When Wolfgang's face begins to return to a colour typically found in nature, he slowly lowers his hands, gripping his beer perhaps a little tighter than is strictly necessary. He seems on edge, possibly because he's aware that any slight thing might set him off again, and he is fully prepared to crawl under the bar and hide/die there if he has to. "Mm," he says, entirely noncommittally. It's not a lie if he doesn't actually say yes. Then, a swift subject change: "Speaking of... species-ism, oh good, they've switched to faerie rap."