[If he feels any level of offense or irritation in the face of her laughter, her continued sharp tongue, it doesn't show in either his bearing or the expression he wears. Instead he shrugs, shoulders cutting at the air as they rise and fall, his smile a seemingly permanent fixture for all that there's nothing pleasant in it. A strange smile, as though it's something he learned how to do through theoretical knowledge alone, not something that comes naturally, not learned behaviour.

Perhaps that's exactly what it is.

Whatever the case, her response means little to him. Can't touch him, because it's simply too far removed from his own experience for him to fully comprehend. That kind of commitment to one other person, shared affection, love. He knows nothing of any of that. Or at least, what he did know of it happened so long ago that it hardly matters now, and the ultimate betrayal that came along with it means he'll never look for it again.

What he has-- it's certain and sure. Unfailing.]

And why should choice make the act of loyalty any more real? If anything I'd say it makes it more precarious. Your husband died, and because of that your loyalty is something frozen in place, unchanging because it can't change. Who knows what would have happened if he'd lived. Love and affection are fickle things. What I have goes deeper than that.

[He laughs, quick and hard.]

And this is what I have. There's no trick to it. It's what I've always been and there is nothing else outside of it.

[Not for him.]