"Good," he says, eyes half-hooded but sharp as ever as he studies the smooth lines of her face, unmarked by age. She's not quite old enough yet, to wear her troubles on her skin, like House.

"I'm shit for long walks." It's as much a joke as it is serious, and he reaches to lift her hand off his thigh, running fingers over the back of it, feeling the bones and tendons, delicate and alive. Her hand had wandered low enough.