His hand drifts from Paul's arm to his own eyes, fingers brushing over damp lashes and the faintly aching skin around his eyes. Vodka sounds good; food less so; and that last comment tugs at his jaw hinge.

"First off, you're trying to turn me into as much of a relaxed heap of mush as possible - kinda counter productive, there. And second, you're not supposed to tell me your leg's falling asleep. You're meant to suffer in silence, like the sensitive gentleman you are."

He can aim at something less depressing, can't he? Teasing, if not outright banter?