Fitz's hands are warm, and callused both from the axe he carries and from years spent maintaining his rural homestead. There are ink stains on his fingertips that have, apparently, followed him from the Six Duchies through the Pthumerian Ocean and into Trench, because long before he was the Fool's catalyst, before he was Chade Fallstar's apprentice and King Shrewd's assassin, before he understood what it meant to be Chivalry's bastard son, he was also a little boy with a gift for letters and a steady hand. Master Fedwren has so nurtured that gift in him that, even now, separating himself from ink and the desire to commit his thoughts to parchment is evidently as counter to his own nature as separating himself from his Wit magic, from the Skill, and from Nighteyes.

He wants to write down many things, about this night, this city, and the person who is resting next to him. Later, once the danger has passed, and they have slept.

"I know you'll know." A quiet huff of a chuckle, and it's the most natural thing in the world to squeeze Huaisang's hand and leave their fingers loosely interlocked. He looks down at him briefly, then turns his eyes back to the doors, the windows and settles in for his watch. "I'm not going anywhere."