It's the most natural thing to raise his arms so she can move her legs in across his lap, and the hand that's not holding the communicator comes to rest on one of her ankles, idly, and lightly, and he barely even realises he's done it before he has, and then he's not going to move it away unless she has a problem with it.

"I don't know," he answers her question, turning his head to look at her, at her profile as she looks at the picture, letting her have her fill of it. "Which I suppose makes it a no. I wasn't raised to believe in God, but in many gods, and..." He shrugs, and his thumb brushes the soft skin of her ankle for a second as his gaze draws back to the picture of the painting. "I'd rather believe in life, and beauty."