Polite as it may have been to offer, Dickerson doesn’t seem at all surprised by Ellis’ disinclination to take him up on it. His memory isn’t at all obscured. He’d said they’d continue the conversation, and he’d meant it.

“There is a table in my quarters,” he says.

Thot’s stretched like a drop of pitch in his grasp, hind claws late leaving the ground, only to kick up at ease in the crook of Ellis’ arm once she’s nestled there. She splays her toes, flicks her tail, stretches one paw to touch under Ellis’ chin and past it, aiming to curl grasping fingers over his lip.

Richard ignores her -- a stern, static figure in his vest and boots and a faint prickle of sweat he doesn’t care for.

“Unless you have more neutral territory to suggest.”