York's figured out by now that Dun's got an issue with interacting with women. It's not like it's not glaringly obvious, anyway. She figures it's whatever world he came from, or whatever time. His apology last time had been pretty genuine. The poor guy just doesn't have any idea how to talk to a woman.

If it were any other day, if she weren't just days away from nearly having half her face blasted off, she'd be a little more enthusiastic, a little more engaging. But she's oddly sedate when she takes the pot and peeks inside, a look of mild but mystified surprise on her face.

"Oh, uh -- thanks. That's...really thoughtful of you." York's not really sure how to respond to all these platitudes, even when they're genuine. But a look of concern crosses her face, her brow knitting. She hasn't exactly made her injury public knowledge, and the list of people North and Wash would contact is pretty short. "Where exactly did you hear?"