[ Part of him relaxes when she answers. It's strange to be so aware of the little worries, to feel himself tensing when he thinks something will set her off. How long has it been this way? He can't recall when it crossed over, when he stopped thinking of her as purely an investment.

Maybe, he supposes, he hadn't always even believed that.

(Sometimes, he'll look at her and recall that meeting in the Menagerie. Recall the way the lamps had lit the parlour, limned along the edges of her features, the exact pitch of her whisper– I can help you. He'd come back).

At her return question, he tenses, just a bit. There's so much to say and he's not sure how she'll receive any of it. But she had tried, she had done it, and he owes it to her. ]

I'd touch you everywhere. With my hands first, then my mouth. [ Commit her to memory. ] Pull you on top of me and let you do whatever you'd like.

[ Hold on to her like this, like she was a rope in a storm, a lifeline. ]