[ He sighs. Sighs, Isabela. It goes on for long enough that his lungs are probably totally empty of air, the great swooping breath this necessitates taking in afterwards cleverly disguising that, horrifyingly, he actually feels some terrible impulse to protect Anders' feelings. A little. Maker, it's like he has some kind of disease.

Every single one of those italics was necessary. Anyway! He uh, deflects. Mildly. ]

If we really need to cover my magical abilities in bed at this point, I'll be pressed to administer great swathes of revision to our delightfully sordid history. Surely you don't want to do that to my ego.