Greta releases a breath and leans her forehead against her husband's shoulder. It never ends with this one. Maybe she should just take the scarf and gag him with it. She can feel the Baker working on a baffled 'what,' but she beats him to the punch with a somewhat muffled but still perfectly audible, "Would you shut you mouth for one bloody minute?" Then, patting his chest, she adds, "Him, dear, not you."

Because yes, she knows this isn't real, and she doesn't need an incredibly unhelpful reminder of that unfortunate fact just now. Heaven forbid she have a single moment with her husband - even if it's only a memory - without some beetle-spirited stranger doing something to ruin it. Ugh. Forget him. She pulls back, takes her Baker's face in her hands, feels the rough stubble against her palms. Not real. Real enough.

"Our son?" she asks softly, dropping her hands to his shoulders.

"Still with the girl," he says, looking as if he doesn't know quite what to do with her in this state. Well, she'd always been better at keeping it together, out of the two of them. He settles on a concerned frown, one hand rubbing at her back. "They're fine. But what happened to you?" He throws a pointed look back at her tagalong.

She wishes this was real. It's a question she desperately wants to answer for him, lest they think she just fell afoul of the giant and is lying in the bottom of a footprint somewhere. "I'm all right," she lies.