"You know what else comes from there? Giant spiders" -- he makes as to count the list off on his fingers, though it's a brief beat before he grabs the bottle-- "Everything poisonous."

Moving after her, the flat's small enough that it's just a few strides for him from the cramped kitchenette to the equally cramped futon. He's ginger about sitting down beside her, legs all sprawled in front of him, as the thing seems rickety as all hell. To whatever fabricator did the job on it, the futon's frame groans under the weight but doesn't protest beyond that.

"But I suppose there are exceptions to every rule. You're only mostly poisonous, eh?"