"No master of mine," she disagreed absently, studying her hand against his. "The ill-tempered blonde, she takes orders from a master. I call the<em>sorceress </em>mistress, so I am thought a pet, as Zozo prefers. But she does not presume to order me." Aza's fingers slipped to hold his wrist, and she turned his palm up and spread her other hand over it, just to compare their differing sizes. That was obviously of more interest to her than whatever they were talking about, which was... what, again? Jewels or something. His fingertips rasped against hers, his roughened by callus and use, her own as softly delicate as only an indoor fox's could be.<br/><br/>"The collar," she remembered, and half shrugged. "Almost used up anyway. Pretty is all it will be, then, and broken, because Dean. There will be others. No matter." Her attention seemed to be drifting again, still staring at how their fingers overlapped. "Are these your hands, always? Not like Dean's." She inhaled, which turned into a yawn, and then as he wondered what she really wanted she sighed and ducked forward into his chest, nuzzling against his shirt, leaden eyes shut. "Tired," she repeated, hardly more than a murmur.