“Mmph,” Aslan grunted in sympathy. “See, that’s when you start wishing for things you don’t want.”

Aslan glanced behind himself. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say.

“Like salt over the shoulder.”

Aslan tilted his head away to better keep this informant in his sight, folding his hands before himself. Did this fellow always stand so close? This seemed vaguely familiar … but still, he listened patiently. An affected hike of the brows at the knife (see? Knife skills. Called it, cannibal), but the rest of his face hardly matched the attempt at surprise, putting it more in the range of bland exasperation.

When his informant made explicit his preferences, Aslan’s glance went down to their feet. Too rude to put some distance between them? Meh. He remained.

However: there was a straightening of his posture some point around ‘he’d do anything for me’. Smoothed out his shirt. Squinted at the lewd gesture, though didn’t look particularly surprised or offended.

Aslan made a face when his acquaintance not so subtly implied Brennan and … Richards? Kemble? Going at it in the church as they spoke. Was it on the same pew? Aslan’s mouth formed a brief, thin line.

“So … have you woken up to him standing over you with a knife?” he ventured. “Heard them railing each other at night or something?”