Gin looked at the hand with a note of uncertainty. People certainly were wont to touch each other, weren’t they? Always trying to shake his hand, pat him on the back or jump up and down at his feet while tugging on his trouser legs and asking him to play. Gin didn’t understand the propensity for wanting to touch others. He was greatly concerned that if someone touched him he would turn back into a cookie and…
Except that hadn’t happened before. Every time there had been accidental or intentional contact with another person nothing bad had happened. So Gin extended his hand nervously.
He relaxed a little at the realization that there was a bakery not far away. Good, maybe that was where the cookie smell was coming from - though Gin couldn’t smell it. How could he not smell it and this Bartleby Wolfe could?
Even the stranger’s name brought a chill down Gin’s spine. Wolf. Sure, it was probably common for men to take surnames from animals, but Gin didn’t have a surname himself. Perhaps he would have, if he hadn’t have run off from his maker, but he didn’t really feel that he needed to have one. “G… Gin,” he said quietly in response to the other man’s introduction.