[He picks up on it, that absence of fear, the embarrassment that takes it's place, written into the lines her body make, the scent of her-- he knows fear, after all, and this certainly isn't it. But then she speaks, and archly, he raises a brow. In truth, his own mind hadn't been taking that route at all, rarely - if ever - takes that kind of shape. The kind of existence he'd led until the Storm demolished everything he knew and he'd ended up here, unmoored, cut adrift-- it has hardly left space for such things. Violence and vengeance and fear, the daily horror of survival; that kind of experience doesn't exactly lend itself to toward sexual preoccupations.

Now that she's said it, though, he can only assume that ogling is exactly what she was doing.]

I see.

[The same arch look remains, something vaguely disbelieving in his face but--]

If it's the thought of fighting you miss, then why not just join up? It'd be more fun than looking. It's all a little tame, but better than nothing at all.

[Because that's something he can comprehend-- the need for physical exertion, for the heat and momentum of a fight. It's all he's ever known and, like her, he's quite alone here for now. Mother sleeps on, as do the rest, even Heine, and without them to give his existence meaning, he has to make do with whatever small shreds of familiarity he can get.]