He twitches in toward the contact, but for a moment it does nothing to settle him. The set of his jaw and the pressed line of his brow doesn't shift. What was done to Thomas Hamilton to make him so careful?, he wonders. --And then supposes maybe it's equally that he's gone far enough in such a direction that it only seems like caution from where he's learned to stand. Thomas's hands is at his cheek with no trace of fear (that much is a constant); perhaps it's just him talking around the shape of something dangerous. Maybe it's just him baiting the cyclops to no end.

"If this is selfish, just say so." But if it isn't? If they have willed themselves into sitting around a governor's table where some tension is waiting to snap - to crack like a pistol shot or a cane across bare thighs -, then what good is there in simply waiting for something to fall to pieces around them while they pretend otherwise? "Tell me why it's impossible and I won't speak of it again."

Talk him out of it.