Oh, Maker. She looks up at him like that suddenly, and he just blinks. Feels his ears going a bit red when he realizes that he must look pretty stupid, standing there like a dope.

"—Yeah, of course." He isn't quite sure that's what he meant to say, but she isn't wrong, so he warms up to it, depressing as he still finds the sentiment. He flashes her a small smile, thanking his lucky stars that everyone else is out of the room, or the rest of the Chargers would have a field day with him right now. "I better collect some wood for it, my men'll mutiny if I give them much more to complain about today."

And thinking on it, maybe they should be burning the whole house, to try and contain the infestation from any possible escape from the island. He heads towards the lonely table, to break some of the brittle old furniture up and at least give the poor sod something resembling an actual funeral pyre, sending spiders scurrying every which way when he picks up the cobweb-laden chair. He makes a valiant effort to suppress any shuddering, at least until he straightens again and finds himself eye-level and inches away from one of the dolls he'd been trying to ignore hanging from the ceiling.

There's a moment of surprised silence, and then, "are they—" he blurts, before he can think about how the question might sound aloud, "—talking?"