"Lively," came the drawl, a halfhearted rude gesture thrown in for nostalgia's sake. Autopilot set in, Lizzie dismayed to find herself sitting up, swinging feet to floor, raking hands through hair and standing to momentarily disappear into the bathroom. She called out over the sound of running water. "You sound like the dead. Try not to cark it; I went to a hell of a lot of trouble to stop that from happening, ungrateful prick."
Her reappearance was heralded by the glass of water Lizzie offered, accompanied by a look so dry it ought to have drained the glass. Closer examination was somehow better and worse. Better to sate curiosity, worse for having seen the way he'd been healed, and the unsettling feeling of talking to some sarcastic bastard who ought to be collecting flies by now. "As if I'd let you put anything up my skirt. You're a biohazard on legs, Cain. Typhoid Mary with a cock."
You ought to be dead. Lizzie stood there a moment longer, watching, brow barely furrowed, half-oblivious to her own study. "Do you ever function sober?"