[ He frowns at that, mouth twisting a little to one side in displeasure. He's not sure why he's so hesitant to do this; it's a simple enough request, but the stark reminder of what he is, how unpleasant he is, leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

(If he could still taste, that is.)

But, well, Faraday is frequently the one bringing it up, making light of it (as was his way), so he supposes he should stop feeling put out about it. If what he is can be made useful, then it's more than he could've hoped for when he was simply a corpse buried in a pine box, six feet underground.

(... technically, he is still a corpse in box, deep beneath the earth.

He stops thinking on that near immediately.)

It's never been quite so terrible for Faraday, moving through folks – so long as it was only a brush of contact, something as minor as the grazing of shoulders. Moving through folks, though, or having them move through him – that tended to fill him with a brief sense of dread, like staring down a long, long drop, there and gone in a flash.

Warily, he lifts his own hand. He hesitates for a second, then forces some levity into his voice as he grumbles, ]

Just so you'n'I are clear? This is likely the only time a woman has ever asked me to take her hand, and it's likely to be the only time I do it.

I just want you to appreciate that.

[ After that, he closes the distance, and rather than grasping her extended fingers, his hand passes through hers. It lasts for little more than a second, and he's quick to take his hand back, clenching it into a fist on his lap. ]