"Keepin' your fuckin' cool all the time is overrated," he answers, simple as that, but leaves it alone for the time being. He's hardly one to talk, because it's not as if he's any good with the genuine emotions. Even after having been stabbed by a bloody demon, he'd hardly been able to tell Spike he loves him and every time following that it's been in Irish. English feels too goddamn intimate, so he falls back on a language barely anyone here can understand.

"Ain't that easy, though, is it?" he asks. "Shit like that..."

He trails off, lost in a memory that isn't a memory. There's a girl, small and red haired, and he's there, too, covered in dirt, his hair snarled with twigs. It's gone as quickly as it had risen and he shakes his head.

"Shit like that lingers."