[ He laughs again, though the sound doesn't quite approach mirthful; reminders of his last moments rarely elicit anything but a grim look, a slight creasing of his brow. Faraday will speak of most things with unnerving ease – including his state of nonexistence – but dying, feeling the life leave him bit by painful but, is still a dangerous topic.

They held hands then, yes, but not out of affection. It was desperation. It was fear. It was one final link to the living, a last-ditch attempt to anchor himself. ]

No, I wouldn't rightly say either instance has been what a person might call intimate.

[ Because that's what it is, really. Intimate. Something sweethearts do, something families do. People with softness in them. Faraday doesn't consider himself one of those people, covered in cactus needles and barbs as he is, all rough edges and sharp words.

He never felt he lacked for it, that intimacy. That familiarity. He also felt himself incapable of it.

He still thinks those things, even in death.

Thinks that, but when he glances up to see her bundling herself in her blankets, he frowns, half rises from where he sits. ]

You want me to build up the fire for you?