He's about ready to come back with an argument with supportive evidence as to why, exactly, he's totally a fourteen minimum, but then she's conceding and he nods, satisfied. "Fourteen," he repeats, and he sounds smug but there's a hint of playfulness in his tone. "I'm glad we can come to an agreement on that. I don't know what you're talking about, though, our charts and scales are flawless. We just happen to be exponentially superior in our charting and scaling methods."

He glances down at her, smiling when he sees her eyes closed and stroking at her hair. He's reminded then of something his mother used to tell him when he was young, a lullaby of sorts though she'd never really put a tune to it. He surprises himself when the words come spilling out of him, in German no less, like it's only been twenty-five minutes rather than twenty-fives years since he's last heard it.

"Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf. Am Himmel ziehn die Schaf. Die Sternlein sind die Lämmerlein, Der Mond, der ist das Schäferlein. Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf." He kisses the top of her head, then her temple, and repeats it softly in English. "Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the branches small, lovely dreams in showers fall. Sleep, baby, sleep."