All the tiny violins for both your neurotic asses - is something Remy does not say aloud, even if he thinks it (in varying degrees of affection and wryness, guess who gets which). He sits, and the ease of his body language is genuine; he can be watchful and paranoid and relaxed at the same time. It's a gift. (A gift of lifelong functional PTSD.)

"Thank you for your scientific contribution, fille, would you like a cigarette?" He's getting one of his own out, see. And he's apparently used to Ilde. ... Just Ilde, yes. He signs when he's not doing anything else with his hands, watching to see if she's paying attention.

"Apparently this place used to be a floating bar," he muses. "But people kept fallin' off drunk."