"Oh," he groans, lip curling gently. "Come now, it's hardly cold enough for that. What do you think I am, an old gran?"

Which might be a better argument if he weren't taking a thousand years to claw his way back to a sitting position and get his good leg under him. Charlie reaches for the crutches where he dumped them beside the sofa; it takes him a bit longer to get those righted, to sway his weight the proper direction and get up onto his feet. Six weeks with these, they tell him optimistically. Then another six months at least with a cane.

And while he may be a goddamned invalid, there's something to be said for a bit of upper body strength. As much as his leg gives him trouble, he manages to get over to her alright with the crutches. Getting into the coat from there is more of a challenge, but to hell with it. They're leaving the flat and that's all that matters.

"You're not going to insist on a scarf and earmuffs as well, are you?"