He straightens out his own robes, smoothing his robes down when they don't need it, for his hands to have something to do.

"Mm," he says, canting his head and squinting his eyes, as if he has to think hard on this refusal. "The two of us? The idiot and the fool. I don't think either of us can figure out anything alone."

Not when it comes to emotions, and connecting, and caring; not when it comes to each other, after that lifetime and death of a lifetime stretched between them, and the lonely hollows both found carved into the cavities of their grief.