Long tilts his head in interest, watching, the liquor dabbed over his arm. Cool against the slightly-above-average heat of his skin. He's about to ask if that's for antiseptic purposes but Mick beats him to the punch, as it were. He nods; it's sensible, and he'd just as soon not test this body's immune system.

"Yes," he answers. "Ought I make a fist?"

He's probably read something about that somewhere.