[ he almost insists that thanks aren't needed; he hadn't done anything, at least not worth being thankful for. it was a different sort of truth, more a reminder than anything else. still, if Chekov thinks it's worth it to thank him, he won't correct him. ]

I didn't do anything, but you're welcome.

[ ...well. maybe he will, just a little. he won't press the issue, though, instead just a shade grateful that for once, he isn't met with accusations of being a demon upon telling someone what he can do.

the offer to teach him how to read comes as a surprise, however. even with what he knows of Chekov - what he's heard (kind, smart, earnest) - he still hadn't expected it. he doesn't look up, his eyes instead trailing to the tags on the flowers. maybe it would be nice to at least give them to the right person... ]

Maybe. I don't think I'd know what to do with it, though. [ he thinks of Rhys, of Dorian, of Solas and Varric; all friends who could sit and read for hours, until the candlelight burned too low, and instinctively, unconsciously, an almost sour look crosses his face. ] I don't understand what's so interesting about it. They're old words, missing in some places and wrong in others. How can you trust them?