Pretty. Eska had thought of him as pretty. He wondered, for a moment, whether she would have left him if he had never had his face ruined. The thought was gone soon enough, but it left a lingering bad taste in his mouth. The idea of murdering even more ponies to get at a tool to murder more ponies after that, however, was the least of his concerns. He nodded agreeably. Doubtlessly, it would be occupied. That would be--
The shotgun turned toward him threateningly, the barrel gleaming in the dim light. He could swear he could see her grinning, hoof drifting to the trigger. He jolted back to life -- a trick, of course, her casualness always was. He made to step to the side and realized that she was, in fact, merely looking over at him. His breathing had quickened, and his blood was pounding in his ears, but he forced himself to stay still and meet her eyes.
"... Right. Right, 'course," he briskly replied, nodding like he hadn't just been about to run for the hills. He forced a small, bitter smile up the good side of his face. "M-- maybe this one won't blow up on you as much."
He laughed, though it came out as a series of wheezes.
"Well, whatever you think'll keep you from dyin'. Again." Pausing, his brow furrowed, and he glanced away as if thinking something over. He took even less time than normal, and looked back at her curiously. "What was it like? Dyin', I mean."
He didn't seem to fully comprehend the personal nature of this question; it was layered only in an incrementally larger amount of awkwardness.