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He obligingly (and with that exaggerated show of self-possessed dignity that always accompanied Taym doing something intentionally silly) put the hat on his head. And then, holding it in place, he leaned to snatch hers as well and stack it on top, without comment.

"Prepared?"

"Right. Boy Scouts prepared. I thought you were being ominous." He pointed at the bottom drawer of the dresser, and then at his precarious hat which he apparently felt absolved him of host duties. "That's also not the best word to try to lip read for, just--observing. Sorry about the cake," he added sourly. "I couldn't get off the ******** Island what with the Caelius situation, had to rely on someone else and I guess they thought they were clever. If I could have just gone and--but then we would," he observed, bitterness creeping in, "be in Chicago right now eating foie gras."

A pause. "Sorry about that, too. I guess it saves me from having to buy a decent jacket I'll never have another reason to use."

He'd been trying to avoid watching her eat (with a strange twinge that was partially acute interest and partially disgust and altogether an interesting and not-unpleasant and somewhat alarming combination of the two simultaneously), but now he stared at her in bafflement, and maybe she'd think it was about the tie, but it wasn't. He didn't move to take any of the cake, because of course he didn't, because of course he wouldn't have anyway but they'd told him he'd put on five pounds since he'd gotten shot and this was an untenable lapse of self-discipline even given that he'd been eating as a show of good behavior.

"Liver mush," he repeated finally. And then, distractedly, averting his eyes and indicating the corresponding bit of his lip where she had on hers a swirl of stray frosting god help him this was a mistake: "You've got a thing. Liver mush," he repeated incredulously.

He glanced, despite himself, towards the still-open door, as if reassuring himself of its existence and of the existence of the hallway beyond and the occasional passer-by. Thus affirmed, he reached into his pockets for his cigarettes, because they had always been so helpful--in making him seem worldly, in giving him something to do with his hands, in providing an excuse to step outside when things got loud--and now they were an effective bulwark against the temptation to eat. "When we do go--because I'm taking a rain check here--you can just give me your share."

"That, and to get you off more obnoxious topics," he answered, exhaling--his hands unshaking, no fumbling with the lighter, no clumsy waiting. When she'd looked at him he'd looked away, and maybe it was a little guilty or maybe it was just his usual discomfort at being under her eye. "I was about to introduce the topic of dinner when you generously demonstrated poor Jenga form for me and got tranq'd. Isn't that," he added drily, "a lovely sentence that probably no one has ever said before."

He leaned to take the bottle from her hands--scrupulously avoiding touching her--and sandwiched a shot or two's worth of a swallow between two drags, and for all Taym constantly maintained an aura of look at me, I'm cool when he wasn't being broken in some way, this at least seemed less an effect of his efforts and more a sort of old, old habit. He seemed (maybe distressingly) much more at home drinking than he had during just about anything else she'd seen him do.

"Share it with Bashmet," he said, with sudden briskness, handing the bottle back over and catching the hats that fell off his head when he did so, handing those over too and absently juggling his cigarette over so he could smooth down his scarf, the collar of his coat, the uniform he was almost never without and which was still faintly stained with blood across one badly-repaired shoulder. "I've got work to do," he lied, "so I'm going to play the part of the worst host possible and not feel too bad because I got you a ******** cake, you ingrate. Lock the door on your way out."

He paused, lingering on his feet and filling up the hesitation by pointlessly adjusting the edges of a notebook into a more perfect square. This was the point at which he should have awkwardly come out with some word of farewell, but nothing emerged: he turned to go.

He paused at the door, and he eyed her indirectly and he didn't have to say anything because what he was thinking about (the seconds before a hallway suddenly filling up) was obvious, his fingers flexing back and forth around his cigarette at the remembered contact. He clearly teetered on the brink of returning her thank you with a sort of painful, pathetic sincerity, and then, abruptly and with a wry twist of his lip (hidden) and a condescending arch of his eyebrows (inappropriate) and not sticking around afterwards to watch the fallout, he instead said: "You're welcome."