She flings herself at him, and John startles the rest of the way up, hands half-raised in hapless entreaty. She barrels right through it to pummel him with a pillow. He plainly did not expect this: she thwaps him right in the face, and he recoils, crowded back by the onslaught like a man faced with a storm. He blinks through every blow as though trying to take in sunlight. He maybe makes a noise.

It puts her nearly in his arms, her chest heaving with life and breath, her face flushed and furious. He is left frozen, his hands hovering an awkward inch between them.

This is, in the moment, the worst question he has ever been asked.

Her eyes are a young and furious blue. There's still a little goop in her eyebrows. Something changes in his face: the marvel and worry creased into his brow darkens with the gravity of something far-off, some distant tide that doesn't fit on his plain and human face. He takes a shallow breath.

"Okay," says John, in the voice he uses when he is stalling. It catches and, for one splintered instant, breaks. "We— might have a lot to cover, here."

His hands touch down light and awkward on her upper arms, and it's not clear whether he's trying to soothe her or hold her off. He smooths the pads of his thumbs over her skin, as though to worry the tacky grime away, then stops.

"I didn't do the skin thing," he says, like he's only just catching up to the accusation. "The skin thing was somebody else. I am not the only skin guy, here. They don't actually take feedback from me."