Which prompts an snort from him, all faux indignant as she wrests the bottle. He stretches his arms across the back of the futon, settling like a stone in water: legs outstretched, weight sinking low. "Yes, well - never been too good with the creepy crawlies."

He makes a face at her, all wrinkled nose and pulled back lip - catches his fingers against her hair and wriggles them, spider-like, for a moment for emphasis before his hand simply settles there. Stills a moment before blunt fingernails absently scuff through her short hair, up the back of her head. There's no real purpose behind the contact, ninety percent subconscious.