"Gallantry isn't dead, it's just-" Fever kisses his neck and saves him from having to think of a punchline to that. He eases back, feeling behind him for any sort of sharp rocks or anything that could impale him as he does.

"That's it-" he coaxes, and if he'd softened a little on the walk, Fever's hands on him get him back to attention just as quick as a ten-hut could. Y'know, if he ever listened to one of those.

"You were right about being a sorceress- your hands are magic darling-"