"What do you know about what I'd find interesting?" Alastor drawled. She was wrong, of course; everything about her was interesting, and he found it the opposite of that, quite boring in fact, that she didn't know that.

Any burn Lotte sustained would find itself healed by morning, too, but Alastor didn't feel the need to betray this information. He sighed and stretched, rolling his shoulders, looking as much as he could the picture of disinterest in the whole tableau before him, this pitiful room full of pitiful belongings. The bed he had no need (in his estimation) to rest in.

"Show me," he insisted, meeting Lotte's lean with one of his own, until their noses were too close and the whole shape of his smile was surely mangled in her vision, askew and impossible to look straight at. The smell of her blood and sweat and heat-ruptured skin bubbled up to him - he inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for a beat.

She was right that he could wait, but he was choosing not to. "Show me, and I'll go to sleep. I'll be perfectly content."