“We are definitely gonna get along.”

"I'm glad to hear it!"

"Should I just go home and throw all my stuff in my car?"

"I don't see why not."

He starts towards the entrance of the alley right away before he remembers something sort of important.

"...uh, I should probably ask where you live first."

"I'll walk back to your apartment with you and help you move stuff into your car and give you directions."

He grins, nods and heads for the exit with her.

"Do you adopt a lot of weirdos?"

"Not as such."

"Aww. I feel special."

"I'd call factor four pretty special!"

"Hey, I'm not just eternally regenerating meat! I have feelings!"

He looks pleased.

"Of course you do," she says firmly.

...huh. He didn't expect her to take that seriously.

He chews on that for a minute, until they round the corner to his apartment building. It looks pretty decent, for something in this area.

"I guess it's a good thing I have, like, two actual pieces of furniture."

"Or at least it has a silver lining," she agrees.

Getting up to the apartment requires climbing a couple flights of stairs, but it's certainly not unmanageable.

It's tiny, but it's relatively clean, although there's some degree of organized chaos in the kitchen area. The only real pieces of furniture in the place are a futon-sofa-bed monstrosity, a beat-up little desk with a chair, and some drawers.

There's a fairly large box tucked under the monstrosity, and a tray on the desk covered in what are unmistakably surgical instruments.

"Oh, nice," she says when she sees them. "And here I thought all you'd have to cut yourself with was a box cutter and some razors."

He grins.

"That's what it was at first, but it turns out people on the internet really liked the idea of buying me scalpels when I asked."

"That would explain it."

He kneels down next to the futon monstrosity and, with some difficulty, tugs a suitcase out from underneath.

"You know, you're more chill about this than anyone has ever been."

"Most people wouldn't have been chill about the sex work, either, it's just that I have actual standards for my behavior."

"A lot of people would say that means you don't have standards for mine."

He proceeds with the suitcase to some neat piles of folded clothes in the corner and starts loading them in.

"Yes, but those people are wrong and stupid."

“Yeah, I try to tell people that, but it’s always ‘who are you? You’re disrupting class! Do you even go to school here?’”

He shuffles his clothes around in the suitcase.

"Interrupt universities often?"

“I mean, not often. Especially not anymore. Apparently auditing a class and then arguing with the professor is bad or something.”