Mind if I get that in writing? [Richie pulls a face as the little beast finally succeeds. His stomach yoinks back to plaster against his spine the minute that cold snout rubs skin, but there's no dodging. Richie grits his teeth and adjusts his legs, get the squeeze of that weight off the worst of his muscles without raising its ire. Tentatively, he pats at its head. Scritches behind the ears like she says.

Finally it quiets down, happy with the most minor of concessions. Richie frowns down at it but keeps petting. He shoots Rosalind a quizzical look after a moment.] This is all a bit more sentimental than I pegged you for. What's next? Any pitter patter of little orphan feet I should be listening for?

[Still on with the bullshit. It really is safer to stick with. He's not sure how to broach the tough stuff again. If he'd even like to. Drinks seem better. They've been doing him such favors lately.

Richie takes his whiskey, and takes it solid. The shot is drained at once.]