Flint never spoke without thinking. James occasionally does. "Are you asking me to?" His voice is low, vibrating in his throat like a big cat's purr. He takes a long moment to lean back enough that he can look at John properly, then releases him from his grip.

"We're both wearing a little much. Sort your leg, then I'll fix the rest." James is as blunt as ever. He can't imagine that the years have changed John so much that he would care for pity, kid gloves or embarrassed euphemism. "Good enough for you?"