“Ouais, and when some newly arrived rifter comes to ask you how these things are done here,” her arch amusement still threaded through the words, bumping her knee into his hip, oh is that so, Dr Strange, “what, you're going to tell them you couldn't bring yourself to ask her?”

Her fingers thread through his hair, far more loosely than she'd gripped it between her thighs, a casual and casually proprietary affection— easy, when this moment still feels small and private and theirs without the intrusion, yet, of the consequences of their actions.

“I'm not surprised you haven't been asked yet, mind. You have all the bedside manner of me.”