[There's a halfhearted murmur of protest when Lavi begins wriggling around - again - but then the man settles in once more. He waits a moment, blue gaze mildly suspicious, until he's sure that Lavi's settled before finally shifting more fully onto his side, cheek once more claiming a spot against worn cloth and a warm side.

And then he offers an inelegant snort, clearly tinged with amusement, before reaching up to flick the papers lightly with the still free hand.]

I could - and have - told you that, idiot. No one else can read that shit.

[Falling silent, he watches light and shadow play along the edges of the papers, the familiar ink staining parchment rather than his partner's hands, for once.

And he can't help but think it odd, that a habit that once drove him mad, something that left him with the constant annoyance of finding ink smudges on consoles throughout the ship, on clothes washed carelessly with ones used while the other worked so diligently on his records...this habit is now normal.

An idiosyncratic part of the daily ebb and flow of their lives.

He's found himself curious at times, wondering just what secrets those pages hold, why they're so important - but they're questions never asked, because he hasn't the right to the answer.

So rather than focus on that, he closes his eyes and starts controlling each breath, fingers unconsciously tracing random patters along the other's wrist. Slow, even inhale, a pause, and then a soft, steady exhale. It's his own pattern, well warn and familiar, but not enough this time to banish even the surface thoughts. Instead...]

...All that writing. Sometimes I think you look at things like they're too complicated. It's like the RAC's neutrality, only more invasive, almost.

[He's rambling, nonsense given voice, and so he cuts himself off there.]

So what's that one about, this time? And don't give me some bullshit about a maid and her master. That's boring as hell.