little off from it used to be, the whistle a little keener, with his new teeth. Of all the strange changes made to his body here in the Capitol - gaining weight back, being put back together without scars or injuries after each arena - it's the teeth that feel weird to him. He had gaps before, places where his teeth had rotted out entirely, one place where he ripped one out with pliers and had the Healer fix up the socket, and now he has a model actor million-dollar grin, white and shiny and perfectly straight (currently still slightly caked in pie).

"I didn't know you had taste, Rob, but I gotta say I'm more of an Elvis fan myself." There's a way Howard's beaming now, like he's found common ground he didn't even know he was searching for. He looks thrilled by this new revelation of kinship. He even sits up straighter, somewhat unconsciously mimicking the way R's perked up.