There's something in the way she says that which sets an alarm off in his head -- the "good job Nate, you fucked up" alarm, of course. It rings in his head often.

He leans over and pulls his hands out of his pockets to clap a hand on her shoulder again and reaches for her opposite hand to get her back on her toes where she belongs. He's not totally sure where her mind is, but he's never sure of that anymore. The most he can do is try and nudge her back toward what he knows is familiar.

"C'mon, killer, upsie-daisy," he offers with his typical smirk.