He flaps a hand dismissively in her direction but concedes, reluctantly, that there may be some merits in heeding the tacit suggestion. The bathroom's white tile is unbearably bright against his retinas. He flips on the water with a sharp twist of the faucet handle, letting the water run cool and laminar over his hands before cupping splashes of it over his face. It tastes bright, clean.

Rush sighs with both hands braced against either side of the sink, and breathes.

He dashes the back of a wrist over his face, swiping away the sleep sticking to his eyelids, and exits.

"Of course," he says dryly. "I should have assumed. Planning on telling her anytime soon?" He delivers the question smoothly, seamlessly injecting it into the conversation with a vagueness he's certain she'll find less than amusing.