Even if he minded her grabbing his hand again, it's as much a practical measure as anything. But he doesn't, the comfort of some point of contact in the swirling morass of the fog a mutual thing. Though it still can't beat the incredible relief of escaping back onto those brightly lit city streets. (He never would have thought he'd find them so appealing.)

"They are, aren't they?" Where there's room to breathe, there's room to laugh - even if he still pauses to look back over his shoulder. Ugh. He can practically feel hands on him, bony and rotten.

He shrugs that phantom fear off with a shudder, his gloating good humor tempered to a somewhat more sincere concern, when he turns to her again. "You're pretty handy yourself, of course. Do you carry around mysterious flammable fluids with you all the time, or was that just a stroke of luck?"