Misa closes her eyes and leans her head against his shoulder. Lazarus is not comfortable. He feels every bit as bony and unsubstantial as he looks, there is none of the solidity or comfort that she had hoped the gesture would bring. She fidgets, trying to find a better angle or some secret to making this feel nicer, but eventually gives up.

The facsimile of human contact is still better than nothing.

"The hair is kind of fun."