Yeah, but at least I got pants. [Talking about the cold and her lack of cover despite the autumnal chill is easy and mindless, and gives him the short illusion of distance to parse through her words.

He wouldn't really say he was even talking about it. More so around it. Venting off frustrations with no real solutions. Not giving over any hard facts or events aside from his own death. There's entirely too much to delve into, and the longer he talks with Fie, the more he wonders if the specifics would really change anything.

(He has to think that they would. The'd have to. Killing someone wasn't something that could just be glazed over, treated as an accident the same as breaking a window.)

And so he shifts where he sits, tugging the lapels of his coat off his shoulders and shrugging out of it, before handing it over Fie's way. Like he'd said, he at least has actual clothes on underneath. A loose, long sleeved top, actual pants. But even that action is short-lived, and he can't drag the escape out for much longer, forced to actually face the comments she had made.]

You probably got a point, though. This ain't been too bad. [He still feels lost, in a way. But less alone in it. And maybe that was the point. Not any definitive absolution or milestones, but instead simply being able to curse and breathe out 'this sucks' and knowing there's someone who will agree with you.

Nothing's been solved, but maybe it doesn't have to be, not just yet.] Not like anything's fixed but-- it ain't bad.

I'll have to think a bit and get back to you about whatever it is I'm wanting to do, though. I dunno if that's so easy to decide.