[ Another laugh, more genuine this time, though still heavily laced with rue. ]

Not in service, really. Just a deviant. And a writer.

[ But he repeats himself. 😎👉🏻👉🏻 ]

And where I spit depends on what I want.

[ He smooths the hair down again, running his thumb over Baptiste's hairline to wipe away the sweat. He's hardly noticed his hunger waning, as Baptiste tends to him. Perhaps because even with the edge taken off, he's still starving, and still ignoring it. ]

Christ, you're warm. You ought to be having some of that wine.