"People keep saying that, and I'm not even sure if I can," Famine said, clenching and unclenching her hands. "I think most people forget: I'm not a person, I'm an idea, I'm, I'm a concept wrapped in skin and bone, and I shouldn't even be here." Her laugh was a choked sound. "I should be in Heaven right now, shut up behind a seal and waiting for the End. But no. Humanity had to go and put us in movies, in art, in fucking video games. I got a shiny new body, but no idea what to do now that I was Earth-bound. Not even dying works for very long. You're the first person in centuries to take all of that in stride, and not be chased off by it. I don't have friends. I don't have lovers. I have staff, and I have flings. You're an anomaly. A new thing in my long, long life, and some days, I'm still not sure whether it's all a huge, long joke, or a trap. You don't want anything from me, and you don't judge. People tell me that's what a friend is. And that works for me." She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes. "I'm not in love with you, Irish. I can see that distinction." This conversation was rapidly getting into territory she was unfamiliar with, so she muttered, "Eat your food, it's gonna get cold."