The bed creaked as he dropped onto it, and he breathed out something like an abashed laugh, shoving back curls from his face. His hair was alternately flattened and moulded by the helmet, blood-matted in places, more hectic than ever.

Hell if it didn't feel good just to sit down. It made him feel instantly a little more clear-headed. The armour's influence remained, though; he struggled to concentrate on her words when the tone of her voice was almost visible, when he could just about taste the colours of the room about them. Her scars looked particularly beautiful, each whorl and ridge of them standing out like a pulled seam across her skin. His fingers drifted to them, tracing the patterns. "No, no, not wrong, I only... I did tell you to shut me up, not to question me further," he said. He sounded weary and doting, his eyes creasing with his smile. "Leave my damnable illogic alone."