.... you cursed me, idiot. You don't - get to say things like that...

[it's kind of funny, how the perpetual cold intermingles with the warmth in his chest, the flush that he can feel crawling up his neck even if he doesn't pull his eyes away from the items in front of him. still, his words lack any real bite, as if they're said to diffuse the odd closeness of the situation more than anything else.]

... I won't mess up. So it won't come to that.

[ . . . his smile is colored with disbelief, but there's no denying he's touched.]

But - thanks.