He does not inquire as to what the fuck e-blocker could possibly be, as clearly a dearth of it would make it utterly irrelevant to the set of circumstances.

"Yes," he says. "Well."

He regards the hand extended toward him uncertainly, debating its purpose and the intent behind the gesture before he may conclude that she intends to lead him in a very literal, very physical sense, that which would result in little more than a somatosensory nightmare.

"Fine," he says, edged and wary, eyes flicking away from the hand in silent disregard for the unspoken offer. "We move slow."