"You're quite the bossy thing," he points out, with an amused smile that says he doesn't mind it - that says he likes it, in fact, and he leans over and grabs the third glass, hands it to her, and puts the communicator down on the bed behind them, leaning back on the one hand, resting his other on her ankle once again - without moving, no tickling, he got it.

"What do you want to know? Any particular interest?" He could keep on talking about art all night long, or the Pantheon he was raised to fear, or anything she likes, really. As long as she keeps talking, and if he doesn't actually answer what she's just told him, and if he makes no comment about how fast she's drinking the alcohol, it's because she is quite the bossy thing, and he won't push. They have time. They have so much time.