"Still pale as a ghost," she promises, even though she doesn't even remember what her skin had been like at seven and it perfectly well could have tanned, for all she knows. Still, that resembles giving up and she refuses to do that. When the water is nice and piping, she brings it back in bowl form, but also in tea form, using some of her own personal stash in order to help him.

"We are out of tea, generally. I like you enough that you're sharing in mine," she says. "I have a plant at my home," she says. "It takes a bit of work, but it does end up in the right form." She settles beside him and presses her hand to the back of his forehead without permission, humming a little in disapproval, arching a brow.

"You waited a week after to start dressing appropriately? Clint," she says, quite disappointed.