"You and Theo both say that," Sol wonders aloud. "I happen to love that couch." And then he laughs, a free, warm sound that crinkles up around his eyes. "You bet your ass you'd still be prettier. I think I'd make maybe the ugliest woman this world's ever seen, actually," he muses. His expressive brows, his wide shoulders and big hands and tall frame make him a decent looking man, but none of those things would translate at all well to the feminine mystique, and he gets a kick out of the mental image. "Stop, don't look at me like that, I already have a Halloween costume in mind so you can just forget it."
He lifts those expressive brows at her question. "Are you saying you think I'm one of those shady politicians of old, skimming off the top for my own benefit?" he asks. Then he ducks his dark head and laughs. "No, remember Fat Mags?" He felt funny using the nickname for the older woman, until he discovered she'd won it in her twenties on the Appalachian Trail. That was sacred, and she's called him Yogi ever since. "She seems to think that leadering is hungry work, and my ration every week is ridiculous. I try returning it but it always finds its way back," he says, lifting his hand helplessly.