He hums a noise of agreement, because he does have to admit, York's moved from the factually untrue ("I'm bugging you"), to the significantly more true ("you are mother henning me enough to comment on").

"You've had a rough couple of years, right?" He looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling, the handsome exposed wooden beams. It is a nice house. The kind of house he'd want to have, in a world where he can bring people around as often as he wants. "Maybe I'm making up for lost time."