He almost puts his foot down then and there, almost refuses to say anything at all because nobody, not even Nancy, tells Bill Sikes what to say or do (especially not when it's so... so un-Bill Sikes a thing to say).

But that laugh. But the way she keeps drawing in on herself, away from him. The way he knows somehow he shouldn't touch her, can't go near her, somehow she's far away and he's never known how to bridge this kind of gap. She ain't right, and this is worse than usual, worse than much of what he's known from her and far apart from how she's been since his return. He can't touch what's happening. Can't speak to it, even if he guesses even if he knows at the back of his mind what's the cause.

Maybe, though. Maybe he can give her what she wants. This much (it's the least he can do for her, the least he owes her, and he does owe her, even if he doesn't care to think it, even if she also owes him, he knows it now) he can do. Try.

"Nance. Nancy, come on, now." He starts to move toward her, finds himself unable to cross the distance and instead sits watching, puzzled still. "Who do you think you're talking to? Course I– Of course I do. That is I.

"Nancy. Christ, with everything that– Sure. Sure I love you, Nance. Sure."