His own eyes, dark-ringed without sleep, ice blue without warmth or kindness, widen with amazement at the shift in his friend's eyes. (To think he still considers her a friend, despite all he's said!) He wishes he could examine them closer! Pry them open with a pair of fingers, examine the pupil for collapse, another telltale sign of beasthood and blood-drunkenness. Recollection of such examinations makes him recall the countless, countless times he's plucked eyes from heads to fill jars, to populate slide plates, to dissect. If he just had his tools again...

Micolash's smile has been plastered into a wide rictus this whole time, fixed and forced. Manic. It doesn't falter, but the corners of his mouth twitch when she deposits something into his hand, his eyes flicking down to look at that instead. He's confused, but the confusion seems enough of a distraction that Micolash sits back once more, pulling his arm back in to peer down at the parcel instead now. Might be the best chance to make a run for it if she cares to. Micolash isn't in his right mind, but when is he ever?