[He doesn't quite wince, but he almost does. He didn't mean to make a big deal out of this - it's not. Really. It's just one of those things that is, because the world didn't wait for him while he spent almost seven decades on ice. He looks almost a little dismayed, as she picks up her plate and indicates they should sit down on the couch, like she wants to have a nice, long talk about this. He... doesn't.

But even he knows she's not going to let it lie, if he doesn't at least say something.

After a moment of hesitation, he grabs his coffee mug - he'll get back to the food in a minute, his stomach is churning a little - and tentatively sits on the edge of the couch, glancing over at her, wrapping his hands around the mug in a gesture he used to make all the time, in the winter, whether they had coffee or just hot water. He's not cold, now, but it's habit. Comforting, almost.]

There's nothing going on, [He says, trying to shrug it off, although it's a pretty weak attempt, and he knows it.] She's still alive. I've been to see her a couple of times, that's all. We talk. She puts up with me being - you know. Me.