"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Guy asked automatically, looking down at himself as soon as he was able to tear his eyes away from her. He hadn't changed; he was wearing the same leathers as he always did. She had never complained before. Anyway, why would it make a difference, what he was wearing? They just needed to find a way to get home.
"You work?" he asked, looking up at her again, the confusion clear on his face. "Since when?" Sure, she had her little sprees as the Nightwatchman, which he still wasn't particularly happy about, but that hardly amounted to working, and he'd been under the impression she didn't take a wage from that. "Marian, I don't understand. Why am I here? Why are we here? How do we get home? I need to find the Sheriff. He'll kill me."