Casimir frowns over, wears the distant intensity of someone concentrating very hard — but not on this conversation.

"Don't pick it up," Pauses in pulling on a glove to tug it off again, hand them over. "Until you put these on."

A gesture, the glass. The door slams behind them for what must be the third time in as many minutes; a nerve in his temple jumps. He squats to pick gingerly at a shard, bare skin coming away black and ichorous.

"Eel, I think. It'll be contaminated," Another gesture, more emphatic. Skin nicks, he flinches back. "Ow."