Truth is, he doesn't mind the condescension, or the banter. He's just plum tuckered out. Making nice is tough.

"Maybe," he says, standing. And now he dithers for a bit, plucking at his sleeve. He doesn't do goodbyes. But is one needed in this case? What on moon do I say?

Eventually, he settles for a firm nod. "Rabastan."