[ He makes an aggravated noise, something between a sigh and a grunt, but there’s also a hint of resignation there. Like he knew the answer well before he had even asked the question. ]

I believe I might actually hate you, right now.

[ Though there’s no heat in his words, aside from a thread of irritation. Emma disliked his habit – but then again, which of his habits didn’t she dislike? – and he’s none too surprised to hear she had chucked his pack while he was laid up.

He sinks onto the nearby couch, propping his crutches up against the arm. His leg gives a little flare of pain, now that the drugs are wearing off, and he digs the heel of his palm into the top of his thigh, trying to relieve some of the pressure. He stays mum on the subject, though, instead grumbling, ]

You’ve got no one to blame but yourself when I bite your head off.