Don't believe in no-win scenarios

"Ah... he was promising to turn me over to Leonard bound and gagged if I so much as licked one of those... he put it better, though." Felix is visibly more comfortable traversing the ship than he ever was as a visitor, too. For as pensive as he clearly is, the ship itself isn't adding to his trepidation; he leans against the wall of the lift as familiarly as any of the crew. Doesn't look around in uncertain curiosity the way he once did. He doesn't even use the little map he carries, any more.

He sets the notes down by his workstation, once in their quarters. Stoops to pet Tiber as the kneazle dashes out from under the couch to tag him and then rub against his legs. Jim's already laid out clothes for them. Felix swallows and steps over. He wants to take his time, delay the inevitable a little more, but Jim's not wasting a moment.

"I... yeah, I probably should too. Eat a sandwich, I mean." His stomach is churning: a fast is often a way to prepare for a ritual, he’d have an excuse not to. But… this isn’t a ritual. This is to be a battle, and Felix has never found an advantage in fighting on an empty stomach. He starts pulling off his own clothes, following his husband’s lead.

“It’s all in Bruma,” he says of the gear. “I didn’t want to risk it turning us into cats or something when we put it back on.” Tiber voices a strong opinion about that as he jumps up onto the bed. “How long is it since you got the message? Uncle will have had to go to fetch the horses…”