The Grey Gull was still sporting Neal Caffrey's artwork. The New York City skyline and other such wonders that Doc had never witnessed in person, etched in chalk on the boards. Clearly they had just had an event of some kind. Misshapen black trash bags are sitting outside the door leaning against the outer wall, and there's one lying open inside as well. The tables and chairs have all been moved to the edges of the restaurant floor, chairs upturned on top of the tables. A broom and a wet mop leaning near the window speaks of the floor having just been cleaned.

"I am afraid we are closed," he mumbles with his cigarette burning away between his lips and his back turned to her when he hears her footsteps making the stairs and floorboards creak. He looks to be focused on putting some kind of clear paste over a crack on one of the windows.

"If you are looking for Raylan he's upstairs," Doc gestures, seizing the opportunity opportunity to take a puff from his cigarette before going back to finish up the window sealing.